eagle –”
“Good enough.” Sorenson only glanced at the animals. “We’re heading into desert country. Have you heard of the Sealed Caves? There is a chance they may be located down in the Peak section.”
“I’ve heard, also, that they are a legend.”
“We got a little more accurate information recently. That territory’s largely unmapped and your services will be useful. We have a government permit for pot-hunting.”
“Sounds like a good deal, kid,” Larkin spoke up. “You wanted to look over the Peaks. You’ll get your pay from me in horses –and you can either sell ‘em at auction or you can keep that stallion you’ve been riding and take the black pack mare for your gear, and let me put up the other two. If you find a likely range down there, stick up your stakes and register it when you come back –”
“Also, you can take your scout pay in a government land voucher,” Sorenson added quickly. “Useful if you want to stake out in new country. Or use it for an import permit –”
Storm stirred. He felt pushed, and that aroused opposition. On the other hand, the expedition would take him away from the Crossing and from both the knifer – whoever he might be –and Quade until he could decide about the latter. Also – the Peak country held Logan Quade and he wanted to know more about that young man.
“All right,” he agreed, and then instantly wished that he had not, but it was too late.
“Sorry to hurry you, Storm” – Sorenson was all brisk efficiency now – “only we pull out early tomorrow morning. The mountain rains won’t last too much longer and we have to count on them for our water supply. That’s pretty arid country up there and we’ll have to leave it anyway at the beginning of the big dry. Bring your own camp kit – we will furnish the rest of the supplies –”
Over Sorenson’s thin shoulder Storm caught sight of a pair of riders rounding the wagon. Ransford – and Brad Quade! At the moment they were looking at the horses, but a slight turn of the head would bring Storm into the settler’s line of vision.
“Where do I meet you to move out?” the Terran asked quickly.
“East of town, by the river ford – that grove of yarvins, about five –”
“I’ll be there,” Storm promised and then spoke to Larkin. I’ll keep Rain and the mare as you suggest. We’ll settle for the auction price of the others when I get back.”
Larkin was grinning happily as the Survey man left. “Keep your eyes open around the Peaks, son, and stake a good stretch of land. Give us three-four years and we’ll have us some colts that’ll beat anything even imported from Terra! That pack mare – she’s the best of the lot for a rough trip, steady old girl. Any of your kit you want to store, just leave it in the wagon, I’ll see to it –”
Storm was too impatient to wonder at Larkin’s helpfulness. He wanted to be out of sight before Quade came away from the improvised corral. But escape was not to be so easily achieved. It was Ransford who hailed him.
“Storm!” That shout was so imperative the Terran dared not ignore it and waited for the other to come up. “Look here, kid, Quade told me about your being jumped by a knife-man in town – what kind of trouble are you in anyway?”
“None – that I know of –”
But the other was frowning. “I tried to find out somethin’ about that rider you put to sleep – but nobody knew him. Sure it wasn’t him waitin’ for you?”
“Might have been – I just sighted a shadow with a knife – never saw his face,” Storm longed to get away. Quade was dismounting and he was sure the settler would join them.
“I put Dort to askin’ around some,” Ransford continued. “He knows men in about nine-tenths of the outfits here for the auction. If anyone is out to get your hide, he’ll hear about it – then we can take some action ourselves –”
Why was everyone so interested in his affairs? Storm wanted desperately, at that moment, to snake Rain out of the picket lines, call his team, and ride off alone into the wilderness. He did not want such solicitude, in fact it scraped raw some nerve he had not known he possessed. He asked nothing but to be left alone, to go his own way. Yet here was Larkin – and Ransford – and Dort – and even the Norbie, Gorgol, all with splendid little plans, or concern, or helpful hints for him. Storm could not understand why – any more than he knew why Bister wanted to make trouble for him.
“If anyone is gunning for me,” he returned as well as he could without betraying his rising irritation, “it won’t do him any good after tomorrow morning. I’ve signed up as scout for a Survey expedition and am leaving town.”
Ransford gave a sigh of relief. “That’s usin’ your head, kid. Maybe this hothead got a skinful of tharman juice last night and when he sobers up he’ll have forgotten all about it. Which way you headed?”
“To the Peaks.”
The Peaks –” That echo came from Quade. Then the settler added in a language Storm had never thought to hear another speak again:
“Where do you ride, man of the Dineh?”
“I do not understand you,” Storm answered in galactic one-speech.
Quade shook his head, his blue eyes measuring Storm astutely.
“You are Terran,” he switched to the common tongue of the spaceways, “but also you are Navajo –”
“I am Terran – now a man of no planet,” Storm replied shortly. “I do not understand you.”
“I think that you do,” Quade countered, but there was no abruptness in that, only a kind of regret. “I overheard you saying that you had signed on as a scout with an expedition into the Peak country. That’s good land down there – look it over. My son has a holding in that district.” His eyes dropped to his hands, twisting his reins. “If you see him –” But Quade did not finish that sentence, ending with another suggestion altogether. “I’d like him to meet you – you are Terran and Navajo. Well, good luck, Storm. If you ever need anything, try my range.” His foot was already in the stirrup and he swung into the saddle, moving off before the Terran could answer – if he had wanted to.
“If you do see Logan,” Ransford broke the silence, “I hope he’s not in trouble up to his chin. That boy’s as hard to ride herd on as a pack of yoris! Pity – Quade’s the easiest man livin’ to rub along with – if you’re straight and doin’ your job right. But he and his own kid can’t be together more”n a week before fire’s bustin’ out all over the range! Nobody can understand why. Logan Quade’s crazy about huntin’, and he with the Norbies a lot. But the kid never did a crooked thing in his life and he’s as decent as his old man. They just can’t seem to live together. It’s a shame, “cause Quade is proud of the boy and wants his son for a partner. If you hear anything good about the kid, tell Quade when you come back – it’ll mean a lot to him – and he’s taken a big likin’ to you, too. Well, good luck, kid – sounds as if you’ve got yourself a good deal. Survey pays well and you can turn their write-off in for an import permit or somethin’ like.”
Storm was disturbed. He wanted none of the information Ransford had supplied. What did Quade’s personal affairs matter to him? In that second brief encounter with his chosen enemy he felt he had lost some advantage he needed badly as a bolster for the future. He had accepted Quade, the enemy, but this other Quade was infringing more and more on his carefully built-up image. He hurried about his preparations for the trip, thankful for the occupation.
Surra sat on his left, the meerkats snuffled, poked, and pried under and around his busy hands as Storm sorted, piled, and made up two packs of his personal belongings. One he must leave with Larkin, the other comprised the kit he would need on the trail. There remained now just one small bundle to explore.
He had left that roll to the last, doubly reluctant to slit the waterproof covering sewed about it on another world, keeping its contents intact for two years. Now Storm sat quietly, his hands resting palm down upon the package, his eyes closed, exploring old roads of memory – roads he had managed to avoid exploring at the Centre. As long as he did not cut the waxed cord, as long as he did not actually see what he was sure must be inside – just so long was he in a way free of the last acceptance of defeat – of acknowledging that there was never to be any return.
What did these men of another race here in camp – or those in the town – or those at the Centre who had watched him so narrowly for months – that Commander who had so reluctantly stamped his freedom papers – what did any of them know of the voices of the Old Ones and how they could come to a man?
How could they understand a man such as his grandfather – a Singer learned in ancient ways, following paths of belief these other races had never walked, who could see things not to be seen, hear things that no others could
