by Andre Norton
“Auction?” Storm’s attention was more than three-quarters claimed by a young stallion trotting around, his tail flicking, his dancing hoofs signalling his delight in his freedom to move. His sleek coat was a light grey, spotted with rich red dots coin-sized and coin-round, bright on the hindquarters, fading toward the barrel and chest, with his mane and tail copying that same warm colour.
The Terran did not, in his absorption with the horse, note the long glance with which the settler measured him in return. Storm’s green uniform might not be known on Arzor – Commandos furnished a very minor portion of the Confed forces –and he probably wore the only lion mask badge in this part of the galaxy. But that searching examination assessed more than his clothing.
“This is breeding stock, stranger. We have to import new strains from other planets where they shipped horses earlier. There won’t be any more of the pure Terran breed to buy now. So this bunch will be driven down to Irrawady Crossin’ for the big spring auction –”
“Irrawady Crossing? That’s in the Basin country, isn’t it?”
“You hit it, stranger. Plannin’ to light and tie on some range, or take up your own squares?”
“Light and tie, I guess. Any chance of a herd job?”
“You must be a veteran, come in on that troopship, eh? But I’d say you’re off-world, too. Can you ride?”
“I’m Terran.” Storm’s answer fell into a sudden silence. In the corral a horse squealed and reared, and the ex-Commando continued to watch the red and grey stallion. “Yes, I can ride. My people raised horses. And I am a Beast Master –”
“That so?” drawled the other. “Prove you can ride, boy, and you’ve signed yourself on with my outfit. I’m Put Larkin; this here’s my own string. You take your pay in mounts and get your workin’ horse into the bargain.”
Storm was already climbing the rail wall of the corral. He was more eager than he had been for over a year. Larkin caught at his arm.
“Hey, those aren’t gentled any –”
Storm laughed. “No? But I must prove I’m worth my pay.” He swung around to watch the stallion he had marked in his heart for his own.
2
Reaching down, Storm jerked at the fastening of the corral gate just as the young horse approached that point. The red and grey mount came trotting out without realizing for an important second or two that he was now free.
With a speed that left Larkin blinking, the Terran leaped down beside the hesitant horse. His hands were fast in the red mane, drawing the startled animal’s head down and around toward him. Then he breathed into the stallion’s expanded nostrils, keeping his grip in spite of an attempted rear.
The horse stood shivering when Storm loosed his first hold, to run his hands slowly along the arching neck, up the broad nose, cupping them over the wide eyes for an instant, coming down again to smooth body, legs, barrel. So that at last every inch of the young horse had experienced that steady stroking pressure of the gentling brown hands.
“Got a length of rope?” Storm asked quietly. Larkin was not his sole audience now, and the horse trader took a coil of stout hide twist from one of the other spectators, tossed it to the Beast Master.
The Terran looped it about the horse just behind the front legs. Then in what looked like a single, swift movement he was mounted, his knees braced under the loop, his hands resting lightly on the mane. The stallion shivered again under the grip of the rider’s legs, neighed a protest.
“Look out!” At Storm’s warning the stallion whirled, plunged away into the open with a bound that did not dislodge his rider. The Terran leaned forward so that the coarse hairs of the mane whipped into his face. He was crooning the old, old words that had tied horses and his race together for the countless years of the past, letting the mount race out his fear and surprise.
At last, when the space port lay behind as a scattering of white beads on the red-yellow earth of this land, the Terran used pressure of his knee, the calm authority of his mind, the gentle touch of hand, the encouragement of voice, to slacken the pace, to turn the now trotting horse back to the corral.
But Storm did not halt by the knot of waiting men, heading instead for the globular trunked tree where his team lazed. The stallion, catching the alien and frightening scent of cat, tried to shy. But Storm spoke soothingly. Surra got to her feet and strolled forward, her leash trailing across the beaten earth. When the stallion would have attacked, the Terran applied knee pressure, the murmur of voice, the weight of mental command, as he had learned to control the team.
So it was the cat that raised forepaws from the ground, sitting well up on her haunches so that those yellow slits of eyes were not far below the level of the foam-flecked muzzle. The stallion’s head tossed restlessly and then he quieted. Storm laughed.
“Do you hire me?” he called to Larkin.
The horse trader stared his wonder. “Boy, you can sign on as breaker any time you’ve a mind to stack your saddle in my camp! If I hadn’t seen this with my own eyes I’d have said some harsh things about double-tongued liars! That there animal’s your trail horse, if you want to fork him all the way to the Crossin’. And what are these here?”
“Baku, African Black Eagle.” The bird mantled at the sound of her name, her proud fierce eyes on Larkin. “Ho and Hing – meerkats –” That clownish pair sniffed high with their pointed noses. “And Surra – a dune cat – all Terran.”
“Cats and horses don’t rightly mix –”
“So? Yet you have seen these two meet,” countered Storm. “Surra is no wild hunter, she is well-trained, and as a scout also.”
“All right,” Larkin was grinning. “You’re the Beast Master, son, I’ll take your word for it. We hit the trail this afternoon. Got your kit?”
“I’ll have it.” Storm rode the stallion back to the corral to turn him in with the rest of the herd.
The trail herd was compactly organized by a man who knew his business. Storm had high standards, but he approved of what he saw some two hours later when he joined the party. Ransford and Lancin accompanied him from the veterans’ muster-out, willing to hire on as riders for the sheer pleasure of plunging at once into their normal routine of life. Joining with the Terran they bought a small two-wheeled cart for their kit, one that could be hooked on to the herd supply wagon. And when that was packed the meerkats climbed to the top for a ride, while Baku and Surra could be carried or range as they wished.
Storm accepted Lancin’s advice in shopping for his own trail equipment, following the veteran’s purchases at the space port stores. At the last he changed into the yoris-hide breeches, lined with frawn fabric, tough as metal on the outside and almost as durable as steel, worn with high boots of the same stuff in double thickness. A frawn shirt of undyed silver-blue took the place of his snug green tunic, and he left the lacings on the breast untied in imitation of his companions’ informal fashion, enjoying the freedom of the new soft wear.
Before he left the Centre he had obediently exchanged the deadly blaster of service issue for a permitted stun ray rod and the hunting knife of the frontiersman. And now as he settled the broad-brimmed hat of local vintage on his thick black hair and looked into the mirror of the dressing room, Storm was startled at the transformation clothes alone could make. He had further proof of that a short time later when he joined Larkin unrecognized.
Storm smiled. “I’m your breaker – remember?”
Larkin chuckled. “Boy, you look like you were born centre-square down in the Basin! This all your kit? No saddle?”
“No saddle.” The light pad he had contrived, the simple headstall, were his own devices. And no one who had watched his taming of the stallion questioned his choices when he again bestrode the red and grey horse for the ride out.
On Arzor, galactic civilization was an oasis built around the space port. As they left that cluster of structures behind and moved south into the haze of the late afternoon, Storm filled his lungs thankfully, his eyes on that range of moun
tains beyond. There was a flap of wings and Baku spiralled up into the mauve sky, tasting in her turn the freedom of the new world, while Surra lay at ease on the cart and yawned, lazing away the hours before the coming of night, her own special time for exploring.
The road swiftly became a track of earth-beaten hard stone, but Storm knew that Larkin intended to cut across the open lands, making use of the quickly growing wet-season grass for the herd. This was spring and the tough yellow-green vegetation was still tender and thick. In three months more or less the mountain-born rivers would dry up, the lush grass carpet would wither, and trail herds must cease to move until the coming of fall produced a second wet period to revive the land for another short space of a few weeks.
When they camped that night Larkin appointed guards, with a changing schedule, in four-hour shifts.
“Why guards?” Storm questioned Ransford.
“Might not be needed this close to where the law runs,” the veteran agreed. “But Put wants to get his schedule working before we do hit the wilds. This herd’s good stock, worth a lot in the Basin. Let the Butchers stampede us and they could gather up a lot of the loose runners. And, in spite of what Dort Lancin says, there’re a lot of Norbie clans who don’t care too much about working for their pay in horses. Outer fringe tribes raid to get fresh blood to build up their studs. Breeding stock such as this will bring them sniffing around in a hurry. Then there are yoris – horse is tasty meat as far as those brutes are concerned and a yoris kills more than just its dinner when it gets excited. Let that big lizard stink reach a horse and he high tails it as fast as he can pick up those hoofs and set ‘em down!”
Surra aroused from her nap, stretched cat fashion, and then came to Storm. He hunkered down to meet her eye to eye, in his mind outlining the dangers to be watched for. She was already familiar, he knew, with the scent of every man in the herding crew, and with every horse, either ridden or running free. Whatever or whoever did not belong about camp during the hours of the night would have Surra’s curiosity to reckon with. Ransford watched her pad away after her briefing.
“You put her on patrol too?”
“Yes. I don’t think any yoris can beat Surra. Saaaa –” He hissed the rallying call and Ho and King tumbled into the firelight, climbing over his legs to rear against his chest and pat him lovingly.
“What are they good for?” Ransford asked. They wear pretty big claws, but they’re small to be fighters –”
Storm fondled the grey heads with their bandit masks of black about the alert eyes. “These were our saboteurs,” he replied. “They dig with those claws and uncover things other people would like to keep buried. Brought a lot of interesting trophies back to base, too. They’re born thieves, drag all sorts of loot to their dens. You can imagine what they did to delicate enemy installations in the field –”
Ransford whistled. “So that’s what happened when the power for those posts on Saltair failed and our boys were able to cut their way in! Say – you ought to take them up to the Sealed Caves. Maybe they could get you in there and you’d be able to claim the government reward –”
“Sealed Caves?” At the Centre, Storm had learned what he could of Arzor, but this was something that had not appeared on the Emigrant Agency’s record tapes.
“They’re one of the tall tales of the mountains,” Ransford supplied. “You ought to hear Quade talk about them. He knows a lot about the Norbies, went through the drink-blood ceremony with one of their big chiefs. So they told him about the caves. Seems that either the Norbies were more civilized once – or else we weren’t the first off-worlders to find Arzor. The natives say there are cities, or what used to be cities, back in the mountains. And that the “old people” who built them went inside these caves and walled up the doors behind them. The big brains down at Galwadi got excited about it one year – sent in some expeditions. But the water is scarce up there, and then the war blew up and stopped all that sort of thing. But they posted a reward for the fella who finds them. Forty full squares of land and four years import privileges free.” Ransford wriggled down into his blankets and pillowed his head on his saddle. “Dream about it, kid, while you’re riding herd circle.”
Storm deposited the meerkats on his own blanket roll where they crept under cover. Baku, one leg drawn up into her under-feathers in the bird of prey’s favourite sleeping position, was perched on the rim of the baggage cart. And he knew that both the animals and the bird would remain quiet unless he summoned them to action.
The stallion that he had named Rain-On-Dust because of its markings was too untried for night herding. So the Terran pad-saddled a well-broken mount Larkin had assigned him as second string. He rode into the dark without any uneasiness. For the past years the night had provided him with a protective shield too many times for him to worry now.
Storm was close to the end of his tour of guard duty when he caught Surra’s silent alarm – that swift mind flicker, cutting as keenly as her claws. There was trouble shaping to the northeast. But what – or who –?
He turned his mount in that direction, to hear a squall of cat rage. Surra was giving tongue in open warning now, and Storm caught an answering shout from the camp. He snatched his night beam from the loops on his belt, flashed it on full strength ahead of him, and caught in its path a glimpse of a serpentine scaled head poised to strike. A yoris!
The horse under him plunged, fought against his control, screaming in terror as the musky scent of the giant lizard reached them and the harsh hissing of the yoris hurt their ears. Storm gave attention to his own coming battle, having little fear for Surra. The dune cat was a good and wary fighter, used to strange surprises on alien worlds.
But with all his skill Storm could not force the horse to approach the scaled menace. So he jumped free, into the taint of reptile reek, borne downwind, wafting on to the herd beyond, where hoofs pounded hard on the earth. The loose horses were stampeding.
That part of Storm’s mind that was not occupied with the action at hand, speculated on the oddity of this attack. From all accounts the yoris was a wary stalker, a clever wily hunter. Why had the creature headed in tonight with the wind to carry its scent ahead to frighten the meat it hungered for? There was no yoris hatched that could match speed with a panic-stricken horse, and the lizard had to depend upon a surprise attack to kill.
Now, cornered and furious, the scaled creature squatted back upon its haunches, its fearsomely taloned forelegs pumping like machine pistons in its efforts to seize Surra. If the enraged eight-foot reptile was brute strength at bay, the cat was fluid attack, teasing, tempting, always just a fraction out of reach. Storm whistled an urgent call to pierce the hissing of the lizard.
He did not have long to wait. Baku must already have been roused by the clamour. Though the night was not the eagle’s favourite hunting time, she came now to deliver the “kill” stroke of her breed. Talons, which were sickle-shaped, needle-sharp daggers, struck at scales while wings beat about the eyes of the yoris. The lizard flung up its head trying to snap at the eagle, exposing for just the needed instant the soft underthroat. Storm fired a full charge of his stun rod at that target. Meant to shock the nerves and render the victim momentarily unconscious, the impact of a full clip on the throat of the yoris was like the swift sure jerk of a hangman’s noose. It choked, beat the air with struggling forefeet, and collapsed.
Storm, knife in hand, leaped forward, moved by the battle reflexes drilled into him. Viscid blood spurted across his hand as he made certain that particular yoris would never hunt again.
Though the yoris was dead, it had lived long enough to bring the orderly herd close to disaster. Had the attack occurred when they were deeper into the wastes, Larkin would have had little chance of retrieving many of the horses. But, though the stampede carried the animals into the wilderness, the mounts were fresh off the space transports and not yet wholly acclimated, so the riders had hopes of rounding them up, though to do so they must now lose valuable days of travel t
ime.
It was almost noon on the morning after the stampede that Larkin rode up to the supply wagon, his face gaunt, his eyes very tired.
“Dort!” He hailed the veteran who had come in just before him. “I’ve heard there’s a Norbie hunting camp down on the Talarp. Some of their trackers could give us twice as much range now.” He slid down from his overridden mount and stalked stiff-legged to the wagon to eat. “You talk finger-speech. Suppose you ride over and locate them. Tell the clan chief I’ll pay a stud out of the bunch for his help – or a couple of yearling mares.” He sighed and drank thirstily from the mug the cook handed him.
“How many did you boys bring in this morning?” he added.
Storm gestured toward the improvised corral they had thrown up to hold the strays as they were driven back.
“Seven. And maybe we’ll have to break a few of them for riding if the rest don’t find more of the regular stock. The few we have can’t take all this work –”
“I know!” Larkin snapped irritably. “You wouldn’t believe those four-footed idiots could run so fast and so far, would you?”
“I could – if they were deliberately driven.” The Terran awaited the results of that verbal bomb.
While both men stared at him, he continued. That yoris attacked with the wind at its back –”
Dort Lancin expelled his breath in an affirmative grunt. “The kid’s got a point there, Put! You could almost believe that lizard wanted to mess us up like this.”
Larkin’s eyes were hard, his mouth a thin, unsmiling line. “If I believed that –!” His hand went to the grip of his stun rod.
Dort laughed angrily. “Who you goin’ to put to sleep, Put? If some guy planned this deal, he’s out there combing the breaks for strays right now, not standing around to wait for you to catch up with him. You’d never set eye on his trail –”
