“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 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, so 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 grey 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 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?
The situation might almost suggest a hidden space port to handle illicit trade. A hidden space port! Storm stiffened, his eyes very wide and level as he stared unseeingly at the fire. And Surra, catching from him that hidden tension, growled deep in her throat. There had been hidden space ports of a sort. He had uncovered one himself and brought in a mop-up squad to deal with it and those who manned it. Such a port established to milk a planet of food supplies –! Eagerly he responded to that familiar spur of the hunt.
Sure – the war was over – officially. He had spent that dreary year at the Centre to prove it. But suppose, just suppose that his wild suspicion were right! Then he had another chance –a chance to strike back once more at those who had taken away his world. Storm began to hum under his breath. In that moment his quarrel with Brad Quade was very far away – a thin wisp of a thing out of a half-forgotten story. If he were right –! Oh, Faraway Gods – let him now be right in his preposterous guess!
The Terran turned to Gorgol who had been watching him with close to the same narrow-eyed intensity that Surra’s thin pupils mirrored.
These Butchers – they have horses?”
“It is so,” signalled the other.
Then, as Hurol, let us see whether some of those horses may not carry us!”
Gorgol’s thin lips drew back in the half-smile of his people. That is good hearing. For these have killed our blood, and for that there must be a taking of hands in return –”
In that moment Storm realized how close he had been to making a grave error of judgment, one which might have finished his friendly relations with the native. Had he ridden south as had been his first plan, then he would have outraged custom that demanded a personal vengeance for those killed here. It was a small thing to weigh against the crime he suspected, but it was a good argument to use against that scrap of conscience that recalled the unfinished matter of Quade.
9
Much as he wanted to be on the move, Storm desired Surra to have another day of rest before he put her to the strain of the trail. And Gorgol’s wound also needed tending. After seeing to his patients, the Terran made his own plans for a scouting trip. First south, because he wanted to be sure that the Nitra were not between his party and that retreat route. But before he left, he made other preparations.
Grease from the frawn meat mixed with powdered red dust and a chalky stuff ground from some small soft pebbles provided him with a kind of paint and he went to work, streaking face and chest with splotches and broken lines – War paint or camouflage, it served equally well on both counts.
Gorgol watched the paint job with keen interest.
“You make warrior magic?”
The Terran glanced down at the stripes on his chest and smiled, but the movement of lips made no difference in the general ghastly effect of his new face mask.
“I make warrior magic – my people’s magic –”