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of the niceties of such a meeting.
He evaded a vicious thrust from Deklay.
"The bull charges," he laughed. "And the Fox snaps!" By some incredible stroke
of good fortune, the point of his weapon actually grazed Deklay's arm, drawing
a thin, red inch-long line across the skin.
"Charge again, bull. Feel once more the Fox's teeth!"
He strove to goad Deklay into a crippling loss of temper, knowing how the
other could explode into violent rage. It was dangerous, that rage, but it
could also make a man blindly careless.
There was an inarticulate sound from Deklay, a dusky swelling in the man's
face. He spat, as might an enraged puma, and rushed at Travis who did not
quite manage to avoid the lunge, falling back with a smarting slash across the
ribs.
"The bull gores!" Deklay bellowed. "Horns toss the Fox!"
He rushed again, elated by the sight of the trickling wound on Travis' side.
But the slighter man slipped away.
Travis knew he must be careful in such evasions. One foot across the ridged
circle and he was finished as much as if
Deklay's blade had found its mark. Travis tried a thrust of his own, and his
foot came down hard on a sharp pebble.
Through the sole of his moccasin pain shot upward, caused him to stumble.
Again the scarlet flame of a wound, down his shoulder and forearm this time.
Well, there was one trick, he knew. Travis tossed the knife into the air,
caught it with his left hand. Deklay was now facing a left-handed fighter and
must adjust to that.
"Paw, bull, rattle your horns!" Travis cried. "The Fox still shows his teeth!"
Deklay recovered from his instant of surprise. With a cry which was indeed
like the bellow of an old range bull, he rushed into grapple, sure of his
superior strength against a younger and already wounded man.
Travis ducked, one knee thumping the ground. He groped out with his right
hand, caught up a handful of earth, and flung it into the dusky brown face.
Again it seemed that luck was on his side. That handful could not be as
blinding as sand, but some bit of the shower landed in
Deklay's eye.
For a space of seconds Deklay was wide open--open for a blow which would rip
him up the middle, the blow Travis could not and would not deliver.
Instead, he took the offensive recklessly, springing straight for his
opponent. As the earth-grimed fingers of one hand clawed into Deklay's face,
he struck with the other, not with the point of the knife but with its shaft.
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But Deklay, already only half conscious from the blow, had his own
chance. He fell to the ground, leaving his knife behind, two inches of steel
between Travis' ribs.
Somehow--he didn't know from where he drew that strength--Travis kept his feet
and took one step and then another, out of the circle until the comforting
brace of a tree trunk was against his bare back. Was he finished--?
He fought to nurse his rags of consciousness. Had he summoned Buck with his
eyes? Or had the urgency of what he had to say reached somehow from mind to
mind?
The other was at his side, but Travis put out a hand to ward him off.
"Towers--" He struggled to keep his wits through the pain and billowing
weakness beginning to creep through him.
"Reds mustn't get to the towers! Worse than the bomb ...
end us all!"
He had a hazy glimpse of Nolan and Jil-Lee closing in about him. The desire to
cough tore at him, but they had to know, to believe....
"Reds get to the towers--everything finished. Not only here
... maybe back home too...."
Did he read comprehension on Buck's face? Would Nolan and Jil-Lee and the rest
believe him? Travis could not suppress the cough any longer, and the ripping
pain which followed was the worst he had ever experienced.
But still he kept his feet, tried to make them understand.
"Don't let them get to the towers. Find that storehouse!"
Travis stood away from the tree, reached out to Buck his earth and
bloodstained hand. "I swear ... truth ... this must be done!"
He was going down, and he had a queer thought that once he reached the ground
everything would end, not only for him but also for his mission. Trying to see
the faces of the men about him was like attempting to identify the people in a
dream.
"Towers!" He had meant to shout it, but he could not even hear for himself
that last word as he fell.
14
Travis' back was braced against blanketed packs as he steadied a piece of
light-yellow bark against one bent knee scowling at the lines drawn on it in
faint green.
"We are here then ... and the ship there--" His thumb was set on one point of
the crude map, forefinger on the other.
Buck nodded.
"That is so. Tsoay, Eskelta, Kawaykle, they watch the trails. There is the
pass, two other ways men can come on foot. But who can watch the air?"
"The Tatars say the Reds dare not bring the 'copter into the mountains. After
they first landed they lost a flyer in a tricky air-current flow up there.
They have only one left and won't risk it. If only they aren't reinforced
before we can move!" There it was again, that constant gnawing fear of time,
time shortening into a rope to strangle them all.
"You think that the knowledge of our ship will bring them into the open?"
"That--or information about the towers would be the only things important
enough to pull out their experts. They
could send a controlled Tatar party to explore the ship, sure. But that
wouldn't give them the technical reports they need. No, I think if they knew a
wrecked Western
Confederation ship was here, it would bring them--or enough of them to lessen
the odds. We have to catch them in the open. Otherwise, they can hole up
forever in that ship-fort of theirs."
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"And just how do we let them know our ship is here? Send out another scouting
party and let them be trailed back?"
"That's our last resource." Travis continued to frown at the map. Yes, it
would be possible to let the Reds sight and trail an Apache party. But there
was none in the clan who were expendable. Surely there was some other way of
laying the trap with the wrecked ship for bait. Capture one of the Reds, let
him escape again, having seen what they wanted him to see? Again a
time-wasting business. And how long would they have to wait and what risks
would they take to pick up a Red prisoner?
"If the Tatars were dependable...." Buck was thinking aloud.
But that "if" was far too big. They could not trust the
Tatars. No matter how much the Mongols wanted to aid in pulling down the Reds,
as long as they could be controlled by the caller they were useless. Or were
they?
"Thought of something?" Buck must have caught Travis'
change of expression.
"Suppose a Tatar saw our ship and then was picked up by a Red hunting patrol
and they got the information out of him?"
"Do you think any outlaw would volunteer to let himself be
picked up again? And if he did, wouldn't the Reds also be able to learn that
he had been set up for the trap?"
"An escaped prisoner?" Travis suggested.
Now Buck was plainly considering the possibilities of such a scheme. And
Travis' own spirits rose a little. The idea was full of holes, but it could be
worked out. Suppose they capture, say, Menlik, bring him here as a prisoner,
let him think they were about to kill him because of that attack back in the
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