by Andre Norton
“This is something to be thought on, brother of our brother. The fire is yours.” He stepped aside, his men following his example, leaving a clear passage to the strong-smelling smoke and flames.
Hosteen completed the hospitality ritual, walking on, as he held his breath against gusts of nose-tickling smoke, to take his stand within the circle of heat that was pleasant as a symbol but uncomfortable in fact. When he glanced around, the natives had vanished. Only Logan stood there, watching him levelly with suspicion of hostility.
“You’re sharp on the count-off with all this,” he commented.
“If you mean this is a piece of fiction designed to get you back, you’re off orbit course,” Hosteen replied tersely. “It’s all true. Widders’ men are not now planting supply dumps through the Peaks. He’s oath-sure his son is back in the Blue—”
“You aren’t goin’ to be allowed in there, you know.”
Hosteen shook his head. “I don’t know, nor do you. They were going to take you with them, weren’t they?”
Rather to his surprise Logan shook his head. “I don’t know. I only hoped.”
“What’s going on? Have you any idea?”
“Something that has never happened before and that breaks straight through tribal custom. Hosteen, when you went in with the archaeologist to explore those valley ruins, didn’t he have a medicine man for a guide, a Norbie who said that the Old Ones wanted their secrets to be revealed now?”
“Yes. Nothing came of it, though. Those Xik holdouts got the medicine man the same time they wiped out our camp after the big flood.”
“But a secret was revealed—we found the Cavern of the Hundred Gardens. Well, the word’s out now that the Old Ones are callin’ in the clans, plannin’ something big. The Norbies have sent out peace poles; every feud has been buried. And the cause is somewhere back in the Blue. But the whole thing is ‘medicine.’ Let our authorities in, and they will blow it and the tribes wide open. A wrong move now could set every Norbie against us. We’ll have to walk small and quiet until we are sure of what we’re facin’. I thought Krotag might take me in so I could learn somethin’. I know what those Norbie haters such as Dumaroy could do with a chance to botch up a ‘medicine’ talk—”
“Which is exactly why ’Asizi is sitting on the blast pin down in the valley now. Didn’t think of talking this over with him before you blew, did you?”
Logan flushed. “I know—I know—You think I should have done that. But it doesn’t work out—we’d have talked and then maybe argued. We don’t think in the same paths. Brad Quade—he’s a big man—the kind of man the valley people need. Me—I’m a wild one—I can’t want just the holding and building up the herd and being my father’s son! Maybe it was the same with Father when he was young. He signed up with Survey, didn’t he, and went all over the star lanes? Well, when I was old enough to try somethin’ like that, there was the war on—no Survey, and they said I was too young for the Service. So I took to goin’ with the Norbies. Sometimes it seems as if they’re more my kind than people like Jaffe or Starle.
“Then—well, I guess. I counted too big on that plan of Kelson’s for a Ranger force. He promised me the first enlistment in that. It fell through—just like we thought it might. So, maybe I was sore about that. Anyway, I went back to huntin’ with the clans—that’s how I heard about this.
“And it blew up so suddenly that I knew I didn’t dare wait and get in a chew-over about it. I had to ride with the clan then or not at all. The river valley—there’s too much talkin’ there and not enough doin’! This time I know I was in the right!”
Hosteen shrugged. Argument now was wasted time, and he could understand Logan’s frustration. As the younger boy had the wit to see, the inherited strain that had taken Brad Quade into space in his own youth was now working in his son. “I will agree that you did as you thought best. I’m here not about that but for Widders—”
“And to do some nose-pokin’ for Kelson—”
“If I make a report to Kelson, that is no more than you were going to do. Think straight, ach’ooni.” Deliberately he used the word for brother-friend. “We both know that this situation may hold the seeds of trouble, not only for the settlers but also for the clans. Before, we faced the Xik, and this may be something of the same again. To search for a missing man in the hills is an excuse that the Norbies may accept.”
“All right. I’ll back you.”
“And join me?”
For a moment Logan hesitated. “If they do not turn you back here and now—”
They sat down away from the fire and somewhat ceremoniously shared a drink from Hosteen’s canteen, action that would express their present accord to any watching clansmen. As Hosteen rescrewed the cap, Krotag stalked toward them.
“We have thought on this matter of your search.” His fingers worked in sharp jerks. “For the time, you ride with us—until we may consult with ‘medicine.’”
“As Krotag wishes.” Hosteen bowed his head formally and then eyed the chief with a straightness that demanded equality. “As I accede, do you also when the times comes—”
Krotag did not reply. Two youths were throwing sand on the flames. The rest of the men were bringing up their mounts, preparing to ride out.
CHAPTER FIVE
H
osteen smeared the back of his hand across his chin and winced as the cracked and tender skin of his lips reacted to that half-unconscious action. He had given the major portion of his water to the animals, and he had not asked the natives for any of their dwindling supply. Unless within the hour he could strike across the country to the waiting dump, he would be in real trouble. Whether this was a carefully planned move of discouragement on Krotag’s part, he did not know, but his suspicions of that were growing. He had no doubts of reaching the cache—Baku’s aerial survey would guide him—but soon his mounts would be past rough travel. And trail-tough though he was, Hosteen doubted if a man on foot could make that journey.
Well, there was no use delaying the test any longer. He sent his range horse up along the line of march, past Norbie warriors to Krotag. In the fore he matched pace with the native chief.
“There comes a time for the parting of trails.” Hosteen addressed Krotag with outer assurance. “He who does not whistle water must seek it elsewhere.”
“You do not ask it of those who know?”
“In the Big Dry who asks water of friends? It is then more precious than blood. He who sent me to find his son has also sent water—lifting it ahead through the air.”
Would Hosteen’s policy of the complete truth defeat him now? The air travel of the settlers was unquestioned in the lowlands, tolerated in certain higher districts. But from the first, only one space port had been conceded by the Norbie, who argued that Those-Who-Drum-Thunder in the mountains must not be looked down on from the air. And perhaps a ’copter in these hills would be resented, especially now.
The Terran could read no emotion on the Norbie chieftain’s face, though those eyes continued to study him for a long moment. Then fingers moved.
“Where lies this water brought through the sky?”
Following native custom, Hosteen pointed with his chin to a line lying southeast of their present track. Krotag spoke over his shoulder, the shrill twittering bringing out of line and cantering ahead two warriors, followed by Logan.
“No one may deny water when it can be found.” Krotag repeated the first law of his people. “But this is country in which the wild ones roam, and you have many horses. So it is wise that you do not ride alone. These shall be added bows.” With a thumb jerk he indicated the measure of security in Krotag’s choice. Both were familiar natives.
Gorgol and his own son Kavok—Hosteen felt a small measure of security in Krotag’s choice. Both were familiar with settler ways, had ridden for Quade. Once he had thought that he was on a basis of friendship with Gorgol, though the happenings of the past days had made the Terran more wary of claiming any sure standing w
ith the young warrior.
Logan crowded his mount forward. “I would ride, too.”
Again Krotag appeared to consider the point before he gave assent. Then the native line plodded on in the evening dusk just as they had ridden through the two nights since Hosteen had joined them, while he drew aside his horses, the extra mounts and the pack mares. Surra, responding to his suggestion, was already ranging along the side gully they must use to cut back to the wider canyon up which Quade and he had planned his entrance into the Blue.
The overland trail was rough, and at night they had to take it slowly. Logan rode beside Hosteen.
“How far are we from this dump?”
“I don’t know—maybe a day. Depends upon the angle of the split when I joined the clansmen.”
“We’ll have to hole up in the day—”
That was what had been plaguing Hosteen as the hours crawled by. He searched all the latter part of the night for some feature of the countryside that could be adapted for a sun shelter, and he was not alone in that search, for Gorgol and Kavok rode with the width of the gorge between them, as if looking for some landmark.
There was a twittering call from Kavok, which, though they could not understand its import, brought the settlers to him. The young Norbie had dismounted and was down on one knee, running his hand along what looked to Hosteen to be undisturbed surface soil. Then he walked ahead, leading his horse, as if he followed some very faint trail.
They came away from the main cut they had taken into a side ravine, which slanted sharply upward. Kavok went down on his knees once more and dug into the side of the ravine with his long hunting knife, an occupation in which Gorgol speedily joined him, leaving Hosteen and Logan completely mystified.
Surra flowed down the side of the cut. She stopped short a yard or so away from the hole the two Norbies had already excavated, and nose wrinkled, she growled deep in her throat. Gorgol glanced over his shoulder, sighted the cat, and touched Kavok, nodding from Surra to the excavation. Hosteen caught the sudden surge of hunting interest from the feline mind. Beyond the flying knives, the busy hands of the natives, there was something alive, and that quarry was attracting all Surra’s feral love of the chase and the kill.
The earth under the scraping hands of the Norbies suddenly caved in, and both of them jerked back as a hole appeared, growing wider as if they had laid bare an underground chasm. Their knives were still at ready, but not to dig, rather to defend themselves against attack. Hosteen, warned by their attitude, drew his stunner. Gorgol flung out a hand in a gesture of waiting.
Surra, her belly fur brushing loose earth, the tip of her tail twitching with anticipation, crept forward with feline caution, her broad paws placed and then lifted in succession with the precision of the stalking huntress.
The Norbies gave her room, and Hosteen lost mind touch. Now the big cat was all hunting machine, not to be turned from the chase. She would answer to no order or suggestion while in this state. Her furred head, fox-sharp ears pricked, hung out over the opening. Then, as if she were melting into the loose sand and earth, she was gone, down into the unseen pit the Norbies had opened.
Gorgol squatted back on his haunches, and Hosteen caught at his shoulder in a tight and demanding grip.
“What lies below?” the Terran demanded.
“Djimbut pit!” Logan replied before Gorgol could raise a hand to answer.
“Djimbut?” Hosteen repeated, unable to connect the word with anything he knew. Then he remembered a pelt of close-curled black fur, as beautiful in its way as the frawn hides, which served as a wall hanging back in Quade’s Basin holding. But that had been the skin of a big beast—one close to Surra in size. Was the Terran cat about to attack such an animal in its own den?
He elbowed Gorgol aside and recklessly launched himself feet first into the hole, one hand holding the stunner close to his chest, the other fumbling for his atom torch as he slid into darkness.
Hosteen landed with a jar on a heap of sand and earth. He crouched there, listening for any sound, becoming more and more conscious of the coolness of this place. He even shivered slightly as he pushed the button of the torch and discovered that he was in the center of a hollowed area of some size.
As the Terran slued about on the sand pile, the narrow beam of the torch swept across a tunnel mouth large enough to give Surra passage or to accommodate a man on his hands and knees. Hosteen scrambled for that, again to crouch in its entrance listening.
Sounds came clearly enough—growl, rounding out into a spitting, yowling challenge that was the dune cat’s. Then, in answer, a queer kind of hum ending in a series of coughing grunts, broken by what could only be sounds of battle, enjoined and fiercely fought. Somewhere beyond, that tunnel must widen into a passage or chamber big enough to provide a field for a desperate struggle. Hosteen was head and shoulders into the passage when the coughing grunts deepened into a weird moaning, which was clipped off short. And into his mind came the vivid impression of Surra’s triumph, just as his ears caught a singsong rise and fall, which she uttered to proclaim her victory aloud.
Three yards, a little more, and he was in another chamber. Here the smell of blood combined with a thick, musky scent. His light beam caught Surra kneading with her forepaws a rent and blood-sticky heap of fur, her eyes yellow balls of nonhuman joy when the light caught them. She sat upright as Hosteen knelt beside her, tonguing herself where a long red scratch ran across her shoulder. But her battle hurts were few and ones she herself would tend.
The Terran flashed his light about to discover a series of openings in the walls, and his nostrils took in not only the hot blood scent and the odor of the dead animal but also other smells issuing from some of those holes. The place was large—whether the result of the djim-but’s burrowing or because the animal had located and used some natural fault in the earth, he was not sure. But he was able to get to his feet and stand with the roof of the chamber still well above his head. And the space, apart from the other openings, was at least ten by twenty feet, he estimated.
Surra gave a last lick to her wound scratch and then hunkered down to sniff along the battered body on the floor, growling and favoring the corpse with a last vindictive slap of forepaw. Hosteen centered the torch on the black bundle. The dead creature was as large as Surra, perhaps a fraction bigger, the chunky body equipped with four legs, which were short and clawed, the talons on the fore-limbs being great sickle-shaped armaments he would not have wanted to face. But the head was the alien feature as far as the Terran was concerned. The skull was rounded without visible ears. In fact, as he leaned forward to inspect it more closely, Hosteen had difficulty in identifying eyes—until he glimpsed a round white bulb half concealed by thick curls of fur. The lower part of that head—the mouth and jaws—was broad and flat, tapering into a thin wedge at the outmost point, as if the creature had been fitted by nature with a tooth-rimmed chisel for a mouth.
“Djimbut all right.” Logan made a hands and knees progress into the big chamber. “Surra did for him—good girl.”
Those yellow eyes half closed as the dune cat looked at Logan. Then a rumble of a purr answered his frank praise.
“We’re in luck,” Logan continued. “Got us about the best waitout anyone could find in these hills—”
And that had been the reason for the action Hosteen discovered. The lair of the djimbut was not just the tunnel and its two connected chambers. It was also a series of storerooms opening off the big room, an underground dwelling so constructed as to be heatproof even when they had to wreck most of the protected opening to get the horses under cover.
The damp chill faded, but the men and the Norbies quartered in the storerooms and the horses in the main chamber had a hideout from the sun that was the best protection Hosteen had found since he left the outer valley. And the seeds and roots stored up were sorted over by the natives, a selection given to and relished by their mounts and the rest taken over by their riders.
Hosteen chewed at
a yellow-green pod. The flint surface splintered, giving him a mouthful of pulp, which had refreshing moisture. Gleams of sun reached them through the broken walls, but they were well out of its full heat, and they dozed off for the day.
The Terran did not know just what brought him awake with the old, instant awareness of his Service days. His head, resting on earth, might have picked up the vibration of a distant tread. He levered himself up in the cubby he shared with Logan, hearing the restless movements of the horses. A mind cast for Surra told him that the cat was either not in range or deliberately refusing to answer. But the patches of sky he could see were those of early evening. And somewhere beyond, there were riders approaching.
Hosteen’s hand went out to cover Logan’s mouth as the younger settler slept on his back, bringing him to silent wakefulness. In answer to the question in the other’s eyes, the Terran motioned to the outer chamber.
Together they crawled out among the horses to discover Gorgol before them, his hand gripping the nose of his own mount to discourage any welcoming nicker. That told Hosteen what he wanted to know. With his free hand he signed, “Enemy?” and was answered by a vigorous assent from the Shosonna.
They were certainly not in any good position to meet an attack. To get the horses up out of the burrow again was a difficult task at best, and to be jumped while so employed—Hosteen made a mind cast for Surra. He was sure the cat had already left the djimbut burrow. Baku must have flown on to the cache and be waiting there for them. She had not returned the evening before, and her wings made her free from the toilsome march the rest must take. But with Surra one part of the team was still in reach.
“Who—?” He turned to Gorgol for enlightenment.
“Wild ones.”
“The peace poles are up,” Logan’s hands protested.
Gorgol tossed his head in the equivalent of a human shrug.
“These may be far-back ones—they want horses.”
The Shosonna and other lowland tribes had their own methods of recruiting their studs. Their young men hiring out as herd riders, their yoris hunters, could trade for the horses they wanted to build up clan herds. For the wild Norbies of the high country, envious of their fellows but fearful of venturing down to contact the settlers, there was another way of acquiring the wonder animals to which the Arzoran native-born had taken with the same ease and fierce joy that Hosteen’s own Amerindian ancestors had welcomed the species when the Europeans introduced them to the western continental plains. The wild ones were horse thieves of constantly increasing skill.
