“Storm.” Larkin sat down by the Terran where he was settled cross-legged near the fire, the meerkats wrestling playfully before him, Surra lazily tonguing her paws at his back. “You planning to take up land? Law gives you rights to a nice piece –”
“Not now. Dort was talking about the Staffa River country – running up to the Peaks. I may ride on to see it –” One excuse for remaining foot-loose was as good as another, the Terran thought wearily.
Larkin brightened. “That’s good grazin’ land – the Peak country. I’ve been thinkin’ some of that lately myself. Me, I’ve been doin’ pretty well at importin’ horses. But there aren’t goin’ to be many more brought in from off-world. Sure, we can buy ‘em like these – or other fancy stuff from Argol. But that’s a lighter breed, not suited to range work. The old Terran stock is gone. So I’ve a plan runnin’ around in my head. I’d like to round me up some good basic stock – some of these we got right out here in the herd, and some range stuff of at least two generations Arzoran breeding, plus a few mounts out of the Norbie camps. Mix ‘em and see what I can do “bout buildin’ up a new strain –a horse that needs less water, can live off scrub-feed ground, and follow a frawn drift without givin’ out at the end of one day’s trottin’. Now, son, you’re a master hand with animals. You ride down there and cast an eye over the Peak country. If you’re willin’ – look me up here at the fall auction and we’ll see about a partnership deal –”
Again that tug deep inside, a blow at the wall he had built around himself. Three times now Storm had been offered a possible future – by Gorgol, by Dort, and now by Larkin. He shifted slightly and used the evasive tactics he had developed as protective armour at the Centre.
“Let me see the land first, Larkin. We can talk it over in the fall-”
But long before fall he should meet with Brad Quade – Brad Quade and maybe his son Logan into the bargain.
Partly to get away from his own thoughts, Storm allowed Dort to persuade him to visit the Crossing at night, leaving his team in camp and riding with Lancin and Ransford into a town that made him blink a little, it was so unlike other villages.
Arzoran settlements such as this one were almost a hundred Terran years old now. Yet there was a kind of raw newness about them that Storm had not seen elsewhere. Between the half-yearly explosions of auction week, Irrawady Crossing was close to a ghost town, though it was the only village in several thousand squares of range land. Tonight the town was roaring, wide open. Life here was certainly far removed from the peace Storm had known on Terra, or the regimentation and discipline of the Centre.
The four from the trail camp had no more than stabled their horses when they witnessed the end of a personal argument, both men having drawn stun rods with speed enough to drop each other flat and unconscious. And they skirted another crowd moments later, watching another dispute being settled bloodily by fists.
“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.