He glanced up and down the river and saw that the hear had left. Some small animal, either mink or muskrat, probably a rat, had left the lower tip of the island and was angling down across the stream toward the hank, swimming strongly.
When he looked hack at the bluff top, it was no longer empty. A small group of horsemen stood against the skyline, shouldered spears pointing at the sky. They sat motionless, a~5parently looking down into the valley. More came riding up and aligned themselves with those already there. Cushing held his breath. Was it possible that looking down at the river from their elevation, they could make out some sign of those who hid in the willows? Watching them closely, he could detect no sign that they could.
Finally, after long minutes, the horsemen began to come down the slope, the horses lurching over the edge of the bluff and coming down the slope in stiff-legged jumps. Most of the men, he saw, wore buckskins, darkened by work and weather. Some wore fur caps with the tails of wolf or fox or coon fluttering out behind. In some cases, similar animal tails were fastened to the shoulders of their buckskins. Others wore only leather trousers, the upper torso either bare or draped with furred robes or jackets. Most of them rode saddles, although there were a few bareback. Most carried spears; all had quivers, bristling with feathered arrows, at their hacks.
They rode in deadly silence, with no banter hack and forth. In an ugly mood, Cushing told himself, remembering what the old man had said about how they'd be coming back. And if that were the case, he knew, it had been doubly wise to get under cover. In such a mood, they'd be looking for someone upon whom they could vent their anger.
Behind the main band came a small string of packhorses, carrying leather sacks and bails, a few of the loads topped with carcasses of deer.
The party came down into the ~‘alley, swung slightly upstream into a grove of cottonwoods. There they stopped, dismounted, hobbled their horses and set about making camp. Now that they had stopped, there was some talk, the sound of it carrying down the river—but only talk, no shouting back and forth. Axes came into play, to cut wood for their fires, and the sound of chopping echoed between the encroaching bluffs.
Cushing backed away from the river's edge and made his way to where the others waited. Andy was lying down, nodding, his head half resting in Meg's lap.
"He's a lamb," said Meg. "I got him to lie down. It's safer that way, isn't it?"
Cushing nodded. "They're making camp just up the river. Forty or fifty of them. They'll be gone by morning light. We'll have to wait it out."
"You think they're dangerous, laddie?"
"I couldn't say," he told her. "They're quieter than they should be. No laughing, no joking, no shouting, no horseplay. They seem in an ugly mood. I think they took a licking at tile City. Scratch one conqueror's itch for conquest. In that kind of situation, I'd just as soon not meet them."
"Come night," said Rollo, "I could cross tile river and creep close up to their fires, listen to what they say. It would he nothing new for me. I've done it many times before, crawling upon campfires, lying there and listening, afraid to show myself but so starved for conversation, for the sound of voices, that I took the chance. Although there was really little chance, for I can be silent when I want to he and my eyes are as good at night as they are in daylight."
"You'll stay right here," said Cushing sharply. "There'll be no creeping up. By morning they'll be gone, and we can trail them for a while to see where they are going, then be on our way.
He slipped the knapsack off his shoulder and untied the thongs. He took out the chunk of jerky and, cutting off a piece of it, handed it to Meg.
"Tonight," he said, "this is your supper. Don't let me ever again hear you disparage it."
Night came down across the valley. In the darkness the river seemed to gurgle louder. Far off an owl began to chuckle. On the bluff top a coyote sang his yapping song. A fish splashed nearby and through the screening willows could be seen the flare of the campfire across the river. Cushing crept to the river s edge and stared across the water, at the camp. Dark figures moved about the fires and he caught the smell of frying meat. Off in the darkness horses moved restlessly, stamping and snorting. Cushing squatted in the willows for an hour or more, alert to any danger. When he was satisfied there seemed to be none, he made his way back to where Meg and Rollo sat with Andy.
Cushing made a motion toward the horse. "Is he all right?" he asked.
"I talked to him," said Meg. "I explained to him. He will give no trouble."
"No spells?" he asked, jokingly. "You put no spell upon him?
"Perhaps a slight one, only. It will never harm him."
"We should get some sleep," he said. "How about it, Rollo? Can you watch the horse for us?
Rollo reached out a hand and stroked Andy's neck. "lie likes me, he said. "He is not frightened of me."
"Why should he be frightened of you?" asked Meg. "He knows you are his friend."
"Things at times are frightened of me," the robot said. "I come in the general shape of men but I am not a man. Go on and sleep. I need no sleep. I will stay and watch. If need be, I will waken you.
"Be sure you do," said Cushing. "If there is anything at all. I think it is all right. Everything is quiet. They're settling down over there, across the river.
Wrapped in the blanket, he stared up through the willows. There was no wind and the leaves hung limply. Through them a few stars could be seen. The river murmured at him, talking its way down across the land. His mind cast back across the days and he tried to number them, but the numbers ran together and became a broad stream, like the river, slipping down the land. It had been good, he thought—the sun, the nights, the river and the land. There were no protective walls, no potato patches. Was this the way, he wondered, that a man was meant to live, in freedom and communion with the land, the water and the weather? Somewhere in the past, had man taken the wrong turning that brought him to walls, to wars and to potato patches? Somewhere down the river the owl heard earlier in the evening (could it be the same one?) chuckled, and far off a coyote sang in loneliness, and above the willows the stars seemed to leave their stations far in space and come to lean above him.
He was wakened by a hand that was gently shaking him.
"Cushing," someone was saying. "Cushing, come awake. The camp across the river. There is something going on.
He saw that it was Rollo, the starlight glinting on his metal.
He half scrambled from the blanket. "What is it?" he asked.
"There's a lot of commotion. They are pulling out, I think. Dawn hours off and they are pulling out."
Cushing scrambled out of the blanket. "Okay, let us have a look."
Squatted at the water's edge, he stared across the river. The fires, burned low, were red eyes in the darkness. Hurrying figures moved darkly among them. The sound of stamping horses, the creak of saddle leather, but there was little talking.
"You're right," said Cushing. "Something spooked them."
"An expedition from the City? Following them?"
"Maybe," said Cushing. "I doubt it. If the city tribes beat them off, they'd be quite satisfied to leave them alone. But if these friends of ours across the river did take a beating, they'd be jumpy. They would run at shadows. They're in a hurry to get back to their old home grounds, wherever that may be."
Except for the muted noises of the camp and the murmur of the river, the land lay in silence. Both coyote and owl were quiet.
"We were lucky, sir," said Rollo.
"Yes, we were," said Cushing. "If they had spotted us, we might have been hard pressed to get away.