The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

prisoner was slowly coming around, so Ross only had time to pull on the suit; he had not even fastened the breast studs before those blue eyes opened. A sunburned hand flashed to a belt, but the dagger and ax which had once hung there were now in Ross’s possession. He watched the tribesman carefully as he finished dressing.
    “What you do?” The words were in the speech of the forest people, distorted by a new accent.
    “You go—” Ross pointed to the third horse the others had left behind—“I go—” he indicated the river—“I take these”—he patted the dagger and the ax. The other scowled.
    “Not good.…”
    Ross laughed, a little hysterically. “Not good you,” he agreed, “good—me!”
    To his surprise the tribesman’s stiff face relaxed, and the fellow gave a bark of laughter. He sat up, rubbing at his throat, a big grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.
    “You—hunter?” The man pointed northeast to the woodlands fringing the mountains.
    Ross shook his head. “Trader, me.”
    “Trader,” the other repeated. Then he tapped one of the wide metal cuffs at his wrist. “Trade—this?”
    “That. More things.”
    “Where?”
    Ross pointed downstream. “By bitter water—trade there.”
    The man appeared puzzled. “Why you here?”
    “Ride river water, like you ride,” he said, pointing to the horse. “Ride on trees—many trees tied together. Trees break apart—I come here.”
    The conception of a raft voyage apparently got across, for the tribesman was nodding. Getting to his feet, he walked across to take up the nose rope of the waiting horse. “You come camp—Foscar. Foscar chief. He like you show trick how you take Tulka, make him sleep—hold his ax, knife.”
    Ross hesitated. This Tulka seemed friendly now, but would that friendliness last? He shook his head. “I go to bitter water. My chief there.”
    Tulka was scowling again. “You speak crooked words—your chief there!” He pointed eastward with a dramatic stretch of the arm. “Your chief speak Foscar. Say he give much these—” he touched his copper cuffs—“good knives, axes—get you back.”
    Ross stared at him without understanding. Ashe? Ashe in this Foscar’s camp offering a reward for him? But how could that be?
    “How you know my chief?”
    Tulka laughed, this time derisively. “You wear shining skin—your chief wear shiny skin. He say find other shiny skin—give many good things to man who bring you back.”
    Shiny skin! The suit from the alien ship! Was it the ship people? Ross remembered the light on him as he climbed out of the Red village. He must have been sighted by one of the spacemen. But why were they searching for him, alerting the natives in an effort to scoop him up? What made Ross Murdock so important that they must have him? He only knew that he was not going to be taken if he could help it, that he had no desire to meet this “chief” who had offered treasure for his capture.
    “You will come!” Tulka went into action, his mount flashing forward almost in a running leap at Ross, who stumbled back when horse and rider loomed over him. He swung up the ax, but it was a weapon with which he had had no training, too heavy for him.
    As his blow met only thin air the shoulder of the mount hit him, and Ross went down, avoiding by less than a finger’s breadth the thud of an unshod hoof against his skull. Then the rider landed on him, crushing him flat. A fist connected with his jaw, and for Ross the sun went out.
    He found himself hanging across a support which moved with a rocking gait, whose pounding hurt his head, keeping him half dazed. Ross tried to move, but he realized that his arms were behind his back, fastened wrist to wrist, and a warm weight centered in the small of his spine to hold him face down on a horse. He could do nothing except endure the discomfort as best he could and hope for a speedy end to the gallop.
    Over his head passed the cackle of speech. He caught short glimpses of another horse matching pace to the one that carried him. Then they swept into a noisy place where the shouting of many men made a din. The horse stopped and Ross was pulled from its back and dropped to the trodden dust, to lie blinking up dizzily, trying to focus on the scene about him.
    They had arrived at the camp of the horsemen, whose hide tents served as a backdrop for the fair long-haired giants and the tall women hovering about to view the captive. The circle about him then broke,