“Boys playful tonight, aren’t they?” inquired Dort, grinning.
“Anybody here ever try to activate a stun gun with a blast bolt?” Storm asked. He was astonished at the grim chill of Ransford’s reply.
“Sure – that’s been done – by outlaws. But any fella who tried to blast wouldn’t last long. We don’t hold with murder. If the boys want to play rough with a stun – and that sure leaves an almighty headache to follow a guy for hours – or try to change another fella’s looks with fists, that’s their right. But blastin’s out!”
“I saw a couple of riders mix it up with Norbie long-knives once,” volunteered Dort. That was a nasty mess and the winner was sent down to Istabu for psychin’. “Course Norbies duel it out to the death when they give a “warrior” challenge. But that’s accordin’ to their customs and we don’t bother ‘em about it. Nobody is allowed to interfere with the tribes –”
Ransford nodded. Tribe wars are somethin’ like religion to a Norbie. A boy has to get him a scar in personal combat before he can take a wife or speak up in council. There’s a regular system of points for a man to gather “fore he can be a chief –all pretty complicated. Hey, fella, take it easy!”
A man caromed into Dort, nearly carrying the veteran off his feet. Dort fended him off with a good-natured shove. But the other whirled, moving with better coordination than his weaving progress predicted. Storm went into action as the rod came from the other’s holster, not trained at the bewildered Dort, but directly at Storm.
The ex-Commando moved with trained precision. His rising hand struck the man’s wrist, sending the stun rod flying before a finger could press the firing button. But the other was not licked. With a tight little strut he bounced forward, to meet a whirlwind attack. The stranger was out on his feet before any of the men passing really understood that a scuffle was in progress.
Storm, breathing a little faster, stood rubbing one hand against the other, looking down at the now unconscious rider. Did local etiquette demand that he now dispose of his late opponent in some manner, he wondered. Or did one just leave a loser where he fell?
He stooped, hooked his hands in the slumberer’s armpits, and dragged him with some difficulty – since he was a large man and now a dead weight – to prop him against the side of a neighbouring building. As the Terran straightened up he saw a shadowy figure in the dusk turn and walk abruptly away. There was no mistaking Bister’s outline as he passed the garish lights of a café. Had this rider been sent against Storm by Bister? And why couldn’t, or didn’t, Coll Bister fight his own battles?
“By the Great Horns!” Dort bore down on him. “What did you do then? Looked as if you only patted him gentle like, until he went all limp and keeled over like a rayed man! Only you didn’t pull your rod at all.”
“Short and quick,” commented Ransford. “Commando stuff?”
“Yes.”
But Ransford showed none of Dort’s excitement. Take it easy, kid,” he warned. “Make a parade of bein’ a tough man and a lot of these riders may line up to take you on. We don’t use blasters maybe, but a man can get a pretty bad poundin’ if a whole gang moves in on him – no matter how good he is with his hands –”
“When have you ever seen the kid walkin’ stiff-legged for a fight?” Dort protested. “Easiest-goin’ fella in camp, an” you know it! Why did you jump that guy anyway, Storm?”
“His eyes,” the Terran replied briefly. “He wanted to make it a real fight.”
Ransford agreed. “Had his rod out too quick, Dort, and he pulled it for the kid, too. He was pushin’. Only don’t push back unless you have to, Storm.”
“Aw, leave the kid alone, Ranny. When did he ever make fight-talk on the fingers?”
Ransford chuckled. “It wasn’t the fingers he used for his fight-talk – mostly the flat of his hand. I’m just warnin’ him. This is a hot town tonight and you’re from off-world, Storm. There’re a lot of chesty riders who like to pick on newcomers.”
Storm smiled. That I’m used to. But thanks, Ransford, I’ll walk softly. I never have fought for the fun of it.”
That’s just it, kid, might be better if you did. Leave you alone and you’re as nice and peaceful as that big cat of yours. But I don’t think she’d take kindly to anyone stampin’ on her tail, casual-like. Well, here’s the Gatherin’. Do we want to see who’s in town tonight?”
Lights, brighter than the illumination of the street, and a great deal of noise issued out of the doorway before them. The structure assembled under one roof, Storm gathered, all the amenities of bar, theatre, club, and market exchange, and was the meeting place for the more respectable section of the male population – regular and visiting – of Irrawady Crossing.
The din, the lights, the assorted smells of cooking, drinks, and horse, as well as heated humanity, struck hard as they crossed the threshold. Nothing he saw there attracted Storm and had he been alone he would have returned to the camp. But Dort wormed a path through the crowd, boring toward the long table where a game of Kor-sal-slam was in progress, eager to try his luck at the game of chance that had swept through the Confed worlds with the speed of light during the past two years.
“Ransford! When did you get back?”
Storm saw a hand drop on the veteran’s shoulder, half turning him to face the speaker. It was a hand almost as brown as his own. And above it, around that equally brown wrist –! Storm did not betray the shock he felt. There was only one place that particular ornament could come from. For it was the ketoh of the Dineh – the man’s bracelet of his own people developed from the old bow-guard of the Navajo warrior! And what was it doing about the wrist of an Arzoran settler?
Without realizing that he was unconsciously preparing for battle, the Terran moved his feet a little apart, bracing and balancing his body for either attack or defence, as his eyes moved along the arm, clothed conventionally in frawn fabric, up to the face of the man who wore the ketoh. The stranger and Ransford had drawn a little apart, and now in his turn Storm shifted back against the wall, wanting to watch them without being himself observed.
The face of the settler was as brown as his hand – a weather-burned brown. But his were not Navajo features – though the hair above them was as black as Storm’s own. And it was a strong, attractive face with lines of good humour bracketing the wide mouth, softening the almost too-firm line of the jaw, while the eyes set beneath rather thick brows were a deep blue.
Storm was not too far away to hear Ransford’s return cry of “Quade!”
He had caught the hand from his shoulder and was shaking it vigorously. “I just got in, rode herd for Larkin down from the Port. Say, Brad, he’s got some good stuff in his new stud string –”
The wide mouth curved into a smile. “Now that’s news, Ranny. But we’re glad to have you back, fella, and in one unbroken piece. Heard a lot of black talk about how bad things were going out there – toward the end –”
“Our Arzor outfit got into it late. Just one big battle and some moppin’ up. Say – Brad, I want you to meet –”
But Storm took two swift steps backward, to be hidden by a push of newcomers, and Ransford could not see him. For once it was useful to be smaller than the settler breed.
“Queer –” The veteran’s voice carried puzzlement. “He was right here behind me. Off-worlder and a good kid. Rode herd down for Larkin and can he handle horses! Terran –”
“Terran!” repeated Quade, his smile gone. Those dirty Xiks!” His words became highly flavoured and combined some new expressions Storm did not recognize. All worlds, it seemed, developed their own brand of profanity. “I only hope the devils who planned that burn-off were cooked in their turn – to a crisp! Your man deserves every break we can give him. I’ll look him up – any good horseman is an asset. I hear you’re going out to the Vakind –”