followed or tracked. Best he remain predictable until he could see another way.
He lay not against the fire-warmed boulder, but in the bush, where he could watch it. A tiny moon silvered the crest and left all else black.
The bandits he'd fought had been up the Road by many days, past the little distillery and past the Shire too. So the scorched rock he'd found might mark a wanderer or two, he told himself, but not one of that band of bandits.
But any wanderer must attack caravans for their speckles.
Tim Bednacourt carried no speckles. Could he buy a bandit off? With what?
Or evade them? The only way to evade bandits was to know where bandits were.
Here were two faces of one problem. How could Jemmy Bloocher
avoid being found? He'd taught himself to do that. How could Tim Bednacourt find bandits who didn't want to be found? They'd be living as he lived, but more of them. Taking refuge at the frost line? Changing identities?
Tim waited for sleep, with his eyes on six hundred meters of split rock above him. He tried to picture bandits... not bandits attacking a caravan three times a year, but living between caravan passings, settled in little groups, gathering and hunting, stealing speckles from locals or fighting each other for a dwindling supply.
His mind must have gone on working while he slept. He woke in darkness. He felt quite lucid.
He donned his pack. He moved to the stream and drank until his belly was taut as a drum.
Then he began to climb.
The Crest Mountains were glossy-smooth wherever fusion flame had touched rock. But the cooling rock had split. Here a vertical split ran nearly to the peaks. The spring flowed from the split.
He'd been looking up at the rock face for so long that it was branded in his memory. Good thing, too. He couldn't see! But he could follow the split by touch.
No telling how high he was when he began to be afraid.
Climbing in the dark was crazy. The notion had come to him in his sleep, fully formed. He was climbing in the dark because he would be conspicuous in daylight, against gray rock with no plant growing anywhere.
The little moon continued west. A trace of light touched the mountain face now. The cleft narrowed, but Tim was able to pick out handholds and footholds. Then those ran out. All his muscles were shaking with fatigue. They'd throw him off the cliff if he kept this up.
Down a bit and over, a rock face was trying to split off, leaving a ledge.
Not as wide as he'd hoped. He lay with his back pushed hard against the rock, and was asleep before the trembling stopped.
Dawnlight and terror. He'd forgotten where he was. The slope stretched a vast way down. He was exposed and conspicuous on a rock cliff, hunted by men with guns.
Far away, the shadow of the Crest Mountains crept steadily from the sea onto shore.
In early summer he'd been on shore looking up at where he was now. What had he seen? Backlit by a rising sun that hadn't cleared the peaks, this whole face of the mountains would be black. He would be invisible. Nobody would look this high anyway.
Tim Bednacourt began to climb again, Cracking had put ledges over his head to block him, but cracking gave him handholds and footholds. He rested on the trunk of an incredible scrub-oak tree that had sunk roots into the last of the main split. When the sun lit the southwestern face of the range, he was on the narrow side of the Crab Peninsula.
Nothing grew at the crest, and little grew lower down. Flame had scoured this side of the range too. Nobody had since bothered to weed out Destiny life. This was the steeper side, a straight drop to angry waves, and not many plants had the tenacity to cling to the rock; but some did. Tim could make out Destiny colors, black and bronze and yellow-green, but Earthlife greens too.
He couldn't see a way down.
There was nothing to eat up here.
He found a flat spot to sleep out the noon hours. He made several klicks that day, picking a way along the crest, his eyes on the alien beauty of the wild shore. At evening he didn't bother with fire. He chewed a handful of barley, and waited for full dark.
Then he slipped between two peaks and looked down.
A bright orange light glared below him, just at the Road. Left and above, a mere orange spark glowed too.
He blocked the fires with his hand and let his eyes adjust.
From world's end to world's end, the Road was a gray-black line through black rubble. The shore was more vivid: there was white phosphorescence in the waves.
A faint yellow smudge far to his right: fires along a beach. The autumn caravan must be past Tail Town by now. If the caravan had sent out a yutz-hunter, Tim would have seen his fire too, and closer. It wasn't there.
The caravans hadn't sent hunters.
That bright fire must be huge, to be so steady. The distillery? It would be just below him, their dinner fire.
As for the orange spark, he must be looking down into somebody's fire pit.
He'd found what he sought. Two cookfires burned on the mountain this night: the Homes and Wilsons gathered at their dinner, and a handful of wanderers above, dangerously close to the first. The Homes and Wilsons would have to be warned. And surely they'd feed a wanderer some speckles? He slept on the mountain, cold but quite safe in a cleft between two peaks. Dawn gifted him with an amazing view. Shadow covered the Crab's broad side, but here were details never seen by a caravan.
Below the Road was a wide stretch of meadow. Destiny black was not having much luck against Earthlife green. Half a hundred head of sheep grazed. Four big buildings near the Road must be the Wilson dairy, barn, and dwellings.
The caravan had partied on Home turf, that big cookout area in a horseshoe of one large and several small buildings. Around the Home establishment was more meadow, but it was the yellow of wheat. High on the mountain... were those goats?
Of wanderers and bandits there was no sign.
He was hungry, but he delayed going down. He'd fought hard for this view, and it was very pleasant.
He could follow the line of Road a long way before the curve of the Crest hid it. Far to the left: the Shire? He couldn't be sure. To the right, nothing, nothing... the line of a caravan, far, far away.
At the western edge of the Home meadow was a single monumental tree in a regular array of white dots.
Tim heard a gunshot.
Faint and distant, crisp and clear, the sound jerked his head straight toward brush that was mostly Destiny black. Three man-shapes were charging downhill behind a gigantic bird.
Tim started down the rocks. At the edge of hearing were voices quarreling in shouts and gasps. He kept his mind on not falling to his death, and only spared the occasional stolen glance for men dealing with a wounded bird.
The ostrich was stumbling now, slowing. The men would have caught it if it weren't running through clumps of vengeance thorn.
It turned suddenly. (Tim hugged rock so he'd be free to look.) One man froze, one tripped, and as the bird came at them screaming, the third man steadied himself. Tim heard another gunshot. The bird fell over and thrashed.
Tim couldn't hurry and he couldn't hide. He kept moving.
The men pulled the bird downhill a good distance to the nearest tree. There they hung it and tore the feathers off, and butchered it. As far as Tim could tell, not one ever glanced his way.
He climbed down as far as the plants grew, and rested.
Guns belonged to caravans. A gun not in the hands of a caravan meant bandits. It seemed to Tim that the surest way of avoiding bandits was to know where they were.
Here was a most convenient trio of bandits. All Tim had to do was follow them.
Burdened by the butchered ostrich, restricted by lesser brush, the bandits weren't making any great speed. He could' hear them; he could almost make out the words.
