Baku, perched on a stone outcrop yards above Storm’s head, stirred. Surra raised her chin from her paws, her fox ears pricked. Storm drew his stun rod. His back was against the cliff wall, he had a shielding boulder on his right—only two sides to cover. With the other hand he worked his knife out of its sheath. Any attack would have to be hand to hand. Had a bowman stalked them the arrow would be already freed from its cord. And his stun ray could take care of a charge—
“Eruoooooo!” That call was low, echoing, and it was one he had often heard and could not repeat.
Storm did not relax vigilance, but neither did he press the control button of the ray, as a figure, which was hardly more than a fitting form against shadows gathering in this part of the valley where the western sun was already cut off by the cliffs, came running toward him. Gorgol, his right arm pressed to his chest, reached the gravel beach and dropped on the edge of Surra’s bed. His left hand moved in limited signs which Storm had to watch carefully to translate.
“Enemy—after flood—kill—all dead—”
“It is so,” Storm returned. “Let me see to your wound warrior.”
The Terran pushed the young native back against the barricade boulder and examined the hurt hurriedly in the fading light. Luckily for the Norbie the arrow had gone cleanly through, and as far as Storm could judge none of the treacherous, glassy barbs had broken off in the flesh. He washed it with the last of the purified water and bound it up. Gorgol sighed and closed his eyes. The Terran brought out a block of concentrated ration, broke off a portion and pushed it into the Norbie’s good hand.
When Gorgol opened his eyes again Storm signed the all-important question.
“Nitra gone? Or still here?”
Gorgol shook his head in a determined negative. “No Nitra—” With the ration block clenched between his teeth, he moved his one set of fingers. “Not Nitra kill—not Norbies—”
Storm sat back on his heels, his eyes sweeping out over the mound-studded desolation. For an instant or two his vague fears of this place merged in a flash of imagination—the Sealed Cave people? Or some inimical thing they had left here on guard? Then he smiled wryly. Those men on the mound had been killed by arrows, the wound he had just tended was left by the same weapon. His racial superstitions were at war with all the scientific learning of his lost home-world.
“Not Norbies?”
“No Norbie, no Nitra—” Storm had made no mistake in his first reading of Gorgol’s signs. Now the native moved his other arm stiffly, forced his right hand to add to the authority of his left. “Faraway men come—your kind!”
But the arrows? That ritual mutilation of the dead—?
“You see them?”
“I see—I on cliff ledge—water high, high! Men come at end of rain—they wear this”—he tapped the yoris hide corselet protecting his own torso—“like Norbie—carry bows—like Norbie—but not Norbie. Think Mountain Butchers—steal horses—steal frawns—kill—then say Norbie do. Mark dead like Norbie. They shoot—Gorgol fall like dead—only first Gorgol kill one!” His eyes gleamed brightly. “Gorgol warrior now! But too many—” He spread all his fingers to spell the size of the other party. “So when arrow find Gorgol he fall back—be dead—they no climb up to see whether really dead or no—”
“Mountain Butchers!” Storm repeated aloud and Gorgol must have guessed the meaning of the sounds for again he signed an eager assent.
“They are still here?”
“Not so. They go—” Gorgol pointed north. “Think they live there. Not want men to know where they hide—so kill—”
Well, that was one more reason for not heading north when they tried to get out out of here. But Gorgol was still making finger-talk.
“They have rider—he tied—maybe they make kill to feed evil spirits”—he hesitated and then added that horrific sign Storm had first seen Sorenson make—“THE MEAT.”
Storm had heard of some Norbie tribes who, for purposes of a dark devil worship—or devil propitiation—ate prisoners they took under certain conditions. To most of the Arzoran tribes this custom was an abomination and there was a fierce and never-ending warfare waged between the ritual cannibals and their enemies. In Norbie minds the quality of evil was so associated with THE MEAT that it was natural for Gorgol to make the assumption he had just offered.
“Not so,” the Terran corrected. “Butchers not eat captives. This prisoner—he was from the plains?”
“Rider,” Gorgol agreed.
“Any settlers near here? We could find them—tell them about evil men—how they kill—”
Gorgol turned his head slowly so he looked south. “Many suns come up—go down—before reach settlers that way. Maybeso we can go. But not in dark—I not know this country—and Nitra be in hills. Man walk soft, go quick, be very careful—” But he glanced back at the Terran with a kind of level measurement the off-world man did not understand.
“With that I agree,” Storm spoke and signed together. The dark was almost on them now. He shared out bedding from his own roll, saw Gorgol was comfortable and then curled up on the grass beside Surra, sleeping as he had so many times before in perfect confidence that the super-acute hearing of the dune cat would warn him of any danger.
It was almost dawn when Storm did wake at her faint signal. He came not only awake but instantly alert, a trick he had learned so far in the past he was no longer conscious of knowing it. Whatever was coming had not aroused Surra’s fighting instincts, only her interest. He listened intently, hearing Gorgol’s heavy breathing, the rattle of hoof on gravel as Rain stirred. Then that other sound, a pattering noise so faint he could have missed it without Surra’s caution.
The light on the gravel bar was gray enough to distinguish objects and he was ready with the stun rod. He aimed at the dusky blot as soon as he was sure it was not a horse. The top-heavy outline against the rocks could be that of only one animal he had seen on Arzor, and they could certainly use the meat such a kill would provide. A minute later he was busy blooding the carcass of a yearling frawn, one which was plump enough to have enjoyed good foraging lately. Though what a frawn was doing alone in this wilderness was a mystery. The animals were plainsbred and ran in herds and they were never, under ordinary circumstances, either found in the mountain or alone.
Gorgol had an explanation when they squatted close to the fire Storm dared to light after he had heaped some rocks together as a screen. Chunks of frawn steak were spitted on sharpened sticks and the Norbie was giving their even browning careful attention.
“Stolen. Evil men put frawns in hiding—perhaps they lose this one when they drive many through—perhaps storm made herd stampede—”
Storm regarded the meat reflectively. There was a side problem to all this stealing of horses and frawns. What in the world—or in Arzor—did the thieves intend to do with their plunder? The market for frawns lay off-world. There was only one space port and all animals loaded there had to be legally accounted for with sales and export papers. Settlers would be the first to detect any newcomer who could not account for his holdings clear back to the moment he set foot on Arzor. What was the profit in stealing meat on the hoof that you had no hope of selling?
“Why they want meat—no sell—” He passed that along to Gorgol, knowing the young native was acute enough to follow his chain of thought.
“Maybeso not sell—big land—” The Norbie waved his left hand wide. “Take frawns far—horses, too. Norbie knows of places where Butchers hide. Norbie take horses from their secret places. Hurol, he of Gorgol’s own clan—he take three horses so last dry time. He big hunter—warrior—”
So the Norbies raided the secret caches of the Butchers. Now that scrap of information might lead to something. Suppose the Norbies should be encouraged in that useful occupation, one which appealed so to their own natural tastes? Put a Norbie afoot in the wastes and he could get along. Unhorse an off-worlder without supplies and it was a far different matter. But it all came back to this—how did the Butchers intend eventually to profit from their raids?