Mack Reynolds: The Space Barbarians

A sagamore said, “But I can think of nothing we need from the stars. Those items for which we must trade are easily available from other phylum, and we need go no further than the yearly Dail.”

DeRudder stood and said, “Do you mind, Skipper?”

The Skipper muttered, a frustrated element in his voice, “You’re the nearest thing we have to an ethnologist. Go on.”

DeRudder said, “Perhaps we can start this trade right here and now. Evidently, somewhere near Aberdeen there is at least one mine from which platinum is extracted. Very good. We will draw up a paper giving all rights to exploitation of these mines to us eight crewmen of the Golden Hind . In return, we will immediately have shipped to Caledonia, and to your town of Aberdeen, enough repeating rifles and submachine guns to arm each of your clannsmen.”

Thomas of the Clarks stood once more. “I do not understand. Some of your words are confusing. What is a repeating rifle, and what is a submachine gun?”

DeRudder said, “You have single shot rifles and use cartridges in them. These guns fire the same type of cartridges at great speed, five hundred a minute and more.”

The bedel was on his feet again, his eyes popping. “But that is against the bann!”

Thomas of the Clarks motioned him to his seat. He turned to the strangers coldly. “You are travelers and hence eligible to remain in Aberdeen for the three traditional days of hospitality. But as to granting you the exclusive rights to the mines of platinum, obviously that is against the bann. The products of the earth belong to all. Even should we wish to grant them to you, the other phyla would hardly agree. And above all, we would not trade them for what you call repeating rifles, which are most surely against the bann. Furthermore—”

But he was interrupted by the sounding of the conch.

Clannsmen leaped to their feet, dashing for their individual longhouses. The caciques and sagamores were shouting orders. Women ran for the arsenal for extra bandoliers of cartridges.

A voice shouted from a housetop, “Raid! Raid! The Thompsons! Raid!”

John of the Hawks, with the speed of youth, got back to the longhouse where he had left his carbine as quickly as did any of the clannsmen. He tore into the room he was sharing with his brother, ripped his rifle from the wall, grabbed up a bandolier, made a snap decision and sped to the roof, deciding he had no time to await the orders of the raid cacique of the Hawks.

The longhouse of the Hawks served on one side as part of the defensive wall of the town of Aberdeen. The wall was windowless on the side looking out over the fields and the roof flat, save for a parapet.

John sat down behind the parapet, slipped a cartridge from the bandolier, threw the breech and inserted the bullet. He breathed deeply, getting his breath after his run. They were after the horses, that was obvious. There were shooting and shouting over in the direction of the pastures, and a great deal of dust.

Undoubtedly, the raid caciques would shortly launch a counterblow, but meanwhile John’s position was an advantageous one, just in case the aggressive Thompsons attempted to force the town.

He heard someone come up behind him but didn’t turn. He had his elbow:, resting on his knees, the muzzle of the gun resting on the parapet.

The newcomer sat down next to him. It was one of the men from Beyond, the one called DeRudder. He was puffing. He said, “What’s happening?”

John said, “The Thompsons. They’re raiding our horses.”

“Oh. Members of one of the other confederations, eh?”

“No. The Thompsons are part of our confederation.” The other stared at him. “And they’re attacking you?” John put off answering for the moment. Through the swirl of dust a double score and more of mounted men came dashing at full tilt, shouting the battle halloo of the Clann Thompson. In the fore, at breakneck speed, rode two who held only coup sticks in their hands.

John’s lips thinned back over his teeth in a grimace of excitement. They were not quite in range. He held his fire. At the pace they were coming, they would be to the wall and directly below him before he could get off more than two or three rounds from his carbine. He pulled two more shells from the bandolier and placed them on the low parapet.

DeRudder said, “Mari, mother of Krishna, look at them come! What are those small weapons the first two are carrying?”

“They aren’t weapons,” John said. “They’re coup sticks.” He darted the other a look of surprise.

“Sticks? You mean the only weapon they have is a stick of wood, and they’re riding into rifle fire?”

John had no time to argue the niceties of the glory of an unarmed man counting coup upon an armed enemy. His eyes narrowed, and he drew a bead on the first of the fast approaching Thompsons. He thought he recognized the man and wondered at the speed at which the other had been able to organize this raid, after his disgrace at the stream.

He squeezed the trigger gently, but at that split second the two leading raiders flung themselves to the sides of their horses, even as John had done in the affair at the stream, clinging by foot and hand to the far side of the beasts they rode.

DeRudder said excitedly, “The horse! Get the horse, and the man’ll break his neck when he falls.”

John was so startled at the idea that he took his eyes from the carbine’s sights and looked at the space explorer. “But one doesn’t shoot a good animal deliberately.” He shook his head and returned to his gun. His eyes narrowed, and he began the squeeze again. The carbine barked.

DeRudder blurted, “You hit him. You hit his foot! Krishna, what a shot!”

John grunted in satisfaction, threw the carbine’s breech, extracted the spent cartridge with a flick and inserted a new one. He upped the gun again for another shot.

The leading Thompson, wounded, had fallen from his beast, but one of the others who trailed behind caught him up with a sweep and turned his own beast around to head back.

Others of the Clann Hawk were streaming up from below now, joining in the fire. The raiders were firing back, while at full tilt. John kept his head as low as was compatible with staying in the action, being fully aware of the famed marksmanship of the Clann Thompson.

DeRudder, in high excitement, pulled his hand weapon from its holster. “Here,” he blurted. “Let me train this on them. I’ll show ’em what a real gun can do.”

Shocked, John of the Hawks dropped his own gun and knocked the barrel of the other’s weapon up, just in time. A livid beam reached far into the sky, seemingly into infinity.

DeRudder stared at the Hawk clannsman. He said, “I can wipe them all out with one sweep of this.”

“And break the bann by using such a weapon! Do you wish a bloodfeud with the Claim Thompson when there are but eight of you?”

“But they’re firing at us!”

“It’s only a raid. In revengement for my stealing four horses from them.”

DeRudder crouched down behind the parapet. “I give up,” he muttered.

The charge had been broken, the oncoming raiders realizing that their attempt had come a cropper, that too many of the Aberdeen clannsmen had come on the scene to make the surprise successful. Besides, John suspected that all this was but a diversion, whilst other Thompsons rounded up as many of the Aberdeen animals as they could before the main body of the defenders came up.

There was no further value in remaining here. John joined his fellow clannsmen in dropping to the ground on the far side of the wall and dog trotting toward the pastures where the main body of the raiders was making its play. He left the spaceman behind, not bothering to speak to him further. John was still feeling his shock at the other’s words and actions. The man conducted himself like a clann-less one.