The Works of Clifford D. Simak Volume One by Clifford D. Simak
They came upon only one person in their travel—a filthy old man who lived in a cave he had dug out of a hillside facing the river, the cave shored up with timbers, to provide a noisome den in which he could sleep or take shelter from the weather. Two lackadaisical hounds barked at the intruders, with a singular lack of enthusiasm, until the old man shushed them. The dogs settled down beside him, resuming their sleep, their hides twitching to dislodge the flies that settled on them. The man grinned, showing rotted teeth.
“Worthless,” he said, nodding at the hounds. “Most worthless dawgs I ever had. Once they were good cooners, but now they’ve taken to treeing demons. Never knew there were so many demons in these parts. Of course, it’s the demons’ fault; they pester them dawgs. But it makes a man mad to spend the night out chasing coon, then find a demon up the tree. ’Tain’t worth a man’s time to kill one of them. There ain’t nothing you can do with demons. They’re so tough you can’t cook them enough to get a tooth into them, and even if you could, the taste of them would turn your stomach over.”
He continued, “You folks know, don’t you, there’s war parties on the prowl. Mostly they stay out on the prairie. No need of coming down here, because there’s water to be found out there. Some big chief has got a burr underneath his tail and he’s out to make some coup. Heading for the cities, more than likely. He’s like to get his clock cleaned. Them city tribes are mean, I tell you. All sorts of dirty tricks. No thing like fighting fair. Any way to win. And I s’pose that’s all right, although it leaves a bad taste in the mouth. Them war parties have been going through right sprightly for the last week or so. Thinning out a little now. In another week or two, you’ll see them trailing back, rubbing out their tracks with their dragging rumps.”
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. Cross over to the island. Work as deep as you can into the willows and stay quiet. Keep Andy quiet. Don’t let him made 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 blufftop 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 bear 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 bank, swimming strongly.
When he looked back at the blufftop, it was no longer empty. A small group of horsemen stood against the skyline, shouldered spears pointing at the sky. They sat motionless, apparently 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 backs.
They rode in deadly silence, with no banter back 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.
The party came down into the valley, 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 the 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 the river and creep close up to their fires, listen to what they say. It would be 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 be and my eyes are as good at night as they are in daylight.”
“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 blufftop 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. “He 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 hoofbeats 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 thongs, then seized it by the bottom and upended it.
Loot. Three knives, a small mirror in which the
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, Mille Lacs, the North Shore.…
He dropped it and grabbed another, unfolded it more rapidly and with less caution. Wisconsin. He dropped it in disappointment and picked up the third. There were only two others.
Let it be there, he prayed. Let it be there!
Before he had finished unfolding it, he knew he had what he was looking for. Just across the great Missouri, Rollo had said, and that had to be one of the Dakotas. Or did it have to be: It could be Montana. Or Nebraska. Although, if he remembered rightly from his reading, there were few buttes in Nebraska, or at least few near the river.