The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

as his mount sidled toward the center of the road. The hound-dog came up and sat down to kick a patch of flea-invaded territory which lay behind his left ear. Again the morning was quiet.
    But not for long. A mud-spattered car came around the bend in the road and headed at Val, going a good pace for the dirt surfacing. Before it quite reached him it stopped and the driver stuck his head out of the window.
    “Hey, you, move over! Whatya tryin’ to do—break somebody’s neck?”
    Val surveyed him with interest. The man was, perhaps, Rupert’s age, a small, thin fellow with thick black hair and the white seam of an old scar beneath his left eye.
    “This is,” the boy replied, “a private road.”
    “Yeah,” he snarled, “I know. And I’m the owner. So get your hobby-horse going and beat it, kid.”
    Val shifted in the saddle and stared down at him.
    “And what might your name be?” he asked softly.
    “What d’yuh think it is? Hitler? I’m Ralestone, the owner of this place. On your way, kid, on your way.”
    “So? Well, good morning, cousin.” Val tightened rein.
    The invader eyed him cautiously. “What d’yuh mean—cousin?”
    “I happen to be a Ralestone also,” the boy answered grimly.
    “Huh? You the guy who thinks he owns this?” he asked aggressively.
    “My brother is the present master of Pirate’s Haven—”
    “That’s what he thinks,” replied the rival with a relish. “Well, he isn’t. That is, not until he pays me for my half. And if he wants to get tough, I’ll take it all,” he ended, and withdrew into the car like a lizard into its rock den.
    Val sat by the side of the road and watched the car slide along toward the plantation. As it passed him he caught a glimpse of a second passenger in the back seat. It was the red-faced man he had seen with LeFleur’s clerk on the street in New Orleans. Resolutely Val turned back and started for the house in the wake of the rival.
    By making use of a short-cut, he reached the front of the house almost as soon as the car. Ricky had been working with the morning-glory vines about the terrace steps, young Sam standing attendance with a rusty trowel and one of the kitchen forks.
    At the sound of the car she stood up and tried to brush a smear of sticky earth from the front of her checked-gingham dress. When the rival got out she smiled at him.
    “Hello, sister,” he smirked.
    She stood still for a moment and her smile faded. When she answered, her voice was chill. “You wished to see Mr. Ralestone?” she asked distantly.
    “Sure. But not just yet, sister. You better be pleasant, you know. I’m the new owner here—”
    Val rode out of the bushes and swung out of the saddle, coming up behind him. Although the boy was one of the smaller “Black” Ralestones, he topped the invader by a good two inches, and he noted this with delight as he came up to him.
    “Ricky,” he said briefly, “go in. And send Sam for Rupert.”
    She nodded and was gone. The man turned to face Val. “You again, huh?” he demanded.
    “Yes. And Ralestone or no Ralestone, I would advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head,” he began hotly, when Rupert appeared at the door.
    “Well, Val,” he asked, a frown creasing his forehead, “what is it?”
    The rival advanced a short step and looked up. “So this is the guy who’s trying to do me out of my rights?”
    Rupert reached behind him and closed the screen before coming to the head of the terrace steps. “I presume that you are Mr. Ralestone?” he asked quietly.
    “’Course I’m Ralestone,” asserted the other. “And I’m part owner of this place.”
    “That has not yet been decided,” answered Rupert calmly. “But suppose you tell me to what we owe the honor of this visit?”
    Now, however, the passenger took a hand in the game. He crawled out of the car, taking off his soiled panama to wipe his bald head with a gaudy silk handkerchief.
    “Here, here, Mr. Ralestone,” he addressed his companion, “let us have no unpleasantness. We have merely come here today, sir,” he explained to Rupert, “to see if matters could not be settled amicably without having to take recourse to a court of law. Your Mr. LeFleur will give us very little satisfaction, you see. I am a plain and honest man, sir, and I believe an affair of this kind may be best agreed upon between principals. My client, Mr. Ralestone, is a reasonable man; he will be moderate in his demands. It will be to your advantage to