by Robert Adams
“Fil came into the den and eyed the injured feline while keeping a safe distance from her, with his spear shaft between them. After sucking on his long tower lip for a while, he said, “Uncle Milo, that cat must weigh over two hundred pounds, for all she’s not really well fed. That near foreleg will be tender as a boil, and it needs draining, which means cutting it in two, maybe three places. I value my life and my skin, Uncle Milo. I won’t touch that cat unless she’s well and firmly tied. She’s bound to be too strong for even six warriors to hold for long.”
Reflecting that the man was likely right, Milo thought hard. There was no rope in this party, and seven belts just wouldn’t do this job. Maybe, he thought, behind one of those two locked doors . . . ?
A swift succession of short, heavy blows of the iron rod not only smashed the padlock but ripped loose the hasp as well. And Milo entered the door marked “FALLOUT SHELTER.”
The room was a treasure trove — jerrycans of fuels, boxes of canned goods, several locked footlockers, a couple of axes, a long-handled spade, a pickaxe and a wrecking bar, all metal surfaces smeared with cosmolene and looking as if they had just been brought from the hardware store. The room was dry and there was almost no dust, as the door had been tight-fitting and weatherstripped, with a raised sill. There was an identical door in the opposite wall, but Milo postponed exploring what lay behind it, for what he now most needed was in the first footlocker he opened, several coils of strong manila rope, plus an assortment of buckle-fitted webbing straps.
Bearing their ropes and straps, Milo, Fil, Dik, and Djim filed into the den and bore down on the comatose cat. But suddenly there was a fearsome, if high-pitched, growl, and a kitten — probably weighing all of twenty-five pounds — stalked purposefully from behind his mother. Fur and whiskers bristling, ears folded back against his diminutive head, lips coded up off white little teeth, the kitten took his stand, tail swishing his anger and fierce resolve.
Milo received a silent warning: “Two-legs keep away from Mother or this cat kills!”
The other clansmen perceived the thought transmission as well, and stop they did, grinning and nodding admiration of such courage and reckless daring in defense of kin.
“Uncle Milo,” said Dik soberly. “if that cub had two legs instead of four, I’d sponsor him to my chief. It’s clear he’s a Horseclansman born.”
Handing his coil of rope to another, Milo slowly approached the little warrior. Squatting out of range of a pounce, he hoped, he mindspoke the hissing kitten. At the same time, on another level of his mind, he broadbeamed soothing assurance, having noticed that such worked with horses.
“How is my Cat-Brother called?”
The kitten did not alter his position, and he eyed Milo distrustfully. When he decided to answer, it was with open hostility. “This Cat is Killer-of-Two-Legs. Keep away or you all die!”
Dik slapped his thigh and guffawed. “Listen to him! What a warrior he’d be. Facing down four full-grown, armed men, and him but a cub.”
Milo spoke aloud. “Don’t underestimate him, Dik. Smaller than his mother, yes, but he’s near as big as a full-grown bobcat, and I’ll wager he could put some pretty furrows in your hide, if given the chance.”
Then he added, “But we won’t give him that chance, I hope. Two of you take off your jackets and hand me one, sloowwly, then get some of that rope ready. I could argue all day with this obstinate little bugger, and his mother will soon die without help.”
With moving men to either side distracting his attention, Milo was able to flip the heavy coat over the kitten. And then it was a furious matter of grab and tussle, but finally, the raging, squalling little beastlet was securely wrapped in two thick leather garments and wrapped about with several yards of rope. The other two kittens had retreated into a far, dark corner.
First Fil cleaned the wolfbite and smeared it thickly with salve, then he adroitly set and splinted the broken leg, using part of his own embroidered shirt when he ran out of bandage cloths. But when he first began to shave the infected leg with the razor-keen skinning knife, the huge cat came to full and furious consciousness, straining at the ropes and straps pinioning her rear legs and fearsome jaws, growling between clenched teeth.
Milo tried to reach her mind, but it was useless. As well as he could, Fil went on about his shaving of the long fur.
As gently as possible, his sensitive fingers roved over the grossly swollen leg. He rubbed a portion of the discolored skin with a few drops of liquid from a small metal bottle, then dipped the short blade of a slender knife into the bottle.
At the first touch of the needle-pointed knife, the big cat squalled, and heaved her heavy body once, then unconsciousness claimed her once more.
Fil had the experience to keep clear, but the curious Djim caught the jet of foul greenish pus that erupted around the first thrust of the little knife full in his face. Cursing sulphurously, he stood up and headed for the water pool.
Fil opened a long gash and cut through to the bone, then pressed upon the leg until nothing but blood and clear serum flowed. He packed the open wound with dried herbs, smeared its gaping edges with salve and bandaged the limb with more of his shirt. After feeling the neck pulse to ascertain if his patient still lived, he gathered his instruments and trudged wearily toward the pool.
After the straining men had manhandled the limp form of the cat back to where she had been originally lying and had untied her rear legs, Fil Esmith took up the watch over his patient, squatting near her with the thrashing shape of a decapitated rattler before him, gobbling raw filets of snake as fast as his busy knife could skin, clean and slice them. Across the den, the red-haired Linsee twins were joking and chortling as they lugged bloody wolf carcasses up to the roof of the tower for skinning whenever the blizzard died down.
In one end of what had been the snake den, Djim Linsee squatted, kitten-sitting. Killer-of-Two-Legs had not been released, as he had hotly refused to tender his parole. The furious and frustrated little beast was managing to somehow roll his ropebound leather cocoon over and over from one side of the room to the other, alternately squalling for maternal assistance and beaming silent threats of dire and deadly retribution against every two-legs he had seen.
On the other hand, Djirn had gained at least the conditional friendship and partial trust of the smaller and less pugnacious female kittens. The fuzzy little creatures were mindspeaking less and less guardedly as they avidly devoured his lavish gifts of snakemeat.
* * *
Milo had found the inner door of the fallout shelter unlocked, though every crack had been sealed with wide strips of tape. Sealant removed, the door had opened easily to reveal a virtual efficiency apartment — two double-decker bunks a chemical toilet, a two-burner petrol range, a stainless-steel sink with chrome pump in place of faucets, and a plethora of cabinets and drawers of various sizes and shapes covering every available inch of wall space.
After going through the contents of a few of the cabinets, some of the worry about their situation left Milo’s mind. Even if the blizzard, now howling in full force, should last a month and the huge wolfpack should maintain its siege until spring, he and the Horseclansmen would be well fed on the big sealed cans of powdered milk and eggs and orange concentrate, the stack upon high stack of freeze-dried foods still sealed in their plastic-lined foil pouches. There were jars of coffee (he tried but could not recall the last time he had tasted real coffee, though the nomads all drank certain bastard brews they invariably called “coffee”) and sugar and jams, tins of tea, even a case of Jerez brandy, Año 72, plus a wide assortment of condiments and pickles.
Under one of the lower bunks was a flat steel chest, its lid padlocked and sealed with tape. The lock yielded to a few strokes of the iron bar. Within, the first thing that caught Milo’s eyes was a finely tooled leather case about four feet long.
Nape hairs prickling, he lifted the case to the bunk and unsnapped its catches, then lifted the lid. Nestled on a bed of impregnate
d sheepskin lay a scope-sighted sporting rifle, blued barrel, chrome bolt handle and polished stock reflecting back the light of the lantern. Arrayed below the barrel were six brightly colored boxes, each labeled “REMINGTON .30-06 Sprgfld. 180 gr. pointed soft point 20 rounds.”
With shaking hands, Milo lifted the beautiful weapon from its century-old bed and first lifted, then pulled the silvery bolt handle. The ancient Mauser action slid smoothly open and the ejector sent a bright brass dummy cartridge clattering across the room. The visible interior surfaces of the rifle gleamed as brightly as the exterior.
Milo slouched back against the cabinet behind him, a grim smile on his face. Six boxes, twenty rounds the box, one hundred and twenty cartridges, then; even if it took him a full box to reorient himself to a firearm and to zero this one in, he’d still have more than enough to seriously deplete the wolf population hereabouts, so they were only now trapped here until the weather improved.
But what about the cat? Even with the wolves dead or departed, she would be in a bad way. Unable to hunt for at least a month, she and those kittens would be white bones soon. True, he and the Horseclansmen could leave meat behind for her, but how long before it was all eaten or became inedible?
“Take them back with us? For the kittens, that would work fine — strap one each on the backs of three men. But how in the devil do seven men get a two-hundred-and-some-pound injured cat down a bitch of an almost vertical hill, coated with ice and full of loose rocks?
“What we should do is just loll about here until the big cat is mended, then give her the choice of coming with us or staying here, but if I keep these men away that long, their clans will think they’re all dead, and, likely, move the camp to a luckier place, probably in the very direction we won’t go.
“Now if it only weren’t for that damned hill, we could just build a sledge and —”
Fil’s mindcall interrupted him. “Uncle Milo, the big cat is waking up.”
When Milo strode into the den, Fil Esmith, and Bili and Bahb Linsee were watching the groggy beast, made clumsy by her bandaged forepaws, trying to get a hind claw under the strap still securing her jaws.
Milo moved to her side and squatted. Laying a hand on her head — he had long ago learned that physical contact always improved telepathic communication — he mindspoke her.
“Sister, I’ll take the straps off. But you must promise not to tear off the little skins covering your legs with your teeth. Will you?”
* * *
The blizzard blew for three days, but the wind began to die during the third night, and morning brought a full blaze of sun in a blue sky. It also brought back the wolves, which had shrewdly left the exposed mesa during the blow. Bili and Bahb, who were atop the tower, working on the frozen carcasses with their skinning knives, mindcalled Milo as the first grey predators moved out across the frozen surface of the deep snow.
Carrying the cased rifle and a folded tarp, Milo climbed back up onto the tower roof. He had been classed an expert rifleman in both the armies with which he could remember having served, and during the long blizzard days he had read and reread the booklet that the Browning Arms Company had packed with the weapon, then stripped it, cleaned it and dry-fired it until he thought he knew all he could learn without putting a few live rounds through the mirror-bright bore.
Lacking the sandbags he recalled, he steadied the rifle on a tarp-covered dead and frozen wolf, opened the first box of cartridges and filled the magazine, then settled himself to wait until the maximum number of furry targets were in sight on the mesa.
The pack must not have found much if any game during the blizzard, for soon most of them were gathered about the tower, engaged in a snapping, snarling battle-royal over the skinned carcasses the Linsee boys dropped over as soon as the pelts were off. But a few wolves still were sitting or ambling at some distance from the tower, so Milo decided to sight in the rifle.
Far down, near the distant edge of the mesa, sat two wolves, intently observing something in the forest below. Milo centered the cross hairs of the scope on the nearer one’s head and slowly squeezed off the first round.
The butt slammed his shoulder with a force and violence he had had forgotten. Below the tower, the wolfpack members were streaming off in every direction, yelping, howling, tails tucked between legs, looking back as they ran with wide and fear-filled eyes. But Milo did not notice, so intent was he on checking the performance of his rifle, which had thrown a good ten feet short of target and well to the left.
The two distant wolves had looked around at the noise, but as they had never been hunted with firearms, they failed to connect the noise with the small something that had drilled through the frozen crust, may not even have been aware of that small something, since it had arrived ahead of the noise.
Milo chambered a fresh round, then adjusted the scope and resettled himself behind it. The second round sizzled out of the barrel. Through the scope, Milo saw the target suddenly duck down, then shake his head and raise his muzzle skyward, looking about above him.
Again he adjusted the scope. The eighth round sent the target wolf leaping high in the air, to fall and lie jerking on the snow. The other wolf still was sniffing at his fallen packmate when a 180-grain softpoint ended his curiosity forever.
Milo had the tower top to himself for some time. The Linsee boys had descended the rickety stairs shaking their ringing heads and wondering how even Uncle Milo could stand those incredibly loud noises.
In a way, Milo felt sorry for the pack of merciless killers — they had no idea who or what was killing them. The loud reports kept them well away from the tower, which simply made it easier to shoot them with the long-range weapon. Milo tired hard to make each of his kills clean, and the tremendous shocking power of the mushrooming bullets helped. He never knew how many wolves got away, if any, but he stopped firing only when there were no more targets.
When he stood up finally and surveyed the slaughter he had wrought, he felt a little sick. Of all animals, he had always most admired wolves and the great cats. Sight of the tumbled, fury bodies and thought of the fierce vitality his skill had snuffed out so effortlessly pricked his conscience.
But the Horseclansmen did not share his anachronistic squeamishness, when once they filed out upon the roof and saw the windfall. Whooping, they lowered themselves down the walls and ran to the closest dead wolves, skinning knives out. Winter-wolf pelts were warm and valuable. They would become wealthy men at the next summer’s tribe council, trading pelts for cattle, sheep, concubines and inanimate treasures.
By the fourth day after the blizzard had ended, the deer carcass was long since but gnawed bones and the snakes were curing skins; the cat and her kittens had lapped up almost all the powdered milk Milo had mixed and set before them, so he took Djim and Dik down into the forest to seek edible game.
Four big hares, however, had been all that the hunters had to show for over three hours’ stalking when Djim’s keen eyes picked out a large animal moving among the thick, snow-heavy brush. Alerted by mindspeak, Milo had raised the rifle and almost loosed off the round before the scope told him just what the animal was. Pursing his lips. he whistled the horse-call of the clans, and the chestnut maze broke off her browsing to come trotting out of the scrub.
Milo put out a hand toward the mare, but she shied away, going instead to Dik and nuzzling against his chest.
Smiling and patting the shaggy neck, he said, “Why, this is my hunter, Swiftwater, Uncle Milo. But I left her back with the other horses, in that deer park.”
“Then it’s a wonder she hasn’t been wolf meat,” commented Djim Linsee laconically. “I figure most of our horses are.”
Dik hugged the mare’s fine head to him. “Well, she won’t have to fear that now. I’ll take care of my good girl.”’
“Then we’ll have to make you a tent down here in the woods,” said Djim bluntly. “ ’Cause it ain’t no way you’re going to get a horse up on that mesa, Dik.”
D
ik set his jaw stubbornly. “I’m not going to Leave her alone down here.”
Milo nodded. “No, you’re not. You’re going to fork her right now and ride back to the camp. Her fortuitous arrival changes the complexion of things. You’ve got your bow and your dirk.” He unsnapped his saber. “Here, take this. Djim, give him your spear, too.
“Dik, Fil says that the big cat may never fully recover her strength in those forepaws. I’m going to persuade her to come back to camp with us, her and the kittens.”
Neither Horseclansman evinced any surprise at the intent, for both had “chatted” often with the crippled cat, and Djim was now a virtual parent and frequent companion to all three kittens. To their minds, the cats were human, anatomical differences notwithstanding.
Milo continued, “Dik, tell the chiefs of all we have found and done here. Tell them to come with a large party, plenty of spare horses. We’ll strip the ruin, up there, of anything we can use. Then, too,” he grinned. “you won’t want to leave any of your wolf pelts or snake hides behind. Tell the chiefs to hurry, Dik. Esmith and Linsee will be very wealthy clans by the time they leave this winter’s camp.”
“It’ll take them at least a week to get around to getting here,” thought Milo as he and Djim continued the hunt.
“They wouldn’t be Horseclansmen if they didn’t spend a couple of days and nights discussing the matter, then two or three more days arguing about how to divide booty that they don’t yet have in camp. Then they’ll take at least a day getting organized. Both chiefs and every warrior will insist upon coming, but in the end, half will stay behind to guard the camp and the herds.
“But maybe the week will give me time to read the rest of the records in that office. What I’ve found in there so far is damned interesting. Back-breeding then-living animals to produce extinct ones they were descended from wasn’t then new, as I recall — the Europeans had reproduced a decent facsimile of the aurochs that way.
“And that could damn well be the origin of those cats, come to think of it. The only cats I ever heard of with fangs that long were called sabertooth cats, and they’ve been extinct in this hemisphere for ten, twenty thousand years. And those huge, long-horned bison, there’re more of them around this part of the country than in any other place I can recall; they could easily have originated here.”
