“Glad you came,” Quade said to Kelson. “We’ve a problem here-“
“I have a problem, Gentle Homo,” Widders cut in. “I understand you have a son who knows the outback regions very well, has hunted over them. I’d like to see him-as soon as possible-“
Quade’s face showed no signs of a frown, but just as Hosteen knew Surra’s emotions, he was aware of the flick of temper that brash beginning aroused in Brad Quade.
“I have two sons,” the settler replied deliberately, “both of whom can claim a rather extensive knowledge of the Peaks. Hosteen has already told me of your wish to enter the Blue.”
“And he has refused to try it.” Widders was smoldering under bis shell. He was not a man used to, or able to accept, opposition.
“If he had agreed, he would need remedial attention from a conditioner,” Quade returned dryly. “Kelson, you know the utter folly of such a plan.”
The Peace Officer was staring into the container of swankee he held. “Yes, I know all the risks, Brad. But we have to get in there-it’s imperative! And chiefs such as Krotag will accept a mission like this as an excuse-they can understand a father in search of his son.”
So that was it-a big piece of puzzle slipped neatly into place. Hosteen began to realize that Kelson was making sense after all. There was a reason for exploring the Blue, an imperative reason. And Widders’ quest would be understandable to the Norbies, among whom family and clan ties were close. A father in search of his missing son-yes, that could be a talking point, which normally would gain Widders native guides, mounts, maybe even the use of some of the hidden water sources. But the important word in that was “normally.” This was not a normal Big Dry, and the clans were acting very abnormally.
“Logan has blood drink-brothers or a brother with Krotag’s clan, hasn’t he?” Kelson pushed on. “And you”-he looked to Hosteen-“are a hunt and war companion of Gorgol.”
“Gorgol’s gone.”
“And so has Logan,” Quade added. “He rode off five days ago to join Krotag’s drift-“
“Into the Blue!” Kelson exclaimed.
“I don’t know.”
“The Zamle clan were in the First Finger.” Kelson put down his drink and went to the wall map. “They were in camp here last time I checked.” He stabbed a forefinger on one of the long, narrow canyons striking up into the Peaks, almost a roadway into the Blue.
Storm moved uneasily, picked up a wandering meercat kit, and held it cupped against his chest, where it patted him with small forepaws and cluttered drowsily. Logan had gone with the clan. The reasons for doing it might matter, but the fact that he had gone mattered more. The boy might be condemned by his own recklessness, facing more than just the perils of the Big Dry.
Continuing to stare at the map without really seeing its configurations, Hosteen began to plan. Rain-no, he could not ride Rain. The stallion was an off-world import without even one year’s seasoning here. He’d need native-bred mounts-two at least, though four would be better. A man had to keep changing horses in the Big Dry. He’d need two pack animals per man for water transport. Other supplies would necessarily be concentrates that did not satisfy a body used to normal food but which provided the necessary energy to keep men going for days.
Surra? Hosteen’s head turned ever so slightly; he linked to the cat in mental contact. Yes-Surra. There was an answering thrust of eagerness that met his wordless question. Surra-Baku-Hing had her maternal duties here, and there would be no need for her particular talents as a saboteur. With Baku and Surra, maybe no chance became a small chance. Their senses, so much keener than any human’s or Norbie’s might locate those needful wells in the outback.
Now Quade broke the short silence with a question, deferring to his stepson with the respect for the other’s training and ability he had always shown. “A chance?”
“I don’t know-“ Storm refused to be hurried. “Seasoned mounts, concentrates, water transport-“
“Supplies can be flown in by ‘copter!” Widders pounced at the hint of possible victory.
“You’ll have to have an experienced pilot, a fine machine, and even then you dare not go too far into those heights,” Quade declared. “The air currents are crazy back there-“
“Dumps stationed along the line of march.” Kelson’s voice held a note almost as eager as Widders’. “We could plant those by ‘copter-water, supplies-all the way through the foothills.”
The idea became less impossible as each man visualized the possibilities of using off-world transportation in part. Yes, supply dumps could nurse an expedition along to the last barrier walling off the Blue, providing there was no hostile reaction from the Norbies. But beyond that barrier, much would depend upon the nature of the territory the heights guarded.
“How soon can you start?” Widders demanded. “I can have supplies, an expert pilot, a ‘copter ready to go in a day.”
Again the antagonism Hosteen had felt at their first meeting awoke in the younger man.
“I have not yet decided whether I shall go,” he replied coldly. “ ‘Asizi,” he said, giving Quade the title of Navajo chieftainship and slipping into the common tongue of the Amerindian Tribal Council, “do you think this thing can be done?”
“With the favor of the Above Ones and the fortune of good medicine, there is a chance of success for a warrior. That is my true word-over the pipe,” Quade answered in the same language.
“There is this.” In basic, Storm again addressed both Widders and Kelson. “Let it be understood that I am undertaking this expecting trouble. On the trail, the decision is mine when there comes a time to say go forward or retreat.”
Widders frowned and plucked at a pouted lower lip with thumb and forefinger. “You mean, you are to be in absolute command-to have all the right of judgment?”
“That is correct. It is my life I risk, and those of my team. Long ago I learned the folly of charging against too high odds. The decisions must be mine.”
A hot glance from those coals that lay banked behind Widders’ eyes told him of the civ’s resentment.
“How many men do you want?” Kelson asked. “I can spare you two, maybe three from the Corps.”
Storm shook his head. “Me alone, with Surra and Baku. I shall strike up the First Finger and try to locate Krotag’s clan. With Logan-and Gorgol, if I am able to persuade him, to join us-there will be enough. A small party, traveling light, that is the only way.”
“But I am going!” Widders flared.
Hosteen answered that crisply. “You are off-world, not only off-world but not even trail-trained. I go my way or not at all!”
For a second or so it seemed that Widders would hold stubbornly to his determination to make one of the party. Then he shrugged when glances at Kelson and Quade told him they believed Hosteen was right.
“Well-how soon?”
“I must select range stock, make other preparations-two days-“
“Two days!” Widders snorted. “Very well. I am forced to accept your decision.”
But Storm was no longer aware of him. Surra had flowed past the men to the door, and the urgency she broadcast brought the Beast Master after her. Dawn was just firing the sky but had not lit the mountains to a point where man and cat could not see that burst. Very far away, just on the rim of the world, a jaffered sword thrust up into the heavens. Lightning-but it was out of season for lightning, and those flashes descended and did not pierce skyward as these had done. They were gone before Storm could be certain he had seen anything of consequence.
Surra snarled, spat. Then Hosteen caught it, too, not truly sound but a vibration in the air, so distant and faint as to puzzle a man as to its actual existence. Back in the Peaks something had happened.
The scream of an aroused and belligerent eagle deadened the small sounds of early morning. From her perch by the corral, Baku gave forth another war cry that was answered by the trumpeting of Rain, the squeals of other herd stallions, the neighing of mares. Whatever the vibration had been, it had reached the animals, aroused in them quick and violent reaction.
“What is it?” Quade came out behind Storm, followed by Kelson, less speedily by Widders.
“I think ‘anna ‘Hwii’iidzii,” Storm found himself saying in Navajo without really knowing why, “a declaration of war, ‘Asizi.”
“And Logan’s back there!” Quade stared at the Peaks. “That settles it-I ride with you.”
“Not so, ‘Asizi. It is as you have said before. This country is ripe for trouble. You alone perhaps can hold the peace. I take with me Baku. If there is a need, she can come back for you and others. Logan, more than any of us, is friend to the clans. And the blood-drink bond is binding past even a green-arrow feud.”