Clifford Simak - A Heritage of Stars

"You'll stay right here," said Cushing sharply. "There'll be no creeping up. By morning they'll be gone, and we can trail them for a while to see where they are going, then be on our way.

He slipped the knapsack off his shoulder and untied the thongs. He took out the chunk of jerky and, cutting off a piece of it, handed it to Meg.

"Tonight," he said, "this is your supper. Don't let me ever again hear you disparage it."

Night came down across the valley. In the darkness the river seemed to gurgle louder. Far off an owl began to chuckle. On the bluff top a coyote sang his yapping song. A fish splashed nearby and through the screening willows could be seen the flare of the campfire across the river. Cushing crept to the river s edge and stared across the water, at the camp. Dark figures moved about the fires and he caught the smell of frying meat. Off in the darkness horses moved restlessly, stamping and snorting. Cushing squatted in the willows for an hour or more, alert to any danger. When he was satisfied there seemed to be none, he made his way back to where Meg and Rollo sat with Andy.

Cushing made a motion toward the horse. "Is he all right?" he asked.

"I talked to him," said Meg. "I explained to him. He will give no trouble."

"No spells?" he asked, jokingly. "You put no spell upon him?

"Perhaps a slight one, only. It will never harm him."

"We should get some sleep," he said. "How about it, Rollo? Can you watch the horse for us?

Rollo reached out a hand and stroked Andy's neck. "lie likes me, he said. "He is not frightened of me."

"Why should he be frightened of you?" asked Meg. "He knows you are his friend."

"Things at times are frightened of me," the robot said. "I come in the general shape of men but I am not a man. Go on and sleep. I need no sleep. I will stay and watch. If need be, I will waken you.

"Be sure you do," said Cushing. "If there is anything at all. I think it is all right. Everything is quiet. They're settling down over there, across the river.

Wrapped in the blanket, he stared up through the willows. There was no wind and the leaves hung limply. Through them a few stars could be seen. The river murmured at him, talking its way down across the land. His mind cast back across the days and he tried to number them, but the numbers ran together and became a broad stream, like the river, slipping down the land. It had been good, he thought—the sun, the nights, the river and the land. There were no protective walls, no potato patches. Was this the way, he wondered, that a man was meant to live, in freedom and communion with the land, the water and the weather? Somewhere in the past, had man taken the wrong turning that brought him to walls, to wars and to potato patches? Somewhere down the river the owl heard earlier in the evening (could it be the same one?) chuckled, and far off a coyote sang in loneliness, and above the willows the stars seemed to leave their stations far in space and come to lean above him.

He was wakened by a hand that was gently shaking him.

"Cushing," someone was saying. "Cushing, come awake. The camp across the river. There is something going on.

He saw that it was Rollo, the starlight glinting on his metal.

He half scrambled from the blanket. "What is it?" he asked.

"There's a lot of commotion. They are pulling out, I think. Dawn hours off and they are pulling out."

Cushing scrambled out of the blanket. "Okay, let us have a look."

Squatted at the water's edge, he stared across the river. The fires, burned low, were red eyes in the darkness. Hurrying figures moved darkly among them. The sound of stamping horses, the creak of saddle leather, but there was little talking.

"You're right," said Cushing. "Something spooked them."

"An expedition from the City? Following them?"

"Maybe," said Cushing. "I doubt it. If the city tribes beat them off, they'd be quite satisfied to leave them alone. But if these friends of ours across the river did take a beating, they'd be jumpy. They would run at shadows. They're in a hurry to get back to their old home grounds, wherever that may be."

Except for the muted noises of the camp and the murmur of the river, the land lay in silence. Both coyote and owl were quiet.

"We were lucky, sir," said Rollo.

"Yes, we were," said Cushing. "If they had spotted us, we might have been hard pressed to get away.

Horses were being led into the camp area and men were mounting. Someone cursed at his horse. Then they were moving out. Hoofs padded against the ground, saddle leather creaked, words went back and forth.

Cushing and Rollo squatted, listening as the hoof beats receded and finally ceased.

"They'll get out of the valley as soon as they can," said Cushing. "Out on the prairie they can make better time."

"What do we do now?"

"We stay right here. A little later, just before dawn, I'll cross and scout. As soon as we know they're out on the prairie, we'll be on our way.

The stars were paling in the east when Cushing waded the stream. At the campsite the fires still smoked and cooling embers blinked among the ashes. Slipping through the trees, he found the trail, chewed by pounding hoofs, that the nomads had taken, angling up the bluff. He found the place where they had emerged upon the prairie and used the glasses to examine the wide sweep of rolling ground. A herd of wild cattle grazed in the middle distance. A bear was flipping over stones with an agile paw, to look for ants or grubs. A fox was slinking home after a night of hunting. Ducks gabbled in a tiny prairie pond. There were other animals, but no sign of humans. The nomads had been swallowed in the distance.

All the stars were gone and the east had brightened when he turned downhill for the camp. He snorted in disdain at the disorder of the place. No attempt had been made to police the grounds. Gnawed bones were scattered about the dead campfires. A forgotten double-bitted axe leaned against a tree. Someone had discarded a pair of worn-out moccasins. A buckskin sack lay beneath a bush.

He used his toe to push the sack from beneath the bush, knelt to unfasten the throngs, then seized it by the bottom and upended it.

Loot. Three knives, a small mirror in which the glass had become clouded, a ball of twine, a decanter of cut glass, a small metal fry-pan, an ancient pocket watch that probably had not run for years, a necklace of opaque red and purple beads, a thin, board-covered book, several folded squares of paper. A pitiful pile of loot, thought Cushing, bending over and sorting through it, looking at it. Not much to risk one's life and limb for. Although loot, he supposed, had been a small by-product, no more than souvenirs. Glory was what the owner of the bag had ridden for.

He picked up the book and leafed through the pages. A children's book from long ago, with many colored illustrations of imaginary places and imaginary people. A pretty book. Something to be shown and wondered over beside a winter campfire.

He dropped it on the pile of loot and picked up one of the squares of folded paper. It was brittle from long folding— perhaps for centuries—and required gingerly handling. Fold by careful fold he spread it out, seeing as he did so that it was more tightly folded and larger than he had thought. Finally the last fold was free and he spread it out, still being careful of it. In the growing light of dawn he bent close above it to make out what it was and, for a moment, was not certain—only a flat and time-yellowed surface with faint brown squiggle lines that ran in insane curves and wiggles and with brown printing on it. And then he saw—a topographical map, and, from the shape of it, of the one-time state of Minnesota. He shifted it so he could read the legends, and there they were—the Mississippi, the Minnesota, the Mesabi and Vermilion ranges, Mule Lacs, the North Shore.