Robert Adams - A Woman of the Horseclans

“Us?”

“Yes, sister, one of my brothers must help me. He is most skilled in caring for wounds and injuries.”

To himself, Milo thanked his lucky stars that chance had had Fil Linszee with this party. The young man was well on his way to becoming a first-rate horse leech, and was always certain to have a packet of herbs and salves and the like secreted somewhere on his person.

“Does your brother, too, speak the language of cats?” beamed the Hunter. She was feeling very strange, much weaker, so weak in fact that it was now all that she could do to keep her big head up and frame the thoughts she beamed.

She half-sensed an answer from the two-leg, but it was very unclear. Suddenly, nothing was clear for her—not sight, not hearing, not touch, not mental perception. The dark mists closed in, thicker and darker. A great waterfall seemed to be roaring about her. Then there was nothing.

As it chanced, Fli Linszee was the first Horseclansman to come through the door into the den area. His long spear was in one hand and the writhing, jerking bodies of a brace of headless rattlesnakes were in the other. But at sight of the cat, he dropped the snakes and grasped his spear in both hands, bringing the point to low guard.

But Milo waved the spear away, saying, “You’ll not need a spear, Fil, not with any luck. Believe it or not, this cat can mindspeak. We two were having quite a conversation before she passed out a few moments back. We … that is, you, are going to try to do what is necessary to heal up those forelegs of hers. Do you think that working on a cat will be radically different from working on a horse?

Fil came further into the den and critically eyed the cat while keeping a safe distance from her, with his spear shaft held cautiously between them. Then, after sucking for a minute on his long lower lip, he said, “Uncle Milo, that cat must weigh over two hundred pounds, for all she’s not really well fed. That near foreleg will be tender as a boil just now, and it needs draining, which means that I’m going to have to cut deeply into it, probably in two places. I value my life and a whole skin, Uncle Milo, so I will not touch the cat unless she is well and firmly tied. She’s bound to be too strong for even six warriors to hold down for long.”

Reflecting that the man was no doubt right in his assessment of the cat’s strength, Milo thought hard, The two or three short lengths of rawhide rope that his party had brought along would be of no good to them at all for the monumental task at hand, nor would their seven belts help.

“Maybe.” he thought, “behind one of those locked doors… ?”

A swift succession of short, powerful blows with one end of the iron shaft that had barred the door to the cat’s den did not even dent the massive padlock, but did tear the hasp and staple loose, which accomplished Milo’s purpose.

Behind the door marked FALLOUT SHELTER, he found a real treasure trove—jerrycans of fuels, boxes of canned goods. several locked footlockers … three long-handled spades, a pickaxe, a grubbing hoe, a chainsaw, a wrecking bar and a sledgehammer. All of the moral parts of these tools had been well coated with Cosmoline, then with treated paper and looked to have just come from a hardware store.

The room was bricky dry and there was almost no dust, since the door had been thick, tight-fitting and weatherstripped, to boot, with a sill three inches higher than the floor surfaces on either side of it. There was an identical door let into the opposite wall, but Milo postponed exploring whatever lay beyond it, for he had found those things he immediately needed in the very first footlocker he had opened—several coils of strong rope, both manila and nylon, plus an assortment of webbing straps fitted with buckle fasteners.

Bearing the ropes and straps. Milo, Fil, Dik and Djim filed into the den and headed toward the unconscious cat. But suddenly, there arose a fearsome—if somewhat high-pitched—growl and one of the cat’s cubs, probably weighing all of twenty-five pounds, stalked purposefully from behind his mother. His fur and his whiskers were all a-bristle, his ears were folded back against his diminutive head and his lips were curled up off his little white teeth, After advancing a few yards, the cub took his stand, his tail swishing his rage and his fierce resolve.

Milo received the silent warning in a beaming almost as powerful as had been that of the mature cat. “Two-legs keep away from the mother or this cat kills!”

The other Horseclansmen had received the thought transmission, as well, and stop they did, all grinning and nodding their honest admiration of such natural courage and reckless daring in the defense of kin.

“Uncle Milo,” said Dik soberly, if that cub had two legs instead of four, I’d feel honored to sponsor him to my chief for adoption into our clan, for it’s clear beyond any doubt that he’s a Horseclansman born.”

Handing his coils of rope to another, Milo slowly approached the diminutive feline warrior. Squatting at a distance he hoped was out of range of a sudden pounce, he mindspoke the hissing little cat, while at the same time, on another level of his mind, he broadbeamed a thoughtless message of soothing reassurance, having noticed that such worked well with angry or frightened horses or mules.

“How is my young brother called?”

The cub did not alter his position or his mien of overt menace one whit and he eyed Milo with distrust. When he at last deigned to answer, it was with open hostility.

“This cat is called Killer of Two-legs. He is not the brother of you or any other two-leg. Keep away from the mother or you all will die under his claws and fangs!”

Dik slapped his thigh and guffawed. “Just listen to him! What a warrior he’ll be when he’s grown! Facing down four full-grown and armed men, and him but a cub cat.”

Milo spoke aloud, saying. “Don’t underestimate him. Dik. He’s smaller than his mother, yes, but even so, he’s near as big as a grown bobcat and I’ll wager he could engrave some meaningful furrows in your hide, if given half a chance.”

Then he added, “But we won’t give him that chance … I hope. Two of you, take off your jackets and then hand one of them to me, sllooowwwllyy . then get some of the lighter rope ready. I could argue all day with this obstinate little bugger, and his mother will likely die soon without help.”

With moving men well to either side distracting the attention of Killer of Two-legs, Milo was able to flip the coat over the cub, and then it was a furious matter of grab and tussle, but finally it was done; the raging, squalling beastlet was securely wrapped in two garments of thick leather and the resultant bundle was lapped about with several yards of rope. When defeat of the feline champion had seemed imminent, the other two cubs had beat a brisk and silent retreat to a far, dark corner of the den.

First Fil cleaned out the ragged wolf bite and packed it with dried herbs, then smeared it with salve; adroitly, he set and splinted the broken bones, using part of his own embroidered shirt when he ran out of prepared bandage cloths. But when he first made to shave the infected offside paw with the razor-keen skinning knife, the huge cat, which had remained inert through all of his previous ministrations, roused to full and savagely furious consciousness. She strained mightily at the ropes and straps pinioning her rear legs and her fearsome jaws, growling between the forcibly clenched teeth and fangs.

Vainly, Milo tried to reach her mind, then gave up and added his strength to that of the others to try to keep her still enough for Fil to do what needed doing.

As well as he could. Fit went on about his shaving off of the long, dense fur, As gently as was possible, his sensitive fingers roved over the grossly swollen paw and leg. After gingerly pressing several spots, he chose one of them and rubbed the discolored skin with a few drops of liquid from a small and ancient metal flask, then tilted the bottle at an angle and dipped the slender blade of a knife into it.