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Updated: May 2, 2025
"Not my chief!" Foscar shrugged. "He say so. He give good things to get you back under his hand. So he your chief!" Once again Ross was boosted on his mount, and bound. But this time the party split into two groups as they rode off. He was with Ennar again, just behind Foscar, with two other guards bringing up the rear. The rest of the men, leading their mounts, melted into the trees.
The young man tossed one of his braids back across his shoulder and turned his head to face Ross squarely. "Your chief come our camp. Talk with Foscar two four sleeps ago." "How talk with Foscar? With hunter talk?" For the first time Ennar did not appear altogether certain. He scowled and then snapped, "He talk Foscar, us. We hear right words not woods creeper talk. He speak to us good."
And he shall take a slave with him to serve him beyond the sky a slave to run at his voice, to shake when he thunders. Slave-dog, you shall run for Foscar beyond the sky, and he shall have you forever to walk upon as a man walks upon the earth. I, Ennar, swear that Foscar shall be sent to the chiefs in the sky in all honor. And that you, dog-one, shall lie at his feet in that going!"
Like the other tribesmen he was armed with belt dagger and ax, and since he wore two necklaces and both cuff bracelets and upper armlets as did Foscar, Ross thought he must be a relative of the older man. "Child!" Foscar clapped his hand on Ross's shoulder and then withdrew the hold. "Child!" He indicated Ennar, who reddened.
The conception of a raft voyage apparently got across, for the tribesman was nodding. Getting to his feet, he walked across to take up the nose rope of the waiting horse. "You come camp Foscar. Foscar chief. He like you show trick how you take Tulka, make him sleep hold his ax, knife." Ross hesitated. This Tulka seemed friendly now, but would that friendliness last? He shook his head.
Having been tumbled from his mount, he remained fastened to a tree with a noose about his neck while the horsemen built a fire and broiled strips of deer meat. It would seem that Foscar was in no hurry to get on, since after they had eaten, the men continued to lounge at ease, some even dropping off to sleep.
"Sharp tongue," he commented. "Tulka lost knife ax? So! Ennar," he called over his shoulder, and one of the men stepped out a pace beyond his fellows. He was shorter and much younger than his chief, with a boy's rangy slimness and an open, good-looking face, his eyes bright on Foscar with a kind of eager excitement.
He had stood up to the Reds, to Foscar's tribesmen, but he shrank from meeting those strangers with an odd fear that the worst the men of his own species could do would be but a pale shadow to the treatment he might meet at their hands. Foscar was now a toy man astride a toy horse. He halted his galloping mount to sit facing the handful of strangers. Ross counted four of them.
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