A wise commander was Colonel O'Neill, Teal'c reflected. They had left MajorCarter to her work with her devices as the technique with which the scientist was most likely to succeed in locating DanielJackson and the cursed Goa'uld. Colonel O'Neill was on his way to the drinking establishment three blocks away from their temporary abode in this small community, and he had directed Teal'c to silently explore the perimeter of this civilization. Teal'c recalled the saying that was popular on Chulak: ka'ree toboatho, massini'i tallow'no. 'The hunter hunts, the baker bakes.' DanielJackson had compared it to the Tau're saying of 'to each, his own.'

As for Teal'c himself, the way the Jaffa was most likely to find DanielJackson was to hunt outside. Teal'c welcomed this opportunity to explore his adopted home world unencumbered by the need to remain hidden among the humans. Once out of sight of the town, the streetlights twinkling in the distance, he broke into a ground-eating trot, taking in all the small signs of life, looking for evidence that yet another non-Terrestrial life form was nearby.

The air cooled with the passage of the sun, and small insects whirled through the air to be swooped up by small flying things that O'Neill had identified for him as 'bats'. He heard the yipping of coyotes, the scurrying of jackrabbits trying to avoid the afore-mentioned coyotes, and the occasional hoot of a large feathered predator known as an owl. The plant life was erratic in this desert environment, leaving large areas of simple sand that hampered his travel not one bit. Large cactus loomed in the moonlight, warning him away from their spiked vicinity.

Two circuits in a distant diameter around the town, Teal'c decided, one larger than the next in a spiral pattern. That would be all that he would have time to accomplish before sunrise. Should he detect any evidence of the cursed Goa'uld, he would notify his commander for additional searching in that sector.

For hunting was what the Jaffa did best.

Besides killing.

"Yo, Lord." Daniel, still blindfolded, heard three girls kneel before the Goa'uld. One of the girls possessed a particularly nauseating form of a Bronx accent, and the other two twittered even more to make up the distance.

Teknet is your god. Teknet is your god.

Daniel felt the sweat drip down his forehead, shook his head to clear it. His mind was still his own, but he knew he was slowly losing this battle. Teknet was not using cold this time but Daniel's own body against him. He was so thirsty, so hungry. And so tired. Teknet had fondled him until Daniel had wanted to scream in rage, in disgust, had struggled against the ropes that held him until he now hung limply in simple exhaustion. Yet he knew that the Goa'uld was toying with him, deliberately holding the host body back, waiting for Daniel to crack. And that scared Daniel most of all.

Teknet is your god. Teknet is your god.

Daniel bit his lip. The pain would help drive the incessant little noise from his brain.

"We will do your will, lord." The simpering didn't sound forced but it did sound nauseating.

"Yes," Teknet commented serenely, "you will. Proceed. Amuse me."

Three sets of hands, these smaller than those of Teknet, began to cover Daniel's flesh, slipping beneath the scrap of clothing still left to him. Prodding. Pushing. Probing. Distracting him from the imperative of fighting against the tuvatka're. Nothing was particularly damaging to his body parts but the ego was taking a beating.

Then there was the shock as something painful jabbed into his side. Fire arced through him.

The scream was pitiful, the noise stolen by exhaustion. A second electric shock, and Daniel jerked in his bonds, fighting to escape the confining bonds. He groaned, a helpless cry of dismay. One of the girls giggled. "Can we stick this under his shorts, too, lord?"

"Of course, my children."

"Cool."

Teknet is your god. Teknet is your god.

O'Neill watched Teal'c disappear into the distance, but not without misgivings. The Jaffa could take care of himself, O'Neill knew, but there was always that sense of unease whenever he ventured out into the world of humans. The consequences of the alien being discovered were horrifying in their simplicity. Little chance of that in the desert outside of town, but still…

There was no better option. The most likely scenario was that Daniel had been snatched by that damn Goa'uld, in which case the rest of SG-1 could retrieve him in short order, or, if they took too long, they would be leaving important parts of the archeologist behind. Important parts like brains, free will, maybe a pound or two of flesh… O'Neill canned those thoughts. They didn't help at a time like this. He needed to concentrate.

The fingerprint on the door jamb belonged to a chick named Ginny Jones. Lt. Baker of Security had obtained a three year old picture of the girl from Missing Persons and forwarded it to him, and O'Neill could feel the paper burning a hole in his pocket. It was his only lead, and he would be able to see it through only with careful handling of the locals. Among themselves they would talk, but a stranger would be as welcome as a bear at a honey tree. O'Neill didn't want to get stung.

Inside the bar was dark with heavy cigarette smoke clotting the air, the jukebox barely heard over the murmured conversations. It was Thursday and the place was just shy of crowded, the townspeople getting an early start on the weekend. Even as he watched, the bartender slid another foaming stein of beer careening down the counter to land sudsily in front of a patron. O'Neill bellied up to the bar and ordered a cold one for himself. He didn't try to talk.

The bartender did that for him. "New in town?"

"Passing through." O'Neill took a judicious sip. There was a good chance of needing to drink his way through several over-size mugs, and O'Neill was determined to make each one last as long as possible while establishing himself as someone who didn't matter to this town. "Looking for someone."

The bartender showed his teeth. "Won't find him here. Nobody stays in Peyote."

O'Neill lifted his beer. "You do."

"Some of us don't take kindly to city life."

"That's the truth." O'Neill took a sip to signify agreement. "Don't care much for it myself."

But the bait had been taken. O'Neill could all but see the bartender's thoughts: cheap entertainment. Keep the stranger talking. "You said you're looking for a guy?"

"Girl, actually." O'Neill made no move to take out the picture.

"Good looker? She dump you?"

O'Neill snorted. "At my age? I don't go robbing cradles, guy."

"A kid, then."

"Old enough to know better. She's wanted."

"You a bounty hunter?"

"Nope. Air Force."

The bartender's interest got whetted. "Air Force, you say? Must be important. She steal something? Secret plans to the next spy plane? Maybe a spy herself?"

"Something like that," O'Neill admitted. "You got anybody passing through town lately, like in the last couple of days?" Like yesterday? Like somebody with glowing eyeballs? You'd probably notice. "Maybe didn't stop for the night? Got a little gas, a bite to eat, something like that."

The bartender shrugged. "Maybe somebody like that. Not just one kid, though. Bunch of 'em."

"Bunch? How many?" Got a Goa'uld with 'em?

The bartender shrugged again, and topped off O'Neill's mug without being asked. "Three of 'em, was all I saw. Skinny, like. Too skinny for my taste. City girls, betcha. Fancy type clothes that don't cover what they're supposed to." He leaned over to add confidentially, "they looked like some hooker-types with their pimp. Stewie over there thought they got run out of whatever city they came from, looking to set up a hooker house in a new town." He snorted. "Peyote sure as hell ain't gonna be big enough for them city types. Ain't got enough men here to keep 'em in business." He eyed O'Neill. "You said that girl stole government secrets?"

"Not quite, but close enough for government work." O'Neill knew better than to lie outright.

Still the bartender hesitated. "You don't look like no air force type."

O'Neill nodded sagely. "Uniforms tend to stand out. Don't really want her to run. Do the country a heck of a lot better just hauling her ass back for questioning." Not just the country, but the whole planet. In case you're interested.

"How do I know you're really Air Force? The nearest Air Force Base is more than a hundred miles from here."

O'Neill let a sigh gust out, more for effect than anything else. He made a show of hauling his ID from his pocket, flashing it in front of the bartender's face. "That do?"

The bartender stared at it, as if memorizing the features for comparison to the real thing sitting on the stool next to the bar. He nodded, accepting the evidence. "You got a picture of her?"

I thought you'd never ask. O'Neill casually withdrew the black and white photo from his pocket and handed it over.

This time it only took one quick look. "That's her," the bartender affirmed. "That's one of 'em. The pimp guy, he was nothing to worry about. Looked like a stiff wind would blow him over. Probably why he got run out of town before this. Couldn't handle the big boys."

O'Neill nodded in satisfaction. "You know which way they headed?"

The bartender set his jaw. "You got a map?" And added righteously, "nobody steals from our boys in uniform and gets away with it. Not here. Not in Peyote."

God bless America.