by Andre Norton
“Say, kid,” Dort caught up with him again, “you’ve heard about the land grants open for veterans—”
“I was told—ten squares to a qualified settler.”
“Twenty to a Terran,” the other corrected. “Now me and my brother, we’ve got us a nice spread on the eastern fork of the Staffa and beyond that the land is clear to the Paszo Peaks. If you aren’t going to stay on with Larkin and run herd, you might ride on with me and take a look in that direction. It’s good country—dry around the edges maybe—but the Staffa doesn’t give out even in high-sun season. You could bite out your twenty squares clear up to the Peaks. Quade has a section there—”
“Brad Quade? I thought his holdings were in the Basin—”
“Oh, that’s his big spread. He’s First Ship family, too, though he did a hitch in Survey and has gone off-world other times. He’s imported horses and tried Terran sheep here. Sheep didn’t last, the groble beetles infected them the first year. Anyway, he set up the Peak place for his son—”
“His son?” Storm’s dark face remained expressionless, but he was listening very closely now.
“Yes. Logan’s just a kid and he and Brad don’t rub along together too smooth. The kid doesn’t like just herding—goes off with the Norbies a lot and is as good as one of their scouts at tracking. He tried to get in the forces here, raised merry Hades down at the enlistment center when they wouldn’t take him because of his age. So Brad gave him this wilder grant down at the Peaks about two years ago and told him to take out his fight on taming that. Haven’t heard how he’s made out lately.” Dort laughed. “Home news took a while catching up with our outfit while we were star shootin’.”
“Hey!” Larkin’s shout was a summons to them both. “Ride circle, you two, we want them bedded down here—”
Storm rode to the right while Dort took the left. To bed down here meant they would wait to hit the Crossing late tomorrow. Larkin wanted to rest the horses before the auction. As he rode, the Terran was thinking. So Brad Quade had a son, had he, a fact which altered Storm’s plans somewhat. He had been willing to confront Quade where and when he found him and have their quarrel out. He still wanted to see Quade, of course he did! Why did the fact that his enemy had a family make any difference? Storm pushed that last puzzle to a dead end without solving it.
He carried through his duties with his usual competence, glad to be busy. The rest of the men were in a festive mood. Even the Norbies twittered among themselves and made no move to leave the camp after they collected their pay. Here the party would split up—the veterans who had joined for the trip at the space port would now ride on to their own spreads or light and tie for the big owners who were coming to buy at the auction, which was also an informal hiring depot. This was one of the two big yearly gatherings that broke the usual solitude of the range seasons, and was a mixture of business, fair, and carnival, attracting the whole countryside.
“Storm.” Larkin sat down by the Terran where he was settled cross-legged near the fire, the meerkats wrestling playfully before him, Surra lazily tonguing her paws at his back. “You planning to take up land? Law gives you rights to a nice piece—”
“Not now. Dort was talking about the Staffa River country—running up to the Peaks. I may ride on to see it—” One excuse for remaining foot-loose was as good as another, the Terran thought wearily.
Larkin brightened. “That’s good grazin’ land—the Peak country. I’ve been thinkin’ some of that lately myself. Me, I’ve been doin’ pretty well at importin’ horses. But there aren’t goin’ to be many more brought in from off-world. Sure, we can buy ’em like these—or other fancy stuff from Argol. But that’s a lighter breed, not suited to range work. The old Terran stock is gone. So I’ve a plan runnin’ around in my head. I’d like to round me up some good basic stock—some of these we got right out here in the herd, and some range stuff of at least two generations Arzoran breeding, plus a few mounts out of the Norbie camps. Mix ’em and see what I can do ’bout buildin’ up a new strain—a horse that needs less water, can live off scrub-feed ground, and follow a frawn drift without givin’ out at the end of one day’s trottin’. Now, son, you’re a master hand with animals. You ride down there and cast an eye over the Peak country. If you’re willin’—look me up here at the fall auction and we’ll see about a partnership deal—”
Again that tug deep inside, a blow at the wall he had built around himself. Three times now Storm had been offered a possible future—by Gorgol, by Dort, and now by Larkin. He shifted slightly and used the evasive tactics he had developed as protective armor at the Center.
“Let me see the land first, Larkin. We can talk it over in the fall—”
But long before fall he should meet with Brad Quade—Brad Quade and maybe his son Logan in the bargain.
Partly to get away from his own thoughts, Storm allowed Dort to persuade him to visit the Crossing at night, leaving his team in camp and riding with Lancin and Ransford into a town that made him blink a little, it was so unlike other villages.
Arzoran settlements such as this one were almost a hundred Terran years old now. Yet there was a kind of raw newness about them that Storm had not seen elsewhere. Between the half-yearly explosions of auction week, Irrawady Crossing was close to a ghost town, though it was the only village in several thousand squares of range land. Tonight the town was roaring, wide open. Life here was certainly far removed from the peace Storm had known on Terra, or the regimentation and discipline of the Center.
The four from the trail camp had no more than stabled their horses when they witnessed the end of a personal argument, both men having drawn stun rods with speed enough to drop each other flat and unconscious. And they skirted another crowd moments later, watching another dispute being settled bloodily by fists.
“Boys playful tonight, aren’t they?” inquired Dort, grinning.
“Anybody here ever try to activate a stun gun with a blast bolt?” Storm asked. He was astonished at the grim chill of Ransford’s reply.
“Sure—that’s been done—by outlaws. But any fella who tried to blast wouldn’t last long. We don’t hold with murder. If the boys want to play rough with a stun—and that sure leaves an almighty headache to follow a guy for hours—or try to change another fella’s looks with fists, that’s their right. But blastin’s out!”
“I saw a couple of riders mix it up with Norbie long-knives once,” volunteered Dort. “That was a nasty mess and the winner was sent down to Istabu for psychin’. ’Course Norbies duel it out to the death when they give a ‘warrior’ challenge. But that’s accordin’ to their customs and we don’t bother ’em about it. Nobody is allowed to interfere with the tribes—”
Ransford nodded. “Tribe wars are somethin’ like religion to a Norbie. A boy has to get him a scar in personal combat before he can take a wife or speak up in council. There’s a regular system of points for a man to gather ’fore he can be a chief—all pretty complicated. Hey, fella, take it easy!”
A man caromed into Dort, nearly carrying the veteran off his feet. Dort fended him off with a good-natured shove. But the other whirled, moving with better coordination than his weaving progress predicted. Storm went into action as the rod came from the other’s holster, not trained at the bewildered Dort, but directly at Storm.
The ex-Commando moved with trained precision. His rising hand struck the man’s wrist, sending the stun rod flying before a finger could press the firing button. But the other was not licked. With a tight little strut he bounced forward, to meet a whirlwind attack. The stranger was out on his feet before any of the men passing really understood that a scuffle was in progress.
Storm, breathing a little faster, stood rubbing one hand against the other, looking down at the now unconscious rider. Did local etiquette demand that he now dispose of his late opponent in some manner, he wondered. Or did one just leave a loser where he fell?
He stooped, hooked his hands in the slumberer’s armpits, and dragged him wit
h some difficulty—since he was a large man and now a dead weight—to prop him against the side of a neighboring building. As the Terran straightened up he saw a shadowy figure in the dusk turn and walk abruptly away. There was no mistaking Bister’s outline as he passed the garish lights of a café. Had this rider been sent against Storm by Bister? And why couldn’t, or didn’t, Coll Bister fight his own battles?
“By the Great Horns!” Dort bore down on him. “What did you do then? Looked as if you only patted him gentle like, until he went all limp and keeled over like a rayed man! Only you didn’t pull your rod at all.”
“Short and quick,” commented Ransford. “Commando stuff?”
“Yes.”
But Ransford showed none of Dort’s excitement. “Take it easy, kid,” he warned. “Make a parade of bein’ a tough man and a lot of these riders may line up to take you on. We don’t use blasters maybe, but a man can get a pretty bad poundin’ if a whole gang moves in on him—no matter how good he is with his hands—”
“When have you ever seen the kid walkin’ stiff-legged for a fight?” Dort protested. “Easiest-goin’ fella in camp, an’ you know it! Why did you jump that guy anyway, Storm?”
“His eyes,” the Terran replied briefly. “He wanted to make it a real fight.”
Ransford agreed. “Had his rod out too quick, Dort, and he pulled it for the kid, too. He was pushin’. Only don’t push back unless you have to, Storm.”
“Aw, leave the kid alone, Ranny. When did he ever make fight-talk on the fingers?”
Ransford chuckled. “It wasn’t the fingers he used for his fight-talk—mostly the flat of his hand. I’m just warnin’ him. This is a hot town tonight and you’re from off-world, Storm. There’re a lot of chesty riders who like to pick on newcomers.”
Storm smiled. “That I’m used to. But thanks, Ransford, I’ll walk softly. I never have fought for the fun of it.”
“That’s just it, kid, might be better if you did. Leave you alone and you’re as nice and peaceful as that big cat of yours. But I don’t think she’d take kindly to anyone stampin’ on her tail, casual-like. Well, here’s the Gatherin’. Do we want to see who’s in town tonight?”
Lights, brighter than the illumination of the street, and a great deal of noise issued out of the doorway before them. The structure assembled under one roof, Storm gathered, all the amenities of bar, theater, club, and market exchange, and was the meeting place for the more respectable section of the male population—regular and visiting—of Irrawady Crossing.
The din, the lights, the assorted smells of cooking, drinks, and horse, as well as heated humanity, struck hard as they crossed the threshold. Nothing he saw there attracted Storm and had he been alone he would have returned to the camp. But Dort wormed a path through the crowd, boring toward the long table where a game of Kor-sal-slam was in progress, eager to try his luck at the game of chance that had swept through the Confed worlds with the speed of light during the past two years.
“Ransford! When did you get back?”
Storm saw a hand drop on the veteran’s shoulder, half turning him to face the speaker. It was a hand almost as brown as his own. And above it, around that equally brown wrist—! Storm did not betray the shock he felt. There was only one place that particular ornament could come from. For it was the ketoh of the Dineh—the man’s bracelet of his own people developed from the old bow-guard of the Navajo warrior! And what was it doing about the wrist of an Arzoran settler?
Without realizing that he was unconsciously preparing for battle, the Terran moved his feet a little apart, bracing and balancing his body for either attack or defense, as his eyes moved along the arm, clothed conventionally in frawn fabric, up to the face of the man who wore the ketoh. The stranger and Ransford had drawn a little apart, and now in his turn Storm shifted back against the wall, wanting to watch them without being himself observed.
The face of the settler was as brown as his hand—a weather-burned brown. But his were not Navajo features—though the hair above them was as black as Storm’s own. And it was a strong, attractive face with lines of good humor bracketing the wide mouth, softening the almost too-firm line of the jaw, while the eyes set beneath rather thick brows were a deep blue.
Storm was not too far away to hear Ransford’s return cry of “Quade!”
He had caught the hand from his shoulder and was shaking it vigorously. “I just got in, rode herd for Larkin down from the Port. Say, Brad, he’s got some good stuff in his new stud string—”
The wide mouth curved into a smile. “Now that’s news, Ranny. But we’re glad to have you back, fella, and in one unbroken piece. Heard a lot of black talk about how bad things were going out there—toward the end—”
“Our Arzor outfit got into it late. Just one big battle and some moppin’ up. Say—Brad, I want you to meet—”
But Storm took two swift steps backward, to be hidden by a push of newcomers, and Ransford could not see him. For once it was useful to be smaller than the settler breed.
“Queer—” The veteran’s voice carried puzzlement. “He was right here behind me. Off-worlder and a good kid. Rode herd down for Larkin and can he handle horses! Terran—”
“Terran!” repeated Quade, his smile gone. “Those dirty Xiks!” His words became highly flavored and combined some new expressions Storm did not recognize. All worlds, it seemed, developed their own brand of profanity. “I only hope the devils who planned that burn-off were cooked in their turn—to a crisp! Your man deserves every break we can give him. I’ll look him up—any good horseman is an asset. I hear you’re going out to the Vakind—”
They moved on but Storm remained where he was, surprised and not a little ashamed to find that the hands resting on the belt about his flat middle were trembling a little.
A meeting such as this did not match with the nebulous plans he had made. He wanted no curious audience when he met Quade—and then each of them should have a blaster—or better still—knives! Storm’s settlement with his man must not be one of the relatively bloodless encounters of Arzoran custom but something far more decisive and fatal.
The Terran was about to go out when a bull-throated roar rising above the clamor in the room halted him.
“Quade!” The man who voiced that angry bellow made Brad Quade seem almost as slender as a Norbie.
“Yes, Dumaroy?” The warmth that had been in his voice while he spoke with Ransford was gone. Storm had heard such a tone during his service days—that inflection meant trouble. He stayed to watch with a curiosity he could not control.
“Quade—that half-baked kid of yours has been ridin’ wild again—stickin’ his nose in where it isn’t wanted. You pull herd guard on him, or someone’s goin’ to do it for you!”
“That someone being you, Dumaroy?” The ice thickened into a glacial deposit.
“Maybe. He roughed up one of my boys out on the Peak Range—”
“Dumaroy!” There was the snap of a quirt in that and the whole room was silent, men edging in about the two as if they expected some open fight. “Dumaroy, your rider roughed up a Norbie and he got just what he deserved in return. You know what trouble with the natives can lead to—or do you want to have a knife feud sworn on you?”
“Norbies!” Dumaroy did not quite spit, but his disgust was made eloquently plain. “We don’t nurse Norbies on my spread. And we don’t take kindly to half-broke kids settin’ up to tell us how to act. Maybe you goat-lovers up here like to play finger-wriggle with the big horns—We don’t, and we don’t trust ’em either—”
“A knife feud—”
Dumaroy interrupted. “So they swear a knife feud. And how long will that last if my boys clean out their camps and teach ’em a good lesson? Those goats run fast enough when you show your teeth at ’em. They sure have the finger-sign on you up here—”
Quade’s hand shot out, buried fingers in the frawn fabric that strained across the other’s wide chest.
“Dumaroy—” He still spoke
quietly. “Up here we hold to the law. We don’t follow Mountain Butcher tricks. If the Peak country needs a little visit from the Peace Officers, be sure it’s going to get just that!”
“Better change your rods to blast charges if you ride on another man’s range to snoop.” Dumaroy twisted out of the other’s hold with a roll of his thick shoulders.
“We tend to our own business and we don’t take to meddlers from up here. If you don’t want to have your pet goats tickled up some, give them the sign to keep away from our ranges. And they’d better not trail any loose stock with ’em either! And, if I were you, Quade, I’d speak loud and clear to that kid of yours. When Norbies get excited, they don’t always look too close at a man’s face before they plant an arrow in his middle. I’m serving notice here and now”—his glance swept from Quade to the other men about him—“the Peaks aren’t goin’ to be ruled from the Basin. If you don’t like our ways—stay out! You don’t know what’s goin’ on back in the hills. These tame goats who ride herd around here aren’t like the high-top clans. And maybe the tame ones will learn a few lessons from the wild ones. Been a lot of herd losses in the last five months—and that Nitra chief, old Muccag, he’s been makin’ drum-magic in the mountains. I say somethin’ bigger than a tribe war is cookin’. And we ain’t goin’ to have goats camped on our ranges when the arrow is passed! If you’ve any sense, the rest of you, you’d think that way too.”
Storm was puzzled. This had begun as a personal quarrel between Quade and Dumaroy. Now the latter was attempting to turn the encounter into an argument against the natives. It was almost as strange as Bister’s early actions. He sensed an undercurrent that spelled danger.
CHAPTER FIVE
T
he Terran was so intrigued by that problem that he did not see Quade turn until he was aware, suddenly, that the Basin settler was staring at him. Those blue eyes were searching, oddly demanding, and there was a shadow of something that might have been recognition in them. Of course that was impossible. To his knowledge he and Quade had never met. But the Arzoran was coming toward him and Storm stepped back, confident that outside in the half-light of the street the other could not find him unless he willed it.
