“This,” thought Milo, “could conceivably go on forever.”
But as the lifeless fifth wolf was being slowly pushed through, Milo suddenly became aware of the rectangular regularity of the opening. Man-made! And men would surely have had a means of closing it.
And there it was! Half hidden in a camouflage of dust and dirt, a sliding door, set between metal runners on the wall above the opening. But did it still function?
In the precious moments between butchering wolves. Milo pulled and tugged at the door. Setting the lantern down, he drew his dirk with his left hand and used its point to dig bits of debris from out the grooves of the runners. Clenching the dirk between his teeth, he hung his full weight from the door handle … and it moved!
Another wolf, this time a huge, black beast. He chuckled to himself, thinking, “The Chinese used to say that you should never be cruel to a black dog that appeared at your door. Well, hell, I wasn’t cruel to the bastard. I gave him a quicker, cleaner death than he’d have given me.”
The black wolf had been in better flesh than most of his packmates, so it took the one behind a few seconds longer to push the jerking body out of the tunnel. And that few extra seconds’ respite made all the difference. With all Milo’s hundred eighty pounds suspended from it, the ancient door inched downward slowly, then, screeching like a banshee, faster. Finally, it slammed and latched itself in the very face of the next wolf, which yelped its surprise.
“Dik, Djim, the rest of you,” Milo mindcalled, “take up the lantern, carry it as you saw me carry this one and be careful you don’t drop it or strike it against something. Come the way I came.” He opened his memory of the stairs and passages to them. “Be careful at the bottom of those stone stairs—a nest of rattlesnakes is denned on the floor there. Those with a taste for snakemeat can kill them. But any who want wolf steaks need only come in here and gut their choice of ten or twelve of them, fresh-killed. Oh, and there’s water here too—I can hear it dripping.
Then an intensely powerful mindspeak drowned out any reply the Horseclansmen might have beamed. “What are you, two-legs? You carry a small sun in your hands, you slay many wolves to protect kittens not your own, you can open walls and close them, and you can speak the language of cats. What are you?”
The Hunter could no longer trust the witness of her eyes. At times they seemed clouded with a dark mist; at others she saw the images of three or four identical two-legs, and as many of the little, bright suns. Therefore, when first she sensed him beaming the silent language, she thought that others of her senses were awry as well. But at length, she beamed a question … and he answered her!
He just stood and stared at her for a moment, then, very slowly, he laid down his long, blood-dripping claw beside the little sun and took a few steps closer to her, extending One empty paw.
“You are badly hurt, Sister. Will you bite me if I try to help you?”
The sight of him faded into the dark mist, but his message still came into her mind. “Help this Cat? Why would you want to help this Cat? This Cat killed one of your pack last sun. Two-legs do not help Cats, they slay Cats, just as you slew those wolves.”
He answered, “Wolves are enemies of us both, Sister. Besides, my brothers and I are hungry.”
“You would eat wolves?” The repugnance in her thought-beam was clear.
He moved his head up and down for some reason. “Hunger can make any meat taste good, Sister.”
All of the Hunter’s life had been hard, and she could grasp the truth stated by this two-leg. Perhaps he then was truthful about wanting to help her. “If this Cat allows you to come close, what will you do, two-legs?”
The bleeding of your right leg must be stopped, the wound cleaned and packed with healing herbs and wrapped with cloth … uh, something like soft skins … then the broken bones must be pulled straight and tied in place to heal. It will hurt, Sister, and you must promise to not bite us in your pain.”
“Us?”
“Yes, Sister, one of my brothers must help me, he is skilled in caring for wounds and injuries.” To himself, Milo thanked his lucky stars that chance had sent Fil Linsee with him. The young man was well on his way to becoming a first-rate horse-leech, and was certain to have a packet of herbs and salves and bandages somewhere on his person.
“Does your brother, too, speak the language of Cats?” the Hunter asked. She was feeling very strange, much weaker; it was now all she could do to keep her big head up.
The Hunter half-sensed an answer from the two-legs, but it was unclear. Suddenly, nothing was clear for her. The dark mist closed in, thicker and darker. A great waterfall seemed to be roaring about her. Then there was nothing.
As it was, Fil was the first man through the door, his long spear in one hand and the tails of a couple of thick-bodied, headless snakes writhing in the other. At the sight of the unconscious cat, he dropped his snakes and grasped his spear shaft in both hands, bringing the point to bear.
But Milo waved at the spear. “You won’t need that, with luck, Fil. That cat can mindspeak. We were having quite a conversation before she passed out. We … you … are going to do what is necessary to heal up those forelegs. Do you think a cat will be much different from a horse?”
“Fil came into the den and eyed the injured feline while keeping a safe distance from her, with his spear shaft between them. After sucking on his long tower lip for a while, he said, “Uncle Milo, that cat must weigh over two hundred pounds, for all she’s not really well fed. That near foreleg will be tender as a boil, and it needs draining, which means cutting it in two, maybe three places. I value my life and my skin, Uncle Milo. I won’t touch that cat unless she’s well and firmly tied. She’s bound to be too strong for even six warriors to hold for long.”
Reflecting that the man was likely right, Milo thought hard. There was no rope in this party, and seven belts just wouldn’t do this job. Maybe, he thought, behind one of those two locked doors … ?
A swift succession of short, heavy blows of the iron rod not only smashed the padlock but ripped loose the hasp as well. And Milo entered the door marked “FALLOUT SHELTER.”
The room was a treasure trove—jerrycans of fuels, boxes of canned goods, several locked footlockers, a couple of axes, a long-handled spade, a pickaxe and a wrecking bar, all metal surfaces smeared with cosmolene and looking as if they had just been brought from the hardware store. The room was dry and there was almost no dust, as the door had been tight-fitting and weatherstripped, with a raised sill. There was an identical door in the opposite wall, but Milo postponed exploring what lay behind it, for what he now most needed was in the first footlocker he opened, several coils of strong manila rope, plus an assortment of buckle-fitted webbing straps.
Bearing their ropes and straps, Milo, Fil, Dik, and Djim filed into the den and bore down on the comatose cat. But suddenly there was a fearsome, if high-pitched, growl, and a kitten—probably weighing all of twenty-five pounds—stalked purposefully from behind his mother. Fur and whiskers bristling, ears folded back against his diminutive head, lips coded up off white little teeth, the kitten took his stand, tail swishing his anger and fierce resolve.
Milo received a silent warning: “Two-legs keep away from Mother or this cat kills!”
The other clansmen perceived the thought transmission as well, and stop they did, grinning and nodding admiration of such courage and reckless daring in defense of kin.
“Uncle Milo,” said Dik soberly. “if that cub had two legs instead of four, I’d sponsor him to my chief. It’s clear he’s a Horseclansman born.”
Handing his coil of rope to another, Milo slowly approached the little warrior. Squatting out of range of a pounce, he hoped, he mindspoke the hissing kitten. At the same time, on another level of his mind, he broadbeamed soothing assurance, having noticed that such worked with horses.