Beast Master's Planet: Omnibus of Beast Master and Lord of Thunder (Beastmaster) (30 page)

Storm busied himself at the heating unit to produce the inevitable cups of swankee. His early tension was increased now. Kelson had brought Widders here. That meant that neither the off-worlder nor the officer had given up the wild scheme about the Blue, but Quade’s word would carry weight. Hosteen did not believe that the others were going to be satisfied with the outcome of the interview.

“Glad you came,” Quade said to Kelson. “We’ve a problem here—”

“I have a problem, Gentle Homo,” Widders cut in. “I understand you have a son who knows the outback regions very well, has hunted over them. I’d like to see him—as soon as possible—”

Quade’s face showed no signs of a frown, but just as Hosteen knew Surra’s emotions, he was aware of the flick of temper that brash beginning aroused in Brad Quade.

“I have two sons,” the settler replied deliberately, “both of whom can claim a rather extensive knowledge of the Peaks. Hosteen has already told me of your wish to enter the Blue.”

“And he has refused to try it.” Widders was smoldering under his shell. He was not a man used to, or able to accept, opposition.

“If he had agreed, he would need remedial attention from a conditioner,” Quade returned dryly. “Kelson, you know the utter folly of such a plan.”

The Peace Officer was staring into the container of swankee he held. “Yes, I know all the risks, Brad. But we have to get in there—it’s imperative! And chiefs such as Krotag will accept a mission like this as an excuse—they can understand a father in search of his son.”

So that was it—a big piece of puzzle slipped neatly into place. Hosteen began to realize that Kelson was making sense after all. There was a reason for exploring the Blue, an imperative reason. And Widders’ quest would be understandable to the Norbies, among whom family and clan ties were close. A father in search of his missing son—yes, that could be a talking point, which normally would gain Widders native guides, mounts, maybe even the use of some of the hidden water sources. But the important word in that
was “normally.” This was not a normal Big Dry, and the clans were acting very abnormally.

“Logan has blood drink-brothers or a brother with Krotag’s clan, hasn’t he?” Kelson pushed on. “And you”—he looked to Hosteen—“are a hunt and war companion of Gorgol.”

“Gorgol’s gone.”

“And so has Logan,” Quade added. “He rode off five days ago to join Krotag’s drift—”

“Into the Blue!” Kelson exclaimed.

“I don’t know.”

“The Zamle clan were in the First Finger.” Kelson put down his drink and went to the wall map. “They were in camp here last time I checked.” He stabbed a forefinger on one of the long, narrow canyons striking up into the Peaks, almost a roadway into the Blue.

Storm moved uneasily, picked up a wandering meercat kit, and held it cupped against his chest, where it patted him with small forepaws and chittered drowsily. Logan had gone with the clan. The reasons for doing it might matter, but the fact that he had gone mattered more. The boy might be condemned by his own recklessness, facing more than just the perils of the Big Dry.

Continuing to stare at the map without really seeing its configurations, Hosteen began to plan. Rain—no, he could not ride Rain. The stallion was an off-world import without even one year’s seasoning here. He’d need native-bred mounts—two at least, though four would be better. A man had to keep changing horses in the Big Dry. He’d need two pack animals per man for water transport. Other supplies would necessarily be concentrates that did not satisfy a body used to normal food but which provided the necessary energy to keep men going for days.

Surra? Hosteen’s head turned ever so slightly; he linked to the cat in mental contact. Yes—Surra. There was an answering thrust of eagerness that met his wordless question. Surra—Baku—Hing had her maternal duties here, and there would be no need for her particular talents as a saboteur. With Baku and Surra, maybe no chance became a small chance. Their senses, so much keener than any human’s or Norbie’s, might locate those needful wells in the outback.

Now Quade broke the short silence with a question, deferring to
his stepson with the respect for the other’s training and ability he had always shown. “A chance?”

“I don’t know—” Storm refused to be hurried. “Seasoned mounts, concentrates, water transport—”

“Supplies can be flown in by ’copter!” Widders pounced at the hint of possible victory.

“You’ll have to have an experienced pilot, a fine machine, and even then you dare not go too far into those heights,” Quade declared. “The air currents are crazy back there—”

“Dumps stationed along the line of march.” Kelson’s voice held a note almost as eager as Widders’. “We could plant those by ’copter—water, supplies—all the way through the foothills.”

The idea became less impossible as each man visualized the possibilities of using off-world transportation in part. Yes, supply dumps could nurse an expedition along to the last barrier walling off the Blue, providing there was no hostile reaction from the Norbies. But beyond that barrier, much would depend upon the nature of the territory the heights guarded.

“How soon can you start?” Widders demanded. “I can have supplies, an expert pilot, a ’copter ready to go in a day.”

Again the antagonism Hosteen had felt at their first meeting awoke in the younger man.

“I have not yet decided whether I shall go,” he replied coldly. “ ’Asizi,” he said, giving Quade the title of Navajo chieftainship and slipping into the common tongue of the Amerindian Tribal Council, “do you think this thing can be done?”

“With the favor of the Above Ones and the fortune of good medicine, there is a chance of success for a warrior. That is my true word—over the pipe,” Quade answered in the same language.

“There is this.” In basic, Storm again addressed both Widders and Kelson. “Let it be understood that I am undertaking this expecting trouble. On the trail, the decision is mine when there comes a time to say go forward or retreat.”

Widders frowned and plucked at a pouted lower lip with thumb and forefinger. “You mean, you are to be in absolute command—to have all the right of judgment?”

“That is correct. It is my life I risk, and those of my team. Long
ago I learned the folly of charging against too high odds. The decisions must be mine.”

A hot glance from those coals that lay banked behind Widders’ eyes told him of the civ’s resentment.

“How many men do you want?” Kelson asked. “I can spare you two, maybe three from the Corps.”

Storm shook his head. “Me alone, with Surra and Baku. I shall strike up the First Finger and try to locate Krotag’s clan. With Logan—and Gorgol, if I am able to persuade him to join us—there will be enough. A small party, traveling light, that is the only way.”

“But I am going!” Widders flared.

Hosteen answered that crisply. “You are off-world, not only off-world but not even trail-trained. I go
my
way or not at all!”

For a second or so it seemed that Widders would hold stubbornly to his determination to make one of the party. Then he shrugged when glances at Kelson and Quade told him they believed Hosteen was right.

“Well—how soon?”

“I must select range stock, make other preparations—two days—”

“Two days!” Widders snorted. “Very well. I am forced to accept your decision.”

But Storm was no longer aware of him. Surra had flowed past the men to the door, and the urgency she broadcast brought the Beast Master after her. Dawn was just firing the sky but had not lit the mountains to a point where man and cat could not see that burst. Very far away, just on the rim of the world, a jaffered sword thrust up into the heavens. Lightning—but it was out of season for lightning, and those flashes descended and did not pierce skyward as these had done. They were gone before Storm could be certain he had seen anything of consequence.

Surra snarled, spat. Then Hosteen caught it, too, not truly sound but a vibration in the air, so distant and faint as to puzzle a man as to its actual existence. Back in the Peaks something had happened.

The scream of an aroused and belligerent eagle deadened the small sounds of early morning. From her perch by the corral, Baku gave forth another war cry that was answered by the trumpeting of Rain, the squeals of other herd stallions, the neighing of mares. Whatever
the vibration had been, it had reached the animals, aroused in them quick and violent reaction.

“What is it?” Quade came out behind Storm, followed by Kelson, less speedily by Widders.

“I think ’anna ’Hwii’iidzii,” Storm found himself saying in Navajo without really knowing why, “a declaration of war, ’Asizi.”

“And Logan’s back there!” Quade stared at the Peaks. “That settles it—I ride with you.”

“Not so, ’Asizi. It is as you have said before. This country is ripe for trouble. You alone perhaps can hold the peace. I take with me Baku. If there is a need, she can come back for you and others. Logan, more than any of us, is friend to the clans. And the blood-drink bond is binding past even a green-arrow feud.”

He watched Quade anxiously. It was not in him to boast of his own qualifications, but he knew that his training and the control of the team gave him an advantage no other man now in the river valley had. Quade knew Arzor, he had hunted in the Peaks, but Quade and Quade alone could keep the settlers in line. To be caught between whatever danger lay in the Blue and a punitive posse headed by Dumaroy was an additional peril Storm had no mind to face. He had had a taste of Dumaroy’s hotheaded bungling of a similar situation months earlier when the Xik holdout post had been the object of the settlers’ attack.

Somehow Brad Quade summoned a ghost of a smile. “There is that in you which I trust, at least in this matter. Also—perhaps Logan will listen to hanaai, the elder brother, where he closes his ears to hataa, his father. Why this should be—” He was talking to himself now.

The horses were quieting, and the men went back to the house, where they consulted maps, located dump sites. At last Kelson and Widders bedded down for the day heat before flying back to Gal-wadi to set up the supply lift. Hosteen lay down wearily on his own bed only to discover that he could not sleep, tired as he was.

That flash in the Peaks, the ghost of sound or air disturbance that had followed it—he could not believe they were signs of some phenomenal weather disturbance. Yet what else could they be?

“ ’Anaasazi”—the ancient enemy ones,” he whispered.

Half a year ago, he, Gorgol, and Logan had found the Cavern of the Hundred Gardens, where the botanical treasures of as many different worlds grew luxuriantly and unwithered, untouched by time, just as the unknown aliens had left them in the hollow shell of a mountain ages earlier. There had been nothing horrible or repelling about those remains of the unknown civilization of space rovers. In fact, the gardens had been welcoming, enchanting, giving men healing and peace. And because of the gardens, the aliens had since been considered benevolent, though no further such finds had been made.

Archaelogists and Survey men had picked into the roundabout mountains, tried to learn something more from the valley of ruins beside the garden mountain—to no avail so far. However, one mountain had hidden beauty and delight, so more mountains might contain their own secrets. And the mountains of the Blue were the essence of the unknown. That strange premonition of danger that had awakened in Storm at the sight and sound of the early morning could not be eased. He was somehow very certain his goal was not a fanciful garden this time.

CHAPTER FOUR

Y

esterday Hosteen had reached the first of the dumps, strategically located where a crevice gave him and his animals cover during the day. But he was not making the time he had hoped. In this broken country, even with Surra’s keen eyesight and the horses’ instinct to rely upon, he dared not travel too fast at night, and the early morning hours, those of the short dusk, were too few.

But so far, he had had tracks to follow. Trails left by the Norbies crossed and recrossed, made by more than one clan, until in some places he discovered a regular roadway. And he found indications that backed Dort Lancin’s initial report—the natives were pushing onward at a pace that was perilous in this season. One could almost believe they ware being herded on into the hills by some relentless pursuer or pursuers.

There had been no recurrence of the phenomenon in the Peaks, and neither Surra nor Baku had given Storm any more than routine warnings. Yet the vague uneasiness was with Hosteen still as he picked his way along the dried stream bed that bottomed this gorge, his horses strung out with drooping heads.

An alert came from Surra. With a jerk of the lead rein, Hosteen brought the horses against the cliff wall and waited for another message from his furred scout before taking cover himself. Then he heard a trill, rising and falling like the breathy winds of the Wet Time. It was a Norbie signal—and, the Terran hoped. Shosonna. But his stunner was now in his hand to serve if he were wrong.

There—Surra had relaxed. The sentry or scout ahead was not a stranger to her. Hosteen believed that the native had not sighted the
dune cat. Her fur was so close in color to the ground that she could be invisible if she wished it so.

Hosteen plodded forward once more, leading his horses, not wanting to ride in the thick heat until he had to. One more hour, maybe less, and he must hole up for the day. But, at a second alert from his feline scout, he swung up on the saddle pad. There was a dignity to be maintained between Norbie and outlander, and mounted man faced mounted native in equality, especially when there might be a point of bargaining ahead.

The Terran called. His voice echoed hollowly back from canyon walls, magnified and distorted until it could have been the united shout of a whole party. One of the wiry black-and-white-coated range horses from a Norbie cavvy came into view, and on it sat Gorgol. The Norbie rider did not advance. His face was expressionless. They might have been strangers meeting trailwise for the first time. Nor did the native’s hands loose the reins preparatory to making finger talk. It was Hosteen who gave the first hand gesture.