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Deschain crawled out the barely open shuttle door, wiping a trail of blood from his chin as he stood, turning to assess the damage to his little boat. "精彩. Ain't tat jus' bleedin' lovely," he muttered, shaking his head. "S'pose I'm stuck on dis rock a spell..."
He turned again, taking in his environment: all rocks and dirt. No point kicking himself for running out of gas on an atmo-entry. Can't buy gas (or fix a boat, for that matter,) with no coin. He whistled shrilly and a great, shaggy, white hound belly-crawled under the door before padding to his side, completely disinterested in the wreck or the barren landscape. "Ah, go on," he told her; and she loped ahead, head low, in search of fresh food.
He crawled back in his shuttle and pulled a battered rucksack from the corner, checking it for canteen, coleman, rationbars and compass. He grabbed a small heavy book and tucked it in the bag, then strapped his gunbelts across his narrow hips and checked his ammo before looking around his tiny home one more time and crawling back out. As he stood, brushing the dirt from his front he heard a soft whuffle and the crunch of a hoof on dry soil. Looking up, he saw five long-guns pointed at his head from a dozen paces out. The men holding them sat aside short, shaggy horses and wore rattier clothes than Deschain - no mean feat, that.
"What is it I can do then for you fine gentlemen?" Deschain asked casually, very slowly lifting a hand to flick dark ginger hair back from his mossy eyes. "See, I've had me a bit of a day, an' was tinkin' of a nice fire an' a touch o' coffee. Mayhaps it is you've rode a ways and would care ta join me..." With the invitation voiced, he dropped to a crouch and opened his rucksack, figuring they'd shoot him or join him, and not much caring which at that particular juncture.