A Woman of the Horseclans

VI

Chief Dik Krooguhs looming presentiment was well founded, tragically well founded. The hunting party came back early, fast and with precious little game. There was one fewer rider to return than had gone out, too. Young Djahnee—or his lifeless husk, at least—returned stiff, roped onto the back of his horse.

No one saw Djahn Staiklee’s face as he rode into camp, halted before the yurt he called home and dismounted, then commenced the task of untying his eldest son’s corpse from the trailing horse could doubt the depth and severity of his grief. So no one attempted oral or telepathic communication until he had freed and lifted down the heavy, awkward burden.

Then, many hands took over the task of bearing the body to the bath area for cleansing. Other men, of both clans, hitched horses to carts, collected axes and mounted other horses before setting out to the nearest wooded area to collect fuel for a pyre.

Bettylou expected the very worst when Staiklee came face to face with his wife, Lainuh, but she was surprised. Cognizant of the sincerity of the man’s grief and suffering, the sister of the chief was the very soul of consideration and comfort to the returned hunter, quietly ordering others to unsaddle his mounts and bring in all gear that belonged in her yurt.

When he had been relieved of his gear and outer clothing, had had his riding boots replaced with the felt boots worn in camp, when he had been seated in his accustomed place and had been offered herb tea and milk (both of which he drank) and a bowl of curds (which he refused), he finally told the sad, simple tale of tragedy and death. He opened his mind that all capable of such might share in his memories.

The scouting cats had spotted a herd of those herbivores that Horseclansfolk called smaller screwhorns. These creatures, for all that they stood at most some nine hands at the withers, could easily outdistance a horse for a long enough time to lose themselves in the high grasses to the south, so Djahn had had the best bowmen—himself and young Djahnee included—dismount and take well-separated paths through the shorter grasses and brush to attempt to get within certain bow range of the prized quarry.

That phase of the hunt had been successful. No less than five of the antelopes had been arrowed, two of them shot by Djahn Staiklee. It was not until the diminished herd was tiny with distance that young Djahnee was missed and searched out.

They found him lying on his back in the grass, already dead. A smear of blood on his neck and two tiny puncture wounds just behind the angle of the jaw told the grim story of snakebite.

The tableau also told the tale of bravery unto death. For the boy might have been doctored and saved had he cried out, but that same cry would surely have spooked the antelope herd too, and this the stricken lad would not do … not even though he knew full well that his continued silence would cost him his young life.

Tears streaking her lined cheeks, Lainuh withdrew from her husband’s mind and beamed an urgent call to her brother, the chief, and to old Djef Krooguh, the clan bard. The chief must know immediately of the death of his nephew and the bard must know the full extent of the act of lonely heroism of the dead boy, that he might compose the verses for the funeral and add appropriate lines to the Song of Krooguh so that her son’s honorable deeds would be recalled and reverenced by the generations that would follow.

That evening, the woodcutters came back with their carts heaped high, and early the next evening Djahnee was sent to Wind—a simple ceremony, followed by cremation of the body. Tim was often to remark sadly in later years that they might have better made a larger pyre and waited a few days.

Actually, it was somewhat longer a period—nearly three weeks—before Milo and his raiders returned, all dusty and exhausted some wounded, but all heavy-laden with assorted loot and wildly exuberant. But not all of them came back from that raid; there were a handful of empty saddles. There was also a litter swung between two mules, and in that litter lay what was left of Dikee Staiklee of Krooguh, barely alive.

When she got her first close look at what the litter bore, Lainuh Krooguh mindspoke Tim, saying. “My son, go at once to your uncle. Tell him to begin with you immediately, for only you now are left to be chief in his stead.”

Turning back to Dikee, she tried to enter his thoughts, but found only the confusion of intense pain and semi-consciousness, and she felt even more strongly that his spirit was upon the very edge of taking flight from his tattered, battered husk.

“What happened?” she demanded of no one in particular.

Milo himself answered tiredly. “The Dirtman village is surrounded with a palisade. We had set afire the gate tower and three others and were battering in the gate with a trimmed treetrunk slung between armored horses, all supposedly ready to rush in immediately the gate sundered or fell.

“Then Dikee and certain others—most of them now either wounded or gone to Wind—took it into their heads to scale an undefended section of palisade and try, I suppose, to hack their way through to the gate, to open it from inside.

“By the time we got that gate down and cut our way through to where the group had made their stand, only Dikee was still on his feet and swinging his saber. We arrowed down the three men he was just then fighting—grown men and big, Lainuh. in steel armor—then did what little we could for him, and that was little enough.

“I did not, frankly, expect to arrive back here with his spirit still abiding within his flesh. But the few times he spoke or mindspoke, he vowed that he would not die until he had seen you, his wife and his children once more.”

The mother slowly shook her head. “Stubborn and reckless, just like his father. I suppose its as well for the clan that he won’t live to be chief.”

Milo laid his grubby hand on her shoulder. “We all grieve with you, sister mine. But Djahnee is a good young man, and he will make a fine chief for—”

She interrupted, “Our Djahnee is gone to Wind, Chief Milo, Snakebite, while hunting antelope with his father’s party almost a moon ago now. Only young Tim is left to us.

“He will make a good, steady, just chief for Clan Krooguh, Lainuh,” Milo assured her solemnly. “He’s brave enough when push comes to shove, intelligent enough to quickly achieve a measure of wisdom, and he completely lacks that strain of wild recklessness that seems to run through most of the Staiklees. He may well turn out to be the best of all possible successors to Chief Dik. Perhaps that is why Sacred Sun and Wind saw to it that he would be the next chief.”

It was decided in a council of chiefs and subchiefs which was convened the next day that the camp should be moved. There were a number of good and compelling reasons for this choice.

Perhaps the most compelling was the fact that the herds of horses cattle and sheep were perforce moving farther and farther out from the camp perimeters to find sufficient graze; this was dangerous for them and inconvenient for those whose task it was to guard or care for them.

And the camp itself was gradually becoming too spread out as the occupants of each individual yurt sought a fresh location for their dwelling, for all of the fighters to assemble easily in the event of an attack by hostile men.

It were wise, too, that the allied clans seek out some more sheltered spot in which to winter. Their hope was to find a place with a nearby supply of plentiful wood and water, a location with bluffs or high, thick stands of trees to break the force of the wintry winds and retard the buildup of snows too deep for the hoofed ones to scrape away from the grasses beneath.

There was also the possibility that Dirtmen might be on the trail of the raiders Chief Milo of Morai had so successfully led.

“The buggers might feel that they have to fight us again and try to get back the grain and whatnot we lifted off them, are they and their community to survive the winter intact. We Came away with some ton or near to it of wheat, plus several hundredweights of dried beans and Wind alone knows how much shelled corn. There were also casks of edible oils, dried or pickled or preserved fruits and vegetables, some smoked meat, spirits of various sorts and a whole other catalog of nonedible loot.

“Because of the limitations imposed upon us by the wounded and dying members of our party and the exceptionally numerous and heavy loads we had to pack, our return trip was both slower and straighter than I would have preferred. So, yes, I agree that we might well show wisdom to move the camp … soon and far and with our best speed. Chief Milo of Morai has spoken.

“Cat brothers,” beamed old Bloody Fangs, the cat chief, “there is also the fact that during our long sojourn hereabouts, we have killed off or scared away most of the game of any real, meaningful size. Such few as remain are far away or scarce or very, very wary. Milk and curds are fine for you two-legs or for kittens or cubs, but a grown cat wants and needs must have fresh meat every day. So, yes, let us move to an area not hunted out. Thus says Bloody Fangs.”

The decision was made and unanimously agreed upon at that meeting. But there was yet another reason for moving the camp, a reason which no one of them would voice in council. They all felt this spot to be unlucky, for no less than nine young men had died while the clans had camped in this spot—six from Clan Krooguh, three from Clan Skaht—and that figure did not even include the old woman who had died in her sleep, the stripling of Clan Skaht who had been tossed and gored to his death by a herd bull, a girl who had inexplicably drowned in a nearby creek and another girl, only a toddler, who had fallen prey to a treecat while foraging in a stretch of forest with others of her clan. So, yes, they all felt deep within them that it was indeed high time to move on to a possibly more salubrious, a luckier place to bide for a while.

Bettylou’s first experience of camp-breaking and packing was memorable, to say the least. Preparation, alone for the breaking of camp took something over a full week.

First, the four ponderous wagons and the seemingly numberless profusion of high-wheeled carts—each yurt seemed to have two or even three carts—were manhandled into camp from the space whereon they had been parked since the first pitching of this camp. Knowledgeable men examined the running gear of each conveyance, replacing any questionable axle or spoke or felly, beam, rod, coupling pole, bolster, axletree, hind hound, kingpin, sand board, hub, and so on. Then the bodies of wagons and carts had to receive identical care of scrutiny and, where necessary, repair or replacement. The wheeled vehicles done to the critical satisfaction of the old men who had supervised every facet of the operations, the men were turned to similar examination of and work upon the yokes and harness for the animals that would draw wagons and carts.

Lainuh had every living soul old enough to reason and walk unaided well organized with assigned tasks, schedules and-deadlines for completion or assigned tasks in and about the yurt. Djahn Staiklee and Tim, were, of course, with the rest of the men and not available for her assignments, and Dahnah’s twelve-year-old son was riding herd guard of nights while undergoing his warrior training of days, and no plea or veiled threat would persuade the subchief in charge to alter the boys schedule so that he might be free to work for her.

“Lainuh, that boy has less than two years left to become a warrior. And the clan stands in need of warriors just now, as you of all people should know.

“He’ll never be better than a middling bowman; he’s just not got the coordination for it. But he’s a fine horseman and promises to be very strong, and I mean to make a lanceman of him, maybe even teach him the finer points of axework. And both of those take time, time and more time.

“So, no, he’s of more and better use to the clan in honing his weapons skills than he could possibly be lugging chests and barrels and the like at your beck.”

Lainuh returned to the yurt in a cold rage, and its other occupants wisely avoided her for a while, knowing of long and often painful experience that a thwarted Lainuh was better left strictly alone until she had had a chance to cool down a bit or at least take the razor edge off her anger, take the murder out of her heart.

It was only two days prior to the announced date of departure that the carts were brought to the yurt for packing. There were two smaller carts and one larger, the larger intended to bear the complete yurt and the two smaller anything else that for whatever reason could not be packed on the back of a horse.

Lainuh ranted and raved almost incessantly until the carts’ arrival, ceaselessly badgering Djahn Staiklee and Tim whenever they stumbled in, half dead with exhaustion for a meal, a bath and change of clothes or a few hours of sleep.

That is, she did so until the evening when her husband, pushed beyond endurance by her tirades, dragged her outside by the hair and soundly thrashed her with a leather strap. This gave those in the yurt an entire night of peace and quiet, most welcome, both of them.

The first scouts returned while the packing of the carts and the wagons were commencing. The route agreed upon had been to strike due west for a week, then to bear southwest until a suitable winter campsite was found. The scouts and the cats that had accompanied them had reconnoitered the first leg of the proposed migration and were back to report to the chiefs.

The four scouts and two cats met with the three chiefs in the yurt of Chief Milo, that home now stripped to little more than felt walls, wooden supports and a few carpets.

Djaimz Skaht, a middle-aged nomad who had led the scouting party, announced. “There’s no reason why the first fifty or so miles shouldn’t be easy, as we’ll be trekking roughly parallel to any really big rivers, nor could we find any traces of a recent movement of bodies of men, mounted or otherwise.

“It’s a good bit of game on the route we scouted, including a fairly sizable herd of small shaggies we saw on the last day west: they seemed to be heading south or southeast, and had a lot of big screwhorns mixed in with them, There were wolves following that herd, of course.”

“And more than wolves, cat-brothers,” put in Steelclaws, one of the prairiecats. “We cats found traces of at least one of the great bears and two different kinds of cat—the shaggy cat and the smaller, running cat.”

“Shaggy cats? My cat-brother is certain of this?” beamed Milo with clear concern. The so-called “shaggy cats” were no less than the species that long, long ago had been known as African Lions, In the aftermath of the disasters that had nearly extirpated mankind on the face of the earth, many of these and other alien animals then kept in zoos, theme parks and even on private ranches scattered about the North American continent had escaped to freedom and, in the case of lions, at least, had adapted, thrived and multiplied over the intervening centuries, The prides preferred open plains and were mostly found near herds of bison, feral cattle or horses and the native or alien antelopes. trailing after them on their great seasonal migrations to north and south.

They were not of much real danger to an armed and mounted Horseclanner, unless they happened to have hungry designs on the horse. And even then a Horseclan steed could outrun the largest of lions with any sort of a lead on the cat to begin. But mere scent of a lion or two could drive cattle, sheep, even the reasoning horses wild with uncontrolled panic, and more than a few nomads had been killed and maimed in trying to turn the leading beasts of stampedes.

The wolves he discounted; they would be well fed this time of the year and traveling in small, family groups rather than in the huge, murderous, ravenous packs of winter. But the bear could be another question entirely.

He had never heard of lions turning man-eater and -hunter, and though winter wolves would tear apart any creature they could get at—two legs or four—most well-fed wolves had a strong tendency to avoid mankind and his camps. But the huge prairie grizzlies often—too often, for Milo’s liking—seemed to relish manflesh and would go far out of their usual ways to get at potential victims, even entering clan camps and tearing through the walls of yurts to come within tooth range of the folk within.

Moreover, they were usually devilishly hard to kill, having immense vitality and continuing to wreak pure havoc even when stippled with so many arrows as to resemble gigantic tailless porcupines.

“Were we trekking due west only,” he beamed to the other two chiefs, “I’d say that we should angle a bit to the north and thus avoid any trouble with the predators following that herd. But since we needs must head south after a week or so on the move, I say set out southeast and take our chances with the bear and cats and wolves, while living well off game. At least, Sacred Sun be praised, we’re a little too far south here for wolverines or blackfoot beasts.”

“Wind be thanked for those favors, at least,” nodded Dik Krooguh. “A wolverine it was maimed my hand, you know. We just will have to start beefing up herd guards, day and night on the march—more Cats, more maiden-archers and some good lancemen with heavy hunting spears.”

“Just so,” agreed Chief Skaht, “and more scouts out ahead of us, scouting in depth, no slipshod stuff. Another thing, too, one that no one is going to like, for all it’s necessary, all things considered: We’d be wise to start keeping enough horses in camp to mount all our warriors quickly, if push comes to shove, because you all know damned well that no lion- or bear-panicked horse is going to respond to a mindcall. This breed of Kindred horses of ours are smarter than the bulk of their ilk and they can even reason, up to a point, but we’d be foolish to not recognize their limitations and guard against the dire results of a panicky herd on a night of need.”

The cat chief sat up from his crouch and yawned widely agape, carefully curling his long, broad, red-pink tongue away from the winking points of his oversized fangs. “Cat brothers,” he beamed, “as always, you vastly overestimate the reasoning abilities and general intelligence of the horse tribe. Our Kindred race is not all that much more intelligent than many another non-Kindred breed of equine. Most mules, in fact, are far and away the mental superiors of most horses, which is why we prairiecats, if ride we must, would do soon the back of a mule.

“The horse king will be displeased that you insist on keeping so many of his best fighters in camp, but I think you are right, brother chief; all you two-legs are so slow without horses, and when fighting bears or shaggy cats, speed can be the difference between living and not living. Besides, your chosen mounts will be far less likely not to bolt if they know that most of the prairiecats and a whole camp full of armed two-legs are around them to protect them.”

Bettylou would never have believed just how quickly the large yurt could be broken down to its components of felt, canvas, leather and wood and packed upon the largest of the three carts, which was drawn by four, rather than two, horses.

As for the chests, most of them were strapped onto packhorses, while the two smaller carts were used to transport sacks and bags, barrels and kegs and water skins, tripods and kettles and odd-sized or -shaped impedimenta.

The last night on the old campground was slept, what little sleep there was for the adults, under the stars, and with the first light of false dawn, the rugs and coverings of each individual were rolled up tightly, bound into shape, then tucked into odd spaces in the cartloads or strapped behind saddles.

The slow-moving herds had been started on the trail three days before the scheduled departure of the carts and wagons, which droving took the services of almost all of the older children, for numbers of sheep, cattle and a few goats had been taken in raids on the eastern tanning communities while the clans had camped here and these supernumerary animals would serve to help to feed both folk and cats in the hard, cold days of winter-coming when game was scarce or unobtainable.

Accustomed as she was to farm wagons, Bettylou was still mightily impressed by the four ponderous wagons each of which bore the effects of a chief (including the cat chief) and his immediate family. Each of them cleared almost two cubits off the level ground, the high-sided bodies riding on wheels six feet or more in diameter. Like the carts, the bodies were close-joined and chinked watertight and, she had been informed, could float across rivers just like boats when necessary during treks.

Three of these wagons were each drawn by eight span of huge, lowing oxen, The other. Chief Milo’s, had as motive power six pairs of brawny mules.

As the Sacred Sun’s first rays emerged from the pinkish eastern haze, whips cracked and the wheels began to turn on the axles of wagons and carts. Bettylou Hanson turned in the saddle of her mare to look back at the bare, trampled, dusty stretch of ground on which the camp had stood and thought of how much had happened to her there, of how much had changed, changed for what was assuredly the better.

Farther on, she turned and looked back again, shading her eyes, wondering if she would ever again see, would ever again be upon this patch of prairie.

Although she could not then know it. she was to see, to be upon that patch of prairie again. But it was to be many, many years later, and the woman who would then look out of those blue eyes would be changed past anything that the girl, Bettylou Hanson, could have imagined.