The hunter columns marched onto the stark flatness of alkaline lakes, the landscape barren, surreal, without perspective. Life was reduced to two dimensions, existence pulled down to utter flatness, distances obscured by shimmering lines of cold heat rising from silver mirages. The hunter leader ranged ahead of the expedition, using scouts as messengers. The columns of impatient hunters passed old excavation sites, smooth from winds and rain. Braan knew the advantages of getting salt of the highest purity; every grain of salt carried over the distances was dear. An extra pound of pure salt refined from the harvest would justify the added hours of hiking.
Braan stopped. Through thermal distortions rippling from the surface of the bright white salt could be seen small, erect animals. Alert to Braan' s presence, their postures were frozen and poised to action. The wind was from Braan' s left and carried no dangerous scents, nothing but the stale, acrid odor of the salt flats. Braan whistled softly to the closest scout, ordering him to fall back to the main body with instructions to form for attack. Braan motioned for the other scouts to spread to the flanks. Warily testing for rising air currents, should retreat be necessary, Braan continued forward. As the distance closed, the bleary air cleared and a familiar scent reached his nose. A tribe of mountain dwellers materialized from the wavering whiteness.
Braan halted a hundred paces short of the encampment, displaying his bow and sword openly, but without menace. His scouts held their positions a shortbow shot out on each flank. The mountain dwellers had seen Braan coming and were waiting with pikes and knives at the ready. Only a few carried shortbows. Braan made a quick head count; close to seventy mountain dwellers werespread over the salt digs. Their leader, a furtive creature with a knife held threateningly in his wiry grasp, limped toward Braan, stopping ten paces away. He was a hunter, the same as Braan, only smaller and darker, pitch-colored to Braan's charcoal, and there was no cream-colored patch on the smaller hunter's chest. The little warrior was old, a veteran of many battles, with massive scars waffling his wrinkled countenance. The mountain warrior's peculiar eyes were the color of pale tea.
"We here first, cliff dweller," said the mountain dweller chief. "No dispute, warrior-from-the-mountains," Braan answered. "Be at peace."
The aged warrior peered across the wavering distances to the cliff dweller scouts and past Braan, trying in vain to discern the magnitude of the cliff dwellers' main body. Braan sensed the mountain dweller's anger and frustration at being surprised.
"No need for fear, warrior," Braan consoled. "Thou art wise to use all thy hunters to gather salt. The snows of winter will soon be upon the land."
"We done this day," the surly creature said, his dialect difficult to comprehend. The mountain dweller chief glowered at the taller cliff dweller. Some dweller tribes, particularly those of the mountains, raided other tribes, stealing harvested salt rather than expending arduous efforts mining it. Some tribes captured hunters with the salt, forcing their captives to carry the salt back to the raiding tribe's colony, where the prisoners were enslaved or killed.
"An excellent site," Braan said. "The salt here is pure."
The gnarled and gimpy hunter, brandishing his knife, snarled. "Do not attack, tall one," he said. "Go away or we fight. My warriors have much battle. We not run."
Braan allowed his vision to drift over the head of the ravaged leader to scan once again the skulking gaggle of mountain dwellers. They were tired and malnourished. A desperate foe was a bitter adversary.
"Threaten not, warrior-from-the-mountain," Braan replied evenly. "Continue digging and depart in peace. We pose no threat unless thou make one of us by foolish acts." He turned and unfurled his wings. He paused and returned to face the twisted visage of the mountain dweller.
"Thy hunters are hungry. We have killed an eagle. What can be spared of its flesh will be brought to thee as a gesture of good will." Braan turned and cracked his wings, catching the air. A weak thermal boosted him, and Braan used the height to glide toward his expedition. The scouts retreated on foot, covering his movement.
Autumn had touched the riparian underbrush along the great river. Isolated islands of yellow and copper fringed the more prevalent darkness of spruce and fir foliage, providing depth and perspective to the narrow, tributary defiles veining into the larger valley. But the autumn glory revealed during the days of hiking along the great river paled in the splendor and fullness of MacArthur's valley. Buccari' s patrol arrived in the valley near first light of day. Breasting the slanted outlet falls above the river, the din of thrashing rapids pounding, Buccari stared over the placid lake waters into the deep and magnificent setting. Beams of pure gold from the low morning sun crafted rainbows facet in the mists, and autumn hues glowed softly, doubled by reflections from the mirrored surface of the long lake. In the distance, a festival of earth tones gave way to tracts of blue-green mountain forests, through which a waterfall fell in multiple cataracts, dashing from the steep-sided foothills at the base of the towering mountains. Nestled high above, a white-frosted, blue-green glacier flowed sinuously around white-shrouded peaks and tors, all resplendently reflected in the serene lake.
"Oh, my! It's wonderful!" Buccari exclaimed, her breath taken away by the pureness of the vision, the painful weight of the pack forgotten. "I never want to leave this place."
"I know what you mean," MacArthur said, reaching down with his foot and shattering the crystalline film of ice on a puddle. Visible puffs of warm air spewed from the speakers' mouths, punctuating their wonder.
MacArthur walked past her and she followed, stumbling, unwilling to divert her gaze from the gaudy landscape. Great flocks of waterfowl exploded from the lake, the noise from their wings rivaling the sounds of the river left behind. The patrol picked its way along the gravelly lake shore, moving deeper into the valley. Buccari finally brought her gaze back down to her feet and noticed a tall, bushy thatch growing abundantly in the marshy shallows. Birds fluttered around and through the tall grasses, perching frequently to peck at the golden reeds.
"Hold on for second, Corporal," she ordered. "I want to look at something." She removed her pack, sat down, and took off her boots.
"Time for a break anyway," MacArthur said, shedding his pack. "You got blisters?"
"See that bushy-headed grass?" she replied, wading into the frigid, ankle-deep water. "Looks like a grain." Buccari inspected the chest high thatch for seeds and was delighted to find dense rows of ricelike grain. She picked the tiny husk-covered seeds and shelled the chaff, leaving behind pale white germs in the palm of her hand. Her instincts told her that she was looking at food. Buccari hacked off some stalks and carried them to shore. She sat down, and the corporal joined her.
"I've tramped by here a dozen times. Never thought to check for grain," MacArthur said.
"You wouldn't have seen anything until a few weeks ago," Buccari replied. "This is small stuff." She stripped the seed into a cook pot.
"Can I help?" MacArthur asked. He grabbed a stalk and started stripping it. Buccari watched him work, his hands agile and sure, his face a study in concentration. They made quick work of the stalks. Done, they looked at their meager collection. It was food—the makings of bread, the staff of life. Buccari looked up and started to speak but caught MacArthur staring intently at her. She looked away quickly, her demeanor eroding before involuntary emotions.
"You have to take the husks off," she said, fingering through the seeds, separating the lightweight shells from the germ, her voice as husky as the grain. The pressure again; she was feeling the pressure of living in a natural world, a world of animal drives. Her world had been reduced to fundamentals. It no longer mattered that she could fly a spaceship; her computer skills were useless, her military rank irrelevant. She was facing the prospect of learning how to be a woman—a woman in a primitive world. The thought was not consciously formulated, but her instincts shouted the dictate, echoing it through her subconscious being. She felt the pressure.
The mountain dwellers disappeared in the night. Braan knelt and examined their abandoned equipment, the signs of panic written in the remains. He had seen hunters from other tribes only a dozen times in his long life, and each time the meeting was characterized by extreme fear and distrust. Braan contemplated the blatant differences between his own cliff hunters and those of other tribes, the tribes of the mountains, and was bewildered.
"Where should we dig, Braan-our-leader?" Craag interrupted. His lieutenant had posted the perimeter guard as Braan had ordered. Braan studied his capable and intelligent lieutenant, and was grateful for the cliff dwellers' advantages.
"Concentrate on areas already excavated, but do not dig more than the depth of a field pike. If more area is required, dig upwind, and ensure the top layer is removed."
"Bott'a has found the excavations to be fouled," Craag said angrily.
"Fouled?" Braan replied, startled.
"Dung-slugs, ashes, excrement. They did not want us to have the advantage of their work. Perhaps we should have fought them."
"No, my friend," Braan replied thoughtfully. "We were right to let them go. Start new excavations. At least we have an understanding of their fears. Let them continue to wonder about us. In the long run it will be to our advantage."
"Mac, you and Chastain finish scouting the valley," she ordered. "I'll keep Boats and O'Toole here. We need the food." She was angry, angry that she could only take a limited amount of the precious seed back to the plateau. Why hadn't they moved to the valley? She was also angry because she would not get to see more of the valley. That would have to wait until spring. She tried not to show her foul mood.
"Aye, Lieutenant," MacArthur replied. "We'll be back in three days."
Buccari watched the two men head out along the lake shore and disappear around a point of land. She was both relieved and sorry to see MacArthur disappear—his presence was disconcerting.
She went to work, directing the two remaining men. O'Toole and Jones hacked great sheaves of lake grass and carried them to an area of cleanly swept granite, where the seeds were stripped. Once a quantity of raw grain was accumulated, it was put in a tent bag and pounded against the rocks to break down the husks. After threshing, the grain was tossed into the air over the flat rocks, allowing the wind to blow through the airborne mixture, catching the lighter chaff and sweeping it downwind. This beating and tossing was repeated until the husks were flushed from the grain. After two days of laboring in the sun and wind, the three spacers were burned and sore, but they had accumulated almost thirty kilos of white grain.
"Ready for the return march, Braan-our-leader," Craag said. Harsh winds blew straight as a nail, driving stinging salt into red-rimmed eyes and white-crusted fur.
Braan walked the line of burdened warriors, checking physical condition and providing encouragement. Heavy salt bags strained fragile frames, unnatural loads for airworthy creatures. He came to his son and slapped him solidly on the back. Brappa turned and lifted his chest, proud and capable, saying nothing.
Brappa checked his own ponderous bag of salt, shrugging it against the set of his shoulders. Braan lifted his sword, pointed to the south, and started hopping slowly between the columns. Craag and the rear guard, not carrying salt bags, waited until the columns moved away. Scouts and pickets turned to their missions, ranging far ahead and to the sides.
The salt flats were left behind. The hunters scaled the rising downs, returning to the rolling tundra. The unwieldy salt bags rode heavily, and the hunters perspired under their loads, despite the chill bite of the quartering northerly. A gray layer of clouds scudded overhead, letting fall an occasional splatting drop of rain. The young sentries steeled themselves to their loads, anticipating the cliffs of home. The experienced warriors, knowing better, blocked their minds to all things.
On the second day growlers attacked, a modest pack, fourteen animals, led by a silver she-beast. The rear guard spotted them loping over the crest of an adjacent rise and whistled the alarm. The picket moved to intercept. The columns halted but did not put down their salt bags. Salt bearers shuffled in position and sniffed nervously. Dropping and retrieving the salt bags would only tire them. Braan expected the rear guard and the pickets to turn the pack. He screamed into the wind and the columns staggered forward.
The she-beast halted before the crest of the rise and stood erect on her powerful haunches, raising her eyes above the near horizon. Hunter whistles and screams floated in the wind. The growlers dropped low and skulked over the hill, turning slightly away from the columns. A hunter picket and two of the rear guard took to the air. They wheeled together and glided smoothly over the low ridge straight for the stalking growlers. The picket confronted the scavengers first, followed in rapid succession by the two guards, swooping low, tantalizingly close. Jaws snapped, tails twitched, and guttural growls lifted into the breeze; the beasts jumped to their hind legs trying to intercept the darting hunters, but to no avail. The hunters landed beyond the pack and sucked hard to regain their wind, waiting for the growlers to pursue. The she-beast followed the flyers with cruel eyes. The pack rumbled nervously as the wily scavenger smelled the wind. She looked to the nearby hunters standing alert on a knoll of tundra and then back to the massed columns in the distance. The she-beast growled deeply and headed downhill toward the more numerous opportunity. Her pack grudgingly followed.
The rejected lures struggled into the air, screaming. Braan heard their urgent alarms, ordered the columns to halt, and moved to face the oncoming fangs. Craag' s attack cry pierced the wind as that brave warrior and the balance of the rear guard hauled themselves skyward. Braan screamed the order to drop salt bags. He deployed six warriors to the opposite side of the massed hunters, positions vacated by the defending scouts and guards. It would not do to get surprised.
Braan ordered the left column to face the charge with weapons ready. The right column would be his reserve. He dropped his own salt bag and flapped tiredly into the air. The growlers, no more than a long bowshot away, bounded down the slope at the formed hunters, their horrendous grumbling increasing in volume and intensity as they neared their kill. Craag' s hunters dived on the lead beasts, firing their arrows in a glide, a difficult and inaccurate tactic. Craag was buying time—time for the rest of the rear guard and pickets to marshal. The pack reacted to the perils of Craag' s missiles, slowing and slinking sideways. A growler fell, an arrow impaling its throat.
The she-beast barked, encouraging the pack's charge, but the delay allowed five of Craag' s warriors to form a defensive rankdirectly in the growlers' line of attack. Craag and two pickets joined the rank as Braan neared the action. The defenders spread apart in a gentle crescent, intending to enfilade the pack with deadly shortbows. The growlers, heavy viselike jaws slavering with foam, yellow eyes rimmed with crimson, closed on the hunters' defensive position. Craag screamed. Bowstrings sang, and arrows buzzed into the ranks of the charging predators. Three tumbled to the ground, dead or mortally wounded, but the charge carried through the hunters' position. Craag's warriors scattered into the sky, pivoting into the wind and crawling desperately above the maws of angry growlers.
The attack lost its weight. The she-beast limped forward with an arrow dangling from her shoulder. She stopped abruptly, snatched the arrow with her jaws, and pulled until it ripped from her hide. The pack moved past her, toward the strong smell of prey, but at a wary lope. She followed, blood running from her head, where another arrow had plowed its furrow.
Braan was ready. The columns separated, and the column closest to the attack moved in line abreast, steadily up the grade, preparing to fire an overwhelming barrage. Doomed, the dumb beasts advanced, breaking into a gallop, growling and snarling. At thirty paces Braan signaled and half the bows in the facing column—those of the novices—fired. Three growlers fell and two others staggered back, limping. Braan screamed again and the arrows of veteran warriors sang viciously through the air. Four more growlers dropped in their tracks. The few still capable of running, arrows bristling from their hides like quills, turned in rout. The hunters cheered lustily and then chanted the death song in tribute to fallen foe.
"Well done, warriors!" Braan shouted. "Retrieve thine arrows. The march continues." He watched in satisfaction as the jubilant hunters scoured the ground for their precious missiles. Craag' s guards butchered the vanquished creatures, rolling the skins tightly—trophies that would soon become grievous burdens. Braan said nothing, for he had proudly brought his first growler skin home and many others thereafter.
"Hey, it's Corporal Mac and Jocko!" O'Toole exclaimed, pointing down the shore. O'Toole shouted and waved at the returning men. They carried a pole over their shoulders from which hung considerable cargo. Buccari enviously squinted across the distance, guessing at their burden. As much as she had wanted to scout the valley, she knew she had made the correct decision. She stared proudly at the large backpacks filled with seed.
"They killed something," Jones said. O'Toole jogged down the beach and joined MacArthur and Chastain, taking one end of the bough to which a beast had been tied. "It's a little deer. Look at the antlers!" Lumpy tent bags also hung heavily from the shoulder pole.
"Welcome back!" Buccari said, offering her hand. MacArthur looked down, struck dumb and stupid by the simple gesture. He looked back at her face, smiled largely, and took her hand with a firm grip. Smiling, she pulled away from MacArthur' s lingering grasp and took Chastain' s big hand. Chastain' s grip was gentle, and his smile eclipsed MacArthur's.
"Mac, let me show Lieutenant Buccari the roots you brought her, er...the toobers!" Chastain said excitedly. The big man lumbered over and yanked off one of the tent bags.
"Corporal MacArthur, you brought me a present?" Buccari asked with affected girlishness, and everyone laughed. MacArthur looked down at his feet, color rising through his thick beard.
"Go ahead, Jocko," MacArthur said, recovering his composure. "You can show 'em to the lieutenant as easily as I can."
Chastain wasted no time. He walked over to Buccari, hulking above her, and held open the bag. Buccari gingerly reached in and pulled out a russet, fist-sized nodule. It looked like a potato. Buccari looked up smiling.
"What's it taste like?" she asked.
"We boiled'em," answered Chastain. "They taste like sweet potatoes."
"We saw bears dig them up," MacArthur said. "Most had gone to seed."
"We musta eaten fifty of them," Chastain added. "Careful! They'll make you—er, they give you the runs!" He blushed. "Specially if you eat fifty of them," Buccari said, laughing.
Brappa forced himself forward one step at a time. Bag straps cut deeper with every step; his back ached, and his feet dragged on the yielding tundra. He was not alone in his suffering. The pained breathing of his comrades, a pervasive sobbing, revealed the misery surrounding him. At last they saw the cliffs.
A comfort at first, the clear skies of the third morning revealed the stately cliffs, but the landmark became a tease. Two full days of hiking did not draw them closer. The cliffs hung aloof, tantalizing the weary hunters, filling heads with hopes and dreams. Nor could Brappa purge his mouth of the salty taste or his nostrils of the alkaline smell. Nights were short, and sleep did not cure his fatigue. He awoke faithfully from the same horror—a dry, coughing nightmare of overwhelming sensations and the taste and smell of salt. His thirst expanded daily, his mouth dry as dust. His eyes burned. He did not complain.
"How fare ye, Brappa-my-friend?" asked the warrior Croot'a. "The journey is long, Croot'a-my-friend. I have learned of myself."
"Then thou art blessed with true knowledge, Brappa-myfriend." They slogged along, the columns stringing out, the vanguard over the horizon. From behind he heard whistles admonishing the salt bearers to keep up. Brappa gritted his teeth and closed interval.
"There will be water tonight," Croot'a said. "We camp at a spring. That is why the column extends. The warriors anticipate washing away the salt. They pull away in their eagerness."
Brappa had no energy for eagerness toward any purpose, but thoughts of water involuntarily caused his mouth and throat to fill. He swallowed, and the taste of salt welled within. He waddled faster.
Buccari reached the tumbling cascades marking the end of the valley and its confluence with the great river. The huge river crashed and boiled below, stark contrast to the placid valley. Her patrol was returning to the plateau. Buccari' s dissatisfaction with Quinn's decision to winter on the plateau was a gnawing cancer.
The packs were leaden, their fabric distended with excess load, their frames draped and hung with whatever would not fit inside. Chastain and Jones carried the grain, the camp gear and the venison distributed among the other three. Buccari's pack pulled heavily on her already weary shoulders. It was going to be a long, uphill hike home.
We aren't going home, she thought. We're leaving it!
The weather changed. The wind shifted to the south; the temperature rose slightly, and the dim light of dawn was filtered by a moody overcast. It began to snow early, the first flakes drifting lightly to ground. By midmorning the cliff dwellers columns left a thin trail, rapidly obscured by blowing flurries. By noon the ground was covered; visibility was eradicated. The columns tightened up. Pickets and guards peered nervously outward; growlers would not be deterred by snowfall.
Brappa slogged along, watching the footfalls of the salt bearer in front of him. Deadened to pain, his body had transcended the numbness of total fatigue. The wind cut through his bones; his legs were like stumps. He lifted each foot from the ground and carried it deliberately forward, placing it beneath his falling mass, jarringly, praying he would not stumble. Irrationally, he looked up to see if the cliffs were any closer—he had forgotten it was snowing. The snows mercifully masked the taunting cliffs. Brappa began to think that he would die.
"Thou art doing commendably, Brappa-my-friend," panted Croot'a, the young warrior. "Braan, leader-of-hunters, must be proud of his son."
"Thank thee, Croot' a-my-friend," Brappa responded. "Thy encouragement is precious, but please spare thine energy. Waste not effort on my account."
"Thou art obviously doing well, since thee remain verbose and long of wind."
"Croot'a-my-friend, shut up!"
"Very good advice."
"How you doing, Lieutenant?" MacArthur asked, dropping back and falling in step. The forest was thinning out, the roar of the river barely audible in the steep distance. Buccari lifted her head, trying to mask her pain.
"I'm okay, Corporal," she said between deep breaths. She looked at him and smiled, perceiving his deep look of concern. She knew the steepest, hardest part of the hike still lay ahead. "I'll make it."
"You're a helluva Marine, Lieutenant," MacArthur said quietly.
"Thanks . . . I guess." She averted her face, her smile turning into a grimace, but she felt better for his compliment.
"Crap! It's starting to snow!" Jones exclaimed, looking into a vague sky. A wind-driven flurry of dry snow dusted the forested hillside, the chilly breeze whispering through evergreen boughs.
"We're in for a good one," MacArthur said evenly. "Keep the pace up. We have to make the cliff trail before the snow gets too deep. It'll be a sumbitch to climb now."
"How much further?" Buccari asked.
"Don't know," MacArthur replied. "We may be in trouble." The patrol put their heads down and trudged up the mountain.
The blizzard descended in its full fury. Braan took the lead, kicking through burgeoning snowdrifts, his visible world reduced to a fuzzy white hemisphere extending but a few paces from his uncertain position. The salt bearers stumbled along in his wake, plowing the dry and powdery snow aside. The hunter leader stopped and tried to sense his position, feeling deep within his instincts. The valley head was near, but even Braan was losing confidence.
The hunter leader heard a dim and faraway whistle. His sagging shoulders lifted with hope—the relief column! Braan vigorously returned the signal call and repeated it in the direction of his expedition. Muted screams pierced the storm. Another whistle! Braan oriented himself to the signal and pressed through the blizzard. Shadowy figures materialized from the whiteness.
"Return in health, Braan, leader-of-hunters," whistled Kuudor. Snow covered his fur-shrouded form. Two sentries, cold and excited, flanked the sentry captain.
"Greetings, Kuudor, captain-of-sentries," chirped Braan. "Thy presence is heartwarming. A difficult expedition, but successful. Thy students have been faithful to thy teaching. All performed well, and all return as warriors. Good fortune but for the loss of a faithful warrior. Brave Tinn'a, clan of Botto, has joined his ancestors."
Kuudor' s shoulders sagged in relief, but he also mourned the loss of the indomitable Tinn'a. Kuudor turned to a sentry and dispatched him to deliver the news to the elders.
"Sentries stationed to mark the trail await thee," Kuudor said with ritual. "Thy burden is now theirs." The old warrior stepped forward. He handed Braan a growlerskin cape and lifted the salt bag from Braan' s shoulders, settling it on his own. Braan thankfully relinquished his burden and covered his raw shoulders with the fur. Braan whistled and the columns surged forward. Another dim whistle sounded ahead, and as the columns arrived at the next sentry's position that hunter moved into the column, relieved one of its exhausted members of his heavy salt bag, and marched alongside. Onward the salt bearers marched, listening for the sentry beacons ahead, waiting for fresh backs to relieve them of their loads. The bone-weary cliff dwellers gave up their onerous burdens as if being reborn. Many cried, overwhelmed by the succor. And thus they were guided down the narrow and steep valley and across the ice-encrusted bridge. An agonizing uphill journey remained, but their numbers and energies were expanded to the task.
The forest ended. The patrol was abruptly in the open, above the tree line. The clouds lifted momentarily, revealing their precipitous ascent. MacArthur stopped and stared upwards.
"Why don't we start climbing?" Buccari asked. "We have to go up."
"We could, I guess," MacArthur replied, turning to face her. "That path cuts along the edge of the cliff, and it switches back over those higher ridges to the left. If we blindly head up, we may find ourselves boxed in on one of those steep cuts, dead-ended."
"So what are you saying?" Buccari asked.
"I'm scared," MacArthur said, looking her in the eyes, "...sir."
Buccari looked up the steep ascent, but the clouds filled in; the ceiling descended, enshrouding them in foggy flurries.
Hunter scouts detected the long-legs camped near the trail and stalked them from the edge of the blown snow's limits.
"Long-legs command the trail, Braan-our-leader," reported the scout. The scouting party leaned against the flurries, the wind lifting the plush fur of their capes.
"It is true, Braan-our-leader," Bott'a said. "They are positioned so that we cannot pass, but they are not vigilant. We could easily overwhelm them."
The others acknowledged Bott'a's assessment. Kuudor also advocated direct action. The storm was in full sway. The footing would only get more treacherous.
"Wait here," Braan commanded.
"The snow is only going to get deeper. Now's the time to move."
"Move where, Lieutenant?" MacArthur asked. "Where's the trail?"
Buccari's anger eclipsed her exhaustion; her fatigue overwhelmed her good sense. She stared into the swirling snows, frustration blossoming like a weed.
"MacArthur! Lieutenant!" O'Toole whispered urgently. "Behind you."
Buccari turned to see a cliff dweller ten paces away, its hands raised with empty palms. Buccari regained her composure and emulated the creature's actions.
"He looks familiar," Buccari remarked quietly. "Look at the scars."
"Yeah, we've seen him before," MacArthur replied, also bowing. "When we returned Tonto, he was there. He must be their leader—their captain. Look! He has Tatum's knife."
The cliff dweller stepped forward, looking agitated and frightened. Brandishing the man-knife, the animal pointed up the mountain and then to its own chest. It sheathed the knife and flashed the spindly fingers of both hands many times. The creature moved slowly toward them, palms forward, as if to push the humans backward, but it did not come too close. It pivoted its body up the slope and walked in place. The bewildered humans looked at each other trying to find meaning in the charade. Buccari approached the creature and pointed to herself and then to the rest of her patrol, and then turned uphill and marched in place, just as the hunter had done. The hunter looked around at the humans and impatiently repeated the pushing-back gesture.
"He wants us to move back, Lieutenant," MacArthur said. "I concur," Buccari replied. "Let's do it."
The humans collected their gear and moved back into the thin line of fir trees. The creature whistled into the deadening snow; a muted answer sounded, and then several more whistles, each further away, diminishing in the distance. Moments later the first scouts hiked nervously by. After the scouts came the rest of the expedition, slowly, in single file, many bent grotesquely with huge bags on their backs. Dozens of cliff dwellers filed by—scores of them. They kept coming as the snow fell harder and the temperature dropped. And coming.
"Anyone been counting?" Jones asked.
"Somewhere around a hundred fifty," Buccari said.
"Hundred and sixty-two," MacArthur said. "About a third carrying bags."
"They look tired," O'Toole said. "Wonder what's in the bags?"
"Food, I guess," Buccari said. "Probably stocking up for the winter."
The long file of cliff dwellers came to an end. The last few, without bags, walked alertly past and disappeared into the vague whiteness. Three cliff dwellers, including their captain, remained stationary, dim forms in the falling snow. Buccari picked up her pack and struggled painfully into the straps. MacArthur supported its weight.
"Ooph! Thanks," she said, looking at his feet. She raised her head and ordered, "Let's move! They're waiting for us!" She turned and trudged up the steep hillside toward the waiting animals. When she had closed half the distance the cliff dwellers turned and started climbing.