The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

warriors!” Menlik snapped. “There is no peace between your rulers and mine. Do you ride now to take the herds and pastures of the Horde—or to try to do so?”
    Travis turned his head deliberately from side to side, allowing them all to witness his slow and openly contemptuous appraisal of their camp.
    “ This is your Horde, Shaman? Fifteen warriors? Much has changed since the days of Temujin, has it not?”
    “What do you know of Temujin—you, who are a man of no ancestors, out of the West?”
    “What do I know of Temujin? That he was a leader of warriors and became Genghis Khan, the great lord of the East. But the Apaches had their warlords also, rider of barren lands. And I am of those who raided over two nations when Victorio and Cochise scattered their enemies as a man scatters a handful of dust in the wind.”
    “You talk bold, Apache.…” There was a hint of threat in that.
    “I speak as any warrior, Shaman. Or are you so used to talking with spirits instead of men that you do not realize that?”
    He might have been alienating the shaman by such a sharp reply, but Travis thought he judged the temper of these people. To face them boldly was the only way to impress them. They would not treat with an inferior, and he was already at a disadvantage coming on foot, without any backing in force, into a territory held by horsemen who were suspicious and jealous of their recently acquired freedom. His only chance was to establish himself as an equal and then try to convince them that Apache and Tatar-Mongol had a common cause against the Reds who controlled the settlement on the northern plains.
    Menlik’s right hand went to his sash-girdle and plucked out a carved stick which he waved between them, muttering phrases Travis could not understand. Had the shaman retreated so far along the road to his past that he now believed in his own supernatural powers? Or was this to impress his watching followers?
    “You call upon your spirits for aid, Menlik? But the Apache has the companionship of the ga-n . Ask of Kaydessa: Who hunts with the Fox in the wilds?” Travis’ sharp challenge stopped that wand in mid-air. Menlik’s head swung to the girl.
    “He hunts with wolves who think like men.” She supplied the information the shaman would not openly ask for. “I have seen them act as his scouts. This is no spirit thing, but real and of this world!”
    “Any man may train a dog to his bidding!” Menlik spat.
    “Does a dog obey orders which are not said aloud? These brown wolves come and sit before him, look into his eyes. And then he knows what lies within their heads, and they know what he would have them do. This is not the way of a master of hounds with his pack!”
    Again the murmur ran about the camp as one or two translated. Menlik frowned. Then he rammed his sorcerer’s wand back into his sash.
    “If you are a man of power—such powers,” he said slowly, “then you may walk alone where those who talk with spirits go—into the mountains.” He then spoke over his shoulder in his native tongue, and one of the women reached behind her into a hut, brought out a skin bag and a horn cup. Kaydessa took the cup from her and held it while the other woman poured a white liquid from the bag to fill it.
    Kaydessa passed the cup to Menlik. He pivoted with it in his hand, dribbling expertly over its brim a few drops at each point of the compass, chanting as he moved. Then he sucked in a mouthful of the contents before presenting the vessel to Travis.
    The Apache smelled the same sour scent that had clung to the emptied bag in the foothills. And another part of memory supplied him with the nature of the drink. This was kumiss, a fermented mare’s milk which was the wine and water of the steppes.
    He forced himself to swallow a draft, though it was alien to his taste, and passed the cup back to Menlik. The shaman emptied the horn and, with that, set aside ceremony. With an upraised hand he beckoned Travis to the fire again, indicating a pot set on the coals.
    “Rest…eat!” he bade abruptly.
    Night was gathering in. Travis tried to calculate how far Tsoay must have backtracked to the rancheria. He thought that he could have already made the pass and be within a day and a half from the Apache camp if he pushed on, as he would. As to where the coyotes were, Travis had no idea. But it was plain that he himself must remain in this encampment for the night or risk rousing the Mongols’ suspicion once