"Then what are you worried about?"
"Number ten."
Alea felt a warm glow, hearing that he was worried about her. It added heat to her arguments. "You want me to be safe? I'll pose as a peddler! These people ought to honor tradersthey're so starved for things they can't grow or make themselvesl You should outfit yourself as a packman, too!"
"Good idea." Gar nodded. Alea stared at him, stunned.
"It would give you a chance to hide a few hand grenades and a blaster among your trade goods," Gar explained.
That brought Alea out of her stupor. "We want less mayhem on this planet, not morel Show these people a grenade and they'll start cobbling them up themselves!"
"Well, all right, but they couldn't make blasters. . ."
"So you want them to discover research? Aren't there better ways to motivate them?"
It went on for a while longer, and all in all, she found it a highly satisfying argument. When Gar called up to Herkimer to drop two packs of trade goods during the night, though, that made her victory seem too easy. Alea developed a suspicion that Gar had been enjoying their verbal sparring as much as she had-either enjoying it or suffering from a vastly misplaced sense of chivalry. She had heard him argue much more strongly than that. As they settled down for the night, she reflected smugly that he definitely did care about her, even if it wasn't the passionate regard she craved.
She went stiff at the thought, staring unseeing at the night around them. What was she thinking? Passion? She certainly didn't want that!
They were on the road again as the sun rose and separated at the first fork.
"Be careful, now," Gar said anxiously.
"You be careful, too," Alea retorted, then turned back to him, frowning. "Wait a minute! All through this, you haven't said a word about your own safety!"
"Well, of course not."
"Oh, you're sure of being. able to handle a small army all by yourself, are you?" Alea's eyes blazed.
"It's not that," Gar protested. "It's just that if I get hurt, it doesn't matter."
Alea stared at him, frozen for a second. Then she threw her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his chest. "It matters to me. It matters most horribly to me! Make sure you listen for thoughts on the road and duck away from them before they can hurt you!" She tilted her face up, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.; said, "Take care of yourself!" and turned to stalk away down the left-hand road, face flaming.
Gar stared at the back of her head, at the rich chestnut fall of her hair beneath the broad-brimmed hat, and pressed a hand to his cheek, bemused. When she had gone out of sight, he turned slowly away and started down the right-hand fork.
He had gone perhaps a hundred yards before he heard the double click of a rifle being cocked.
Gar dove off the road and into the underbrush as the gun blasted.
6
Gar heard the ball smack into a tree trunk, heard two rifles crack, one from ahead one from the far side of the road and to the rear. He turned, gathering himself and readying his staff even as his mind searched for his attackers.
There they were, reloading their rifles, thoughts hot with avarice and rank with resentment and rage. Gar crouched in the underbrush, waiting, silent. Finally a voice from ahead called, "He's dead, Lem."
"He'd better be, with you calling out like a banshee," Lem answered in a furious whisper. Gar tracked the voice-the man to the left, the one who had shot first.
"He's out cold, at least," the voice from behind answered. "Or playing possum," Lem answered. "What's got into you, Farrell? You used to know better than to sound off!"
"Aw, he can't hurt us," the first voice said. "Didn't have no rifle, anyways-and no clan; he's just a trader."
"Then every clan would be out to avenge him! Okay, Zeke, we'll go look, but you better hope it's out cold, and not dead, if you don't want the Farlands teaming up with the Gillicutties and the Orkneys to clean us out of these woods!"
"We'll be right beside you, loaded and cocked," Zeke assured him. "What's he going to do when he's looking down three gun barrels, hey?"
It was a good question, Gar decided. As a precaution, he focused his thoughts into gathering moisture into the pans of the flintlocks, saturating the priming powder into sludge. It wouldn't go off even if one of them did manage to squeeze a trigger, but Gar didn't intend to give them the chance.
Lem came close first, but stopped six feet short of the underbrush to wait for his friends to come up. With a man of normal height that might have been enough, but Gar shot out of the brambles staff first, extending his seven feet of length into ten.
The butt caught Lem in the belly and he folded, mouth gaping in pain as the rifle dropped from his fingers.
Farrell shouted in anger and came running, but Lem called, "Stay back!" Gar heard his hammer click in the pan, then his curse at the gun's refusing to fire.
Farrell had paused, but now he charged in again, rifle leveled for a point-blank shot. Gar swung his staff, knocking it away. The useless hammer clicked and Gar swung the end of the staff to crack against Farrell's head.
Zeke shouted in anger. Gar whirled to see him charging in, face red and distorted with rage, swinging his rifle by the barrel, stock arcing down at Gar where he still crouched by the roadside.
He waited for the moment, then shot to his feet, and the rifle butt cracked against Gar's staff. Zeke backed away, roundeyed, staring up at the giant who seemed to have sprouted from the earth.
But Lem had caught enough breath to get back in the fight. He launched himself at Gar's shins, his body a wrecking ball. Gar shouted with anger as he fell. Zeke yelped with relief and charged back in, rifle swinging, even as Lem rolled up to his feet and swung his rifle barrel in a short vicious arc.
It caught Gar across the shoulders and striped his back with pain, but only added its force to his momentum as he turned the fall into a dive, the dive into a somersault, and shot to his feet right under Zeke's nose, fist swinging in an uppercut. He pulled his punch and the fist only caught the man's chin. Zeke staggered back, raising his rifle to guard and Gar twisted it from his hands.
He swung to face Lem with a rifle in one hand and a staff in the other, both raised to swing. "Put it down, Lem, or I'll put it down for you."
The woodsman froze, glaring in baffled anger. Then he took refuge in a face-saver. "How'd you know my name?"
"Heard you talking to one another, of course," Gar said. "Put down the rifle."
Lem measured his own five-and-a-half-feet against Gar's height and muscle, then spat a curse and laid down his rifle. "Go see how badly Farrell's hurt," Gar directed, "then bring him back here-without his rifle." He stepped back and pivoted so that he could see both men. "Come on over, Zeke. I want your rifle, too."
"The hell you say!"
"I'll take it from you awake or out cold, just as you choose," Gar said evenly. "It would be easier for you if I didn't have to knock you on the head."
Zeke gave Lem an uncertain glance. The leader's mouth twisted with chagrin, but he gave a brief nod. Zeke stepped forward, reversing the weapon to offer it to Gar stock first.
Gar took it and said, "Help Lem see to Farrell. I tried not to hit him too hard, but you never know."
The hint of mercy seemed to unnerve them more than his anger had. Lem turned and waded into the brush after Farrell, Zeke close behind. Gar took both guns by the barrels in one hand, held his staff ready in the other, and followed them closely.
Farrell was propped up on one elbow, head in one hand.
Lem's voice softened as he knelt. "Bad as that, of buddy?"
"Hard fist." Farrell tried to sound disgusted, but it came out as a croak.
"It wasn't no fist, it was the end of his stick," Lem said, as though a staff against a rifle were unfair odds.
"I'll be okay." Farrell reached up. "Just help me stand." Lem beckoned Zeke, who stepped around and took Farrell's other arm.
"I don't need that much help," Farrell proteste
d, but he leaned on both of them as they drew him to his feet.
"Are both his pupils the same size?" Gar asked.
"Pupils?" Lem turned to frown. "He ain't no schoolmarm!"
"The little black circles in his eyes." Gar strove for patience. "Are they both the same size?"
Lem glared hatred at him, but turned to look.
Now that Gar could see them up close, his victory ceased to impress him. All three men were gaunt with hunger and scabbed with the sores of vitamin deficiencies-all in all, a pretty scruffy crew. Of course, they'd had rifles, but he had put those out of action at the outset. Feeling a little guilty, he said, "Lousy timing-you ambushed me just as I was thinking of stopping to eat." He swung his pack off his shoulder, unstrapped it one-handed, and took out a loaf and a wedge of cheese.
All three men stared at the food, transfixed. Lem asked hoarsely, "You planning to just eat that while we watch?"
"Why, would you like some?" Gar held out the loaf.
Lem grabbed the bread, tore off a chunk for himself, then two more for his friends and reluctantly handed it back.
"It's pretty simple fare," Gar said, "but if one of you will build a fire and another fetch water, we can stew some salt beef till it's soft enough to chew"
"Reckon we can do that," Lem conceded. "Got a bucket?" Gar handed him the folding canvas pail.
Lem took it and turned away. "You boys build the man a fire, now"
Zeke did, with the efficiency of long practice, piling tinder and arranging sticks in a cone over it. "'Course, if I had my rifle, I could snap a spark in there right quick. 'Thout it, though, I'll have to rub two sticks."
"Stand back," Gar said.
The two men retreated. Gar knelt with one eye on them and one on the fire, then cocked one of the unloaded rifles, held it on its side, and pulled the trigger. There was no report, of course, but the flint struck sparks from the pan. They fell into the tinder, and Gar struck twice more, then stepped back. Zeke knelt again and breathed carefully on the sparks until flames blossomed. By the time Lem came back with the dripping bucket, they had a merry campfire burning.
They sat on their heels around the flames, munching bread and cheese while the aroma of stewing beef spread through the air. Gar let his gaze roam around the clearing and said, "It's better out here-away from the smells and noise of the towns. Too many people."
"Wouldn't know about towns," Zeke grumbled.
"Even the farms," Gar qualified. "Barnyard smells, fifty people at one meal all in the same hall-too many for the space, at least."
"Too many people who don't like to hear the truth," Lem said with disgust.
"Not many who do," Gar said, his interest piqued. "The townsfolk believe that a naked Truth lives in the bottom of each village well."
"Couldn't," Farrell said. "There'd be too much of it in the water, and the folks couldn't stomach that."
"Naked?" Zeke's eyes glinted. "What would happen if she came out?"
"A man named Hans Sachs wrote about that once," Gar said. "Truth told a man and a woman how tormented and lonely she was, and they felt sorry for her and embraced her-until she started telling them each the truth about themselves."
Lem actually laughed-a hard and brittle sound, but a laugh. "What'd the man and woman do then?"
"Chased her back into the well," Gar said. "Figures," Farrell snorted.
Lem nodded. "I spoke the truth once."
"Really." Gar tried to keep from pouncing on it. "What happened?"
"They chased me away for it," Lem said bitterly, "my own kith and kin!"
Farrell nodded. "I wasn't that dumb, but almost. Started talking as how what happened three hundred years ago shouldn't matter now."
"They chased you away, too?" Gar asked.
"Not until three or four cousins started allowing as how I was making sense." Farrell turned and spat. "Grandpa said I was takin' the starch out of the whole clan, and if we did that, them Elroys would just roll right over us. The great aunts agreed with him, so they kicked me out to warn the others."
"You have the same story?" Gar asked Zeke. The woodsman flushed and looked away.
"No, he was different," Lem said. "Couldn't take his eyes off his cousin's wife, and couldn't talk to her without sounding sweet."
Gar frowned. "But he didn't do anything."
"No, but you can't have that kind of thing," Lem said. "Sooner or later cousins will start fighting if there's a woman between 'em-and you need to be fighting the enemy clan, not your own."
"Didn't do nothin' at all," Zeke grunted. "Not like Orville, not atall."
The other two men suddenly became fascinated by the sight of the broth bubbling in the kettle.
"What did Orville do?" Gar asked. "Coward talk," Lem said.
"Can't say why." Farrell frowned, puzzled. "He's a brave man, the kind to go up against a bear with nothing but a knife."
"Yeah, but he'd already shot his rifle, and that didn't stop the boar-bear," Zeke objected. "Five more men shot it, too, before it reached him."
"But he held his ground," Farrell objected.
"Swung aside at the last minute," Lem reminded him. "Yeah, but that's just good fighting," Farrell countered. "He still stood with that knife up, waiting to see if the bear turned on him."
"It didn't?" Gar guessed.
"No, it stumbled on and lay dead," Farrell told him. "Don't change how brave he was, though."
"So what kind of `coward talk' did this brave man make?" Gar asked.
The men glanced at one another, clearly unwilling to talk about it even now. At last Lem said, "That there weren't no point to people getting killed when they didn't have to-that folks don't have to fight, and surely not to the death."
"Coward talk, all right." Zeke nodded with conviction. "So he's out here with the rest of us now, and it's kill or be killed for sure."
"Only if the clans get together to clean us out," Lem demurred.
"Yeah, or unless another band tries to take our food," Zeke shot back.
Farrell nodded. "Least that makes sense--killing to get food for starving folks."
"Not like killing 'cause one great-great-fifty-times-great grandpa shot another." Lem stood up. "Enough talk. Time to hike home if we want to get there before dark." He looked down at Gar. "Come if you want, stranger. The roof might be only straw, but it's better than sleeping out in the open."
"It does feel like rain," Gar admitted. "Do you always invite the people you ambush home?"
"Sure-why not?" Lem grinned. "Once we've got their food and their goods, leastways. They don't usually accept, though." Gar shrugged. "Why not? I'm a trader, and your people might have furs to swap for needles." He stood and started kicking dirt over the fire.
The outlaws began to relax on the way home, becoming downright talkative. Gar only had to toss in the occasional question to steer the conversation toward the outlaw life and the reasons for taking it up; the men were quick enough to argue the merits of their comrades' cases. When Lem claimed that the youngest of their number, a teenager named Kerlew, had been outcast for being a weakling and just downright strange, Farrell objected.
"Kerlew ain't no weakling," he said. "He's made it through three winters with nothing worse than a head cold, and he's always brought in his share of squirrel meat."
"Makes good gunpowder, too," Zeke observed.
Lem grinned at Gar. "You notice they don't try to say he isn't strange."
"Well, he does get that faraway look in his eye a lot," Zeke admitted.
"And he talks about the gods like he really believes in 'em." Farrell shook his head in despair.
"His clan cast him out for no more than that?" Gar asked in disbelief.
"He likely would have run away on his own, sooner or later," Zeke opined. "They made fun of him so much, it's a wonder he stayed till he was eighteen."
"Thought he had nothing to lose," Lem explained to Gar, "so he started preaching peace-and by oak, ash, and thorn, that boy can preach!"
/> "But his clan declared him a coward and cast him out?" Gar asked.
"A coward and a traitor, for making the Murrays doubt themselves and their cause," Lem said, bitter again. "Thought he weakened their backbones."
"Now he stiffens ours," Farrell said. "If you don't think the outlaw life is the right life, stranger, you just ask young Kerlew, and you'll be dazed by his answer."
"You think this life is right and good?" Gar asked in amazement.
" 'Course we do." Lem looked him straight in the eye. "We don't have to kill no one for no good reason, stranger-or for the sake of a quarrel hundreds of years gone, which amounts to the same thing."
"We'll kill if another band tries to kill us," Farrell said, "but IT tell you, none of us can remember the last time that happened."
"'Course, you don't live to be all that old, with only thin walls to keep out the cold, and with bears and wolves against you," Lem pointed out. "But the word gets passed down. Eighty years since one band tried to kill off another for their food, that's what we figure."
"That's very good," Gar said. "I should think hunger would drive you to it more often than that."
"It might, if the clans didn't club together to wipe us out every so often," Zeke said bitterly.
"When you tell it that way, I'm surprised there's anyone who doesn't join you in the forest," Gar said.
Lem eyed him askance. "You know what `outlaw' means, stranger?"
"Happens that I do," Gar said. "It means that you broke the law, put yourself outside it, so you lose its protection. Anyone can kill you for any reason, and your clan won't avenge you."
Lem nodded. "So anybody from any clan can beat us up or steal from us or kill us off if they're fool enough to come into the deep woods, where every tree trunk might have a sharpshooter ready to kill them."
"But it means no healing if you're sick, and none of the goods you can make on a homestead," Farrell pointed out. Gar nodded slowly. "Good reasons to stay within the law, even if you don't really agree with it. You'd have to be awfully sick of fighting to stand up and walk out. Do all the clans have those laws?"
"There's stories about clans who didn't, but they died off," Farrell said offhandedly.
A Wizard In a Feud Page 6