Clifford Simak - A Heritage of Stars

He spat into the dust and said, "What's that you got there with you? I been studying it and it makes no sort of sense. It looks plumb like one of those robots some people talk about from a long time back. My grandma, I remember, she had stories about robots. Stories about a lot of things, clacking all the time, always telling stories. But you know, even when I was a tad, I knew that they were only stories. There never was a lot of them things that she talked about. There never was no robots. I asked her where she heard them stories and she said her grandma had told them to her and that her grandma probably had heard them from her grandma. It do beat hell how old folks keep them stories going. You'd think that in time they'd just die out. But not, I guess, when there are so many grandmas clacking all the time."

He continued, "Would you folks be of a mind to break bread with me? It's almost that time now and I'd be proud to have you. I have a sack of fish and a haunch of coon that still is pretty fresh

"No, thank you, sir," said Cushing. "We're in something of a hurry. We must be getting on."

Two days later, just before sunset, Cushing, traveling along the riverbank with Meg and Andy, glanced up at the bluff and saw Rollo tearing down it. He was coming fast, his metal body flashing in the light of the westering sun.

"There's something up," said Cushing. "There is some sort of trouble."

He looked around. In the last few days the river had narrowed and the bluffs on either side of it had grown less steep. A thin strip of trees still grew along the water's edge, but not the tall trees they had found farther down the stream. In the center of the river lay an island, a small one covered by a thick mat of willows.

"Meg," he said, "take Andy. Gross over to the island. Work as deep as you can into the willows and stay quiet. Keep Andy quiet. Don't let him make a sound. Get hold of his nostrils so he can't whicker."

"But, laddie boy—"

"Move, dammit. Don't stand there. Get over to that island. It's less than a hundred yards of water."

"But I can't swim," she wailed.

"It's shallow," he snapped. "You can walk it. It won't come up higher than your waist. Hang tight to Andy; if you get into trouble, he'll take you across.

"But—"

"Move!" he said, shoving at her.

Rollo was off the bluff, running like a whirlwind for the river. A flurry of dead leaves danced in his wake.

"A war party," he shouted. "Close behind me, coming fast."

"Did they see you?"

"I don't think so."

"Come on, then," said Cushing. "hang tight to my belt. There's mud on the bottom. Try to keep your feet."

Meg and Andy, he saw, had almost reached the island. He plunged into the water, felt the current take hold and tug at him.

"I'm hanging tight," said Rollo. "Even should I go down, I could crawl across the river, underwater. I would not drown. Breath I do not need."

Meg and Andy had reached the island and disappeared into the willows. Cushing, halfway across, glanced over his shoulder. There was no sign of anyone atop the bluff. A few more minutes, he thought. That is all I need.

They reached the island and plunged up the shelving bank, crawled into the willows.

"Now stay quiet," said Cushing. "Crawl over to Meg. Help her keep Andy quiet. There will be horses. He may try to talk to them."

Turning back, Cushing crept to the riverbank, staying low. Shielded by small sprays of the leafy willows, he looked across the river. There was no sign of anyone. A black bear had come down to the stream, just above the point where they had crossed, and stood there with a silly look upon his face, dipping first one paw, then the other, into the water, shaking each paw daintily as he took it out. The bluff top was empty. A few crows beat up toward it from the thin strip of woods that ran along the river, cawing plaintively.

Perhaps Rollo had been wrong, he told himself—not wrong about seeing the war band, but in calculating where they might be heading. Perhaps they had veered off before they reached the bluff. But even so, even if Rollo's calculation had been wrong, with a war party in the vicinity, it had not been a bad idea to go to cover. They had been lucky to have the island near, he thought. Unlike the valley farther down the river, there was not much cover here. Later, farther up the valley, there would be even less. They were getting deep into the prairie country' and the valley would get even narrower and there'd be fewer trees. The time would come when they'd have to leave even the scanty cover that the valley offered and strike west across the plain.

He glanced up and down the river and saw that the hear had left. Some small animal, either mink or muskrat, probably a rat, had left the lower tip of the island and was angling down across the stream toward the hank, swimming strongly.

When he looked hack at the bluff top, it was no longer empty. A small group of horsemen stood against the skyline, shouldered spears pointing at the sky. They sat motionless, a~5parently looking down into the valley. More came riding up and aligned themselves with those already there. Cushing held his breath. Was it possible that looking down at the river from their elevation, they could make out some sign of those who hid in the willows? Watching them closely, he could detect no sign that they could.

Finally, after long minutes, the horsemen began to come down the slope, the horses lurching over the edge of the bluff and coming down the slope in stiff-legged jumps. Most of the men, he saw, wore buckskins, darkened by work and weather. Some wore fur caps with the tails of wolf or fox or coon fluttering out behind. In some cases, similar animal tails were fastened to the shoulders of their buckskins. Others wore only leather trousers, the upper torso either bare or draped with furred robes or jackets. Most of them rode saddles, although there were a few bareback. Most carried spears; all had quivers, bristling with feathered arrows, at their hacks.

They rode in deadly silence, with no banter hack and forth. In an ugly mood, Cushing told himself, remembering what the old man had said about how they'd be coming back. And if that were the case, he knew, it had been doubly wise to get under cover. In such a mood, they'd be looking for someone upon whom they could vent their anger.

Behind the main band came a small string of packhorses, carrying leather sacks and bails, a few of the loads topped with carcasses of deer.

The party came down into the ~‘alley, swung slightly upstream into a grove of cottonwoods. There they stopped, dismounted, hobbled their horses and set about making camp. Now that they had stopped, there was some talk, the sound of it carrying down the river—but only talk, no shouting back and forth. Axes came into play, to cut wood for their fires, and the sound of chopping echoed between the encroaching bluffs.

Cushing backed away from the river's edge and made his way to where the others waited. Andy was lying down, nodding, his head half resting in Meg's lap.

"He's a lamb," said Meg. "I got him to lie down. It's safer that way, isn't it?"

Cushing nodded. "They're making camp just up the river. Forty or fifty of them. They'll be gone by morning light. We'll have to wait it out."

"You think they're dangerous, laddie?"

"I couldn't say," he told her. "They're quieter than they should be. No laughing, no joking, no shouting, no horseplay. They seem in an ugly mood. I think they took a licking at tile City. Scratch one conqueror's itch for conquest. In that kind of situation, I'd just as soon not meet them."

"Come night," said Rollo, "I could cross tile river and creep close up to their fires, listen to what they say. It would he nothing new for me. I've done it many times before, crawling upon campfires, lying there and listening, afraid to show myself but so starved for conversation, for the sound of voices, that I took the chance. Although there was really little chance, for I can be silent when I want to he and my eyes are as good at night as they are in daylight."