Read Online Charles Ingrid - marked man 02 The Last Recall by Charles Ingrid - Free Book Online
Authors: Charles Ingrid
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hillside to the north.
Thomas caught up Harley and swung aboard. The gelding loped at an easy pace on the heels of the nester pack, snorting now and then at the dust they kicked up.
The nester encampment on the lee side of the foothills was small. The hide teepees staked out would hold no more than six families. The stench of middens in the hot afternoon sun told him this was an old camp, due to be moved shortly when even the nesters could not tolerate the smell. A dented and primered Chevy truck rested on the ground, freight packs leaning up against its wheel rims. Three slat-sided and wormy looking horses cropped the bare hills nearby. There were looms set up between the trees and women hunched over them, ignoring the dirty children rolling around at their feet. They scarcely looked up as the pack entered camp.
He smelled possum stew and though he hadn't eaten at midday, he knew he wasn't hungry. From the looks of the clan, there wasn't much to go around. He dismounted Harley and tied him in the shade of a tree. He let a nester take the burro's lead rope from his hand.
"The burro stays with the clan," he said. "It's for the widow."
The man's brow raised at the gift of wealth. He nodded briskly and towed the animal after him. One of the women stood up suddenly and her wail broke through the camp. She lunged into a run, made awkward by her advanced pregnancy and the bone structure of her right leg, which seemed fused at the knee. He could not guess if it had been a birth defect or an old injury. Were it not for her weaving skills at the loom, even the nesters might well have found her a liability. Thomas turned away as she reached the burro's flank. Her grief grew louder.
The pack leader motioned him into the shade of a tree and presented him with a dipper of water. Blade took it without hesitation, knowing that its untested condition might well cost him a day or two of intense gastric problems, but he had vials for that. It was these people who had to live with it.
The dark-haired nester nodded in approval as Blade drank it down. "Clean water," he said to Thomas. Thomas did not dispute him. Water enough to wash the trail dust down his throat.
He looked into the barrel. The level was low. "Not much."
"No. The cowmen let the wells go dry. They say the herd strays into our territory after water. We take too much meat. So they want to leave us no water at all. The man you brought back found our well gone alkali. He killed a sheep and threw it in."
"Deliberately?"
"Yes." The nester headman led him to a stump. They sat. The nester tapped his chest. "I'm Clancy." He Hashed a grin. "Black Irish."
The last startled him. In a land where they struggled to survive, where the meaning of what it had meant to be an American, or even a Californian, had long been swept away, this man reached for roots older than the disasters. Thomas did not know how to take this. Finally, he nodded. "Clancy, who was this man?"
The dark-headed nester scratched his chin reflectively. "He didn't tell you, did he?"
"No. But I was not the judge or the jury. Nor did he tell his name to the woman who healed him, who wanted to save his life."
"We called him Kurt. He was younger than I. He wanted to force the cowmen to dig new wells, to replace the water they took from us. He never poisoned anyone. They killed one of their own.''
Thomas had guessed as much. He dug his boot heels into the pebbly earth. "They took wells from you?"
"Yes." Clancy flashed him an annoyed look.
Thomas held up his hand. "I have to be sure of this, Clancy. It's against our treaties to deny you water. You have chosen to live outside our society and laws, but you're survivors, just like us. You have water rights."
"We don't need rights. We can take what is ours." Clancy straightened in stubborn pride.
"Your nester clan is known," Thomas said, by way of acknowledgment of this prowess. He couldn't afford to fight his way out of camp and neither could they. He stood. "Thank
Thomas caught up Harley and swung aboard. The gelding loped at an easy pace on the heels of the nester pack, snorting now and then at the dust they kicked up.
The nester encampment on the lee side of the foothills was small. The hide teepees staked out would hold no more than six families. The stench of middens in the hot afternoon sun told him this was an old camp, due to be moved shortly when even the nesters could not tolerate the smell. A dented and primered Chevy truck rested on the ground, freight packs leaning up against its wheel rims. Three slat-sided and wormy looking horses cropped the bare hills nearby. There were looms set up between the trees and women hunched over them, ignoring the dirty children rolling around at their feet. They scarcely looked up as the pack entered camp.
He smelled possum stew and though he hadn't eaten at midday, he knew he wasn't hungry. From the looks of the clan, there wasn't much to go around. He dismounted Harley and tied him in the shade of a tree. He let a nester take the burro's lead rope from his hand.
"The burro stays with the clan," he said. "It's for the widow."
The man's brow raised at the gift of wealth. He nodded briskly and towed the animal after him. One of the women stood up suddenly and her wail broke through the camp. She lunged into a run, made awkward by her advanced pregnancy and the bone structure of her right leg, which seemed fused at the knee. He could not guess if it had been a birth defect or an old injury. Were it not for her weaving skills at the loom, even the nesters might well have found her a liability. Thomas turned away as she reached the burro's flank. Her grief grew louder.
The pack leader motioned him into the shade of a tree and presented him with a dipper of water. Blade took it without hesitation, knowing that its untested condition might well cost him a day or two of intense gastric problems, but he had vials for that. It was these people who had to live with it.
The dark-haired nester nodded in approval as Blade drank it down. "Clean water," he said to Thomas. Thomas did not dispute him. Water enough to wash the trail dust down his throat.
He looked into the barrel. The level was low. "Not much."
"No. The cowmen let the wells go dry. They say the herd strays into our territory after water. We take too much meat. So they want to leave us no water at all. The man you brought back found our well gone alkali. He killed a sheep and threw it in."
"Deliberately?"
"Yes." The nester headman led him to a stump. They sat. The nester tapped his chest. "I'm Clancy." He Hashed a grin. "Black Irish."
The last startled him. In a land where they struggled to survive, where the meaning of what it had meant to be an American, or even a Californian, had long been swept away, this man reached for roots older than the disasters. Thomas did not know how to take this. Finally, he nodded. "Clancy, who was this man?"
The dark-headed nester scratched his chin reflectively. "He didn't tell you, did he?"
"No. But I was not the judge or the jury. Nor did he tell his name to the woman who healed him, who wanted to save his life."
"We called him Kurt. He was younger than I. He wanted to force the cowmen to dig new wells, to replace the water they took from us. He never poisoned anyone. They killed one of their own.''
Thomas had guessed as much. He dug his boot heels into the pebbly earth. "They took wells from you?"
"Yes." Clancy flashed him an annoyed look.
Thomas held up his hand. "I have to be sure of this, Clancy. It's against our treaties to deny you water. You have chosen to live outside our society and laws, but you're survivors, just like us. You have water rights."
"We don't need rights. We can take what is ours." Clancy straightened in stubborn pride.
"Your nester clan is known," Thomas said, by way of acknowledgment of this prowess. He couldn't afford to fight his way out of camp and neither could they. He stood. "Thank
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