The Stars Are Ours! a-1 Read online

  “Where are we going, Dardie?” Dessie’s voice was a monotone. She had not cried, but she had shivered continually, and now she looked at the outer world with a shadow of dread in her eyes. He drew her closer as he shouldered their bag of supplies.

  “Into the woods, Dessie. We’ll have to live as the animals do—for a while. Are you hungry?”

  She did not meet his eyes as she shook her head. And she made no effort to move until his hand on her shoulder drew her along. The snow thickened in a wild dance, driven by gusts of wind to hide the still smoldering cellar of the farmhouse. Pushing Dessie before him Dard began the hike back along his path of the night before—toward the hollow tree and the meeting place. To contact Lars’ messenger might now be their only chance.

  Under the trees the fury of the storm was less, but the snow packed against their bodies, clinging to their eyelashes and a wisp of hair which hung across Dessie’s forehead so that she brushed at it mechanically. Food, heat, shelter, their needs made a pattern in Dard’s mind and he clung to it, shutting out memories of the past night. Dessie could not stand this tramping for long. And he was almost to the end of his own strength. He used the rifle as a staff.

  The rifle—and three shells—he had those. But he dared not use the weapon except as a last resort. The sound of a shot carried too far. There were only a few guns left and they were in the hands of those whom the Peacemen had reason to trust. Anyone hunting for Folley would be attracted by a shot. If their escape became suspected… He shivered with something other than cold.

  Herding Dessie at a steady pace he fought his way to the hollow tree. There was no need to worry about the trail they had left, the snow filled it in a matter of minutes. But they must stay near here—for Lars’ messenger to find them.

  Dard set Dessie to treading back and forth in a space he marked out for her. That not only kept her moving and so fighting the insidious cold numbness, but it packed down a flooring for the shelter he built. A fallen tree gave it backing and pine branches, heaped up and covered with snow, provided a roof.

  He could see the hollow in the tree from this lair and he impressed upon Dessie the necessity of watching for anyone coming along the path.

  They ate handfuls of snow together with wooden bits of salted meat. But the little girl complained of sleepiness and at last Dard huddled in the shelter with Dessie in his arms, the rifle at hand, fighting drowsiness to keep his grim vigil. At length he had to put the rifle between his feet, the end of the barrel just under his jaw, so that when he nodded, the touch of the cold metal nudged him into wakefulness. How long they dared stay there was a question which continued to trouble him. What if the messenger did not come today or tomorrow? There was a cave back in the hills which he had discovered during the past summer but—

  The jab of the rifle barrel made his eyes water with pain. The snow had stopped falling. Branches, heavily burdened, were bent to the ground, but the air was free. He pulled back his top covering and studied Dessie’s pinched face. She was sleeping, but now and again she twisted uneasily and once she whimpered. He changed position to aid his cramped legs and she half roused.

  But right on her inquiring “Dardie?” came another sound and his hand clamped right across her lips. Someone was coming along the woods trail, singing tunelessly.

  The messenger?

  Before Dard’s hope was fully aroused it was dashed. He saw a flash of red around a bush and then the wearer of that bright cap came into full view. Dard’s lips drew back in a half-snarl.

  Lotta Folley!

  Dessie struggled in his arms and he let her crawl to one side of the tiny shelter. But, though he brought up the rifle, he found he could not aim it. Hew Folley—betrayer and murderer—yes. His daughter—though she might be of the same brutal breed-though he might be throwing away freedom and life—he could not kill!

  The girl, a sturdy stout figure in her warm homespuns and knitted cap, halted panting beneath the very tree he must watch. If she glanced up now—if her woodsight was as keen as his—and he had no reason to doubt that it was.

  Lotta Folley’s head raised and across the open expanse of snow her eyes found Dard’s strained face. He made no move in a last desperate attempt to escape notice. After all he was in the half-shadow of the shelter, she might not see him— the protective “playing dead” of an animal.

  But her eyes widened, her full mouth shaped a soundless expression of astonishment. With a kind of pain he waited for her to cry out.

  Only she made no sound at all. After the first moment of surprise her face assumed its usual stupid, slightly sullen solidity. She brushed some snow from the front of her jacket without looking at it, and when she spoke in her hoarse common voice, she might have been addressing the tree at her side.

  “The Peacemen are huntin’.”

  Dard made no answer. She pouted her lips and added,

  “They’re huntin’ you.”

  He still kept silent. She stopped brushing her jacket and her eyes wavered around the flees and brush walling in the old road.

  “They say as how your brother’s a stinkman—”

  "Stinkman,” the opprobious term for a scientist. Dard continued to hold his tongue. But her next question surprised him.

  “Dessie— Dessie all right?”

  He was too slow to catch the little girl who slipped by him to face the Folley girl gravely.

  Lotta fumbled in the breast of her packet and brought out a packet folded in a piece of grease-blotted cloth. She did not move up to offer it to Dessie but set it down carefully on the end of a tree stump.

  “For you,” she said to the little girl. Then she turned to Dard. “You better not stick around. Pa tol’ the Peacemen about you.” She hesitated. “Pa didn’t come back las’ night—”

  Dard sucked in his breath. That glance she had shot at him, had there been knowledge in it? But if she knew what lay in the barn—why wasn’t she heading the hue and cry to their refuge? Lotta Folley, he had never regarded her with any pleasure. In the early days, when they had first come to the farm, she had often visited them, watching Kathia, Dessie, with a kind of lumpish interest. She had talked little and what she said suggested that she was hardly more than a moron. He had been contemptuous of her, though he had never showed it.

  “Pa didn’t come back las’ night,” she repeated, and now he was sure she knew—or suspected. What would she do? He couldn’t use the rifle—he couldn’t

  Then he realized that she must have seen that weapon, seen and recognized it. He could offer no reasonable explanation for having it with him. Folley’s rifle was a treasure, it wouldn’t be in the hands of another—and surely not in the hands of Folley’s enemy—as long as Folley was alive.

  Dard caught the past tense. So she did know! Now— what was she going to do?

  “Pa hated lotsa things,” her eyes clipped away from his to Dessie. “Pa liked t’ hurt things.”

  The words were spoken without emotion, in her usual dull tone.

  “He wanted t’ hurt Dessie. He wanted t’ send her t’ a work camp. He said he was gonna. You better give me that there gun, Dard. If they find it with Pa they ain’t gonna look around for anybody that ran away.”

  “But why?” he was shocked almost out of his suspicion.

  “Nobody’s gonna send Dessie t’ no work camp,” she stated flatly. “Dessie—she’s special! Her ma was special, too. Once she made me a play baby. Pa—he found it an’ burned it up. You—you can take care of Dessie—you gotta take care of Dessie!” Her eyes met his again compellingly. “You gotta git away from here an’ take Dessie where none of them Peacemen are gonna find her. Give me Pa’s rifle an’ I’ll cover up.”

  Driven to the last rags of his endurance Dard met that with the real truth.

  “We can’t leave here yet—”

  She cut him off. “Some one comin’ for you? Then Pa was right—your brother was a stinkman?”

  Dard found himself nodding.

  “All right,�
�� she shrugged. “I can let you know if they come again. But you see to Dessie—mind that!”

  “I’ll see to Dessie.” He held out the rifle and she took it from him before she pointed again to the packet.

  “Give her that. I’ll try to git you some more—maybe tonight. If they think you got away they’ll bring dogs out from town. If they do—” She shuffled her feet in the snow.

  Then she stood the rifle against the hollow tree and unbuttoned the front of her jacket. Her hands, clumsy in mittens, unwound a heavy knitted scarf and tossed it to the child.

  “You put that on you,” she ordered with some of the authority of a mother, or at least of an elder sister. “I’d leave you my coat, only they’d notice.” She picked up the rifle again. “Now I’ll put this here where it belongs an’ maybe they won’t go on huntin’.”

  Speechless Dard watched her turn down trail, still at a loss to understand her actions. Was she really going to return that rifle to the barn—how could she, knowing the truth? And why?

  He knelt to wind the scarf around Dessie’s head and shoulders. For some reason Folley’s daughter wanted to help them and he was beginning to realize that he needed all the aid he could get.

  The packet Lotta had left contained such food as he had not seen in years—real bread, thick buttered slices of it, and a great hunk of fat pork. Dessie would not eat unless he shared it with her, and he took enough to flavor his own meal of the wretched fare they had brought with them. When they had finished he asked one of the questions which had been in his mind ever since Lotta’s amazing actions.

  “Do you know Lotta well, Dessie?”

  She ran her tongue around her greasy lips, collecting stray crumbs.

  “Lotta came over often.”

  “But I haven’t seen her since—” he stopped before mentioning Kathia’s death.

  “She comes and talks to me when I am in the fields. I think she is afraid of you and—Daddy. She always brings me nice things to eat. She said that some day she wanted to give me a dress—a pink dress. I would very much like a pink dress, Dardie. I like Lotta—she is always good—inside she is good.”

  Dessie smoothed down the ends of her new scarf.

  “She is afraid of her Daddy. He is mean to her. Once he came when she was with me and he was very, very mad. He cut a stick with his knife and he hit her with it. She told me to run away quick and I did. He was a very bad man, Dardie. I was afraid of him, too. He won’t come after us?”

  “NO!”

  He persuaded Dessie to sleep again and when she awoke he knew that he must have rest himself and soon. Impressing upon her how much their lives depended on it, he told her to watch the tree and awaken him if anyone came.

  It was sunset when he aroused from an uneasy, nightmare-haunted sleep. Dessie squatted quietly beside him, her small grave face turned to the trail. As he shifted his weight she glanced up.

  “There was just a bunny,” she pointed to small betraying tracks. “But no people, Dard. Is—is there any bread left? I’m hungry.”

  “Sure you are!” He crawled out of the shelter and stretched cramped limbs before unwrapping the remains of Lotta’s bounty.

  In spite of her vaunted hunger Dessie ate slowly, as if savoring each crumb. The light was fading fast, although there were still red streaks in the sky. Tonight they must remain here—but tomorrow? If Lotta’s return of the rifle to the barn did not stop the search—then tomorrow the fugitives would have to take to the trail again.

  “Is it going to snow again, Dardie?”

  He studied the sky. “I don’t think so. I wish it would.”

  “Why? When the snow is so deep, it’s hard to walk.”

  He tried to explain. “Because when it snows, it is really warmer. Too cold a night…” he didn’t finish that sentence, but encircled Dessie with a tong arm and drew her back under the shelter with him. She wriggled about, settling herself more comfortably, then she jerked upright again.

  “Someone’s coming!” her whisper was warm on his cheek.

  He had heard that too, the faint creak of a foot on the icy coated snow. And his hand closed about the haft of his knife.

  3. THE CLEFT DWELLERS

  HE WAS A SMALL MAN, the newcomer, and Dard overtopped him by four inches or more. And that gave the boy confidence enough to pull out of the shelter. He watched the stranger come confidently on, as though he knew just how many steps lay between himself and some goal. His clothing, what could be seen of it in the fast deepening dusk, was as ragged and patched as Dard’s own. This was no landsman or Peaceman scout. Only one who did not hold all the important “confidence cards” would go about so unkempt. Which meant that he was an “unreliable,” almost as much an outlaw as a techneer or a scientist

  The newcomer stopped abruptly in front of the tree. But he did not raise his hand to the hollow, instead he studied the tracks left by Lotta. But finally he shrugged and reached into the hole.

  Dard moved and the other whirled in a half-crouch. There was the gleam of teeth in his bearded face, and another glint—of bare metal—in his hand.

  But he made no sound and it was Dard who broke the quiet.

  “I am Dard Nordis—”

  “So?…” The single word was lengthened to approximate a reptile’s hiss.

  And Dard sensed that he was facing a dangerous man, a menace far worse than Hew Folley or any of his brutal kind.

  “Suppose you tell me what has happened?” the man added.

  “Roundup raid—last night,” Dard returned laconically, his initial relief at the other’s coming considerably dampened. “We thought we had escaped. I came up to leave that message for Lars.” He motioned to the rag. “When I got back Lars was dead—killed by the neighbor who probably set them on us. So Dessie and I came here to wait for you.”

  “Peacemen!” the man spat. “And Lars Nordis dead! That’s a bad piece of luck—bad.” He made no move to put away the gun he held. It resembled a hand stun gun, but certain peculiarities of the stub barrel suggested that it was more deadly a weapon than that.

  “And now,” the man moved a step or two in Dard’s direction, “what do you expect me to do with you?”

  Dard moistened dry lips with a nervous tongue. He had not considered that, without Lars and what Lars had to offer, the mysterious underground might not wish to burden themselves with an untrained boy and a small child. Grim necessity was the law among all the present outlaws, and useless hands coupled with another mouth to feed were not wanted. He had a single hope…

  Lars had been so insistent about that word pattern that Dard dared now to believe that he must carry his brother’s discovery in that memorized design of lines and numbers. He had to believe that and impress the importance of his information upon this messenger. It would be their passport to the underground.

  “Lars had finished his work,” Dard schooled his voice to conversational evenness. “I think you need the results—”

  The man’s head jerked. And now he did put away that oddly shaped gun.

  “You have the formula?”

  Dard took a chance and touched his own forehead. “I have it here. I’ll deliver it when and if I reach the proper persons.”

  The messenger kicked moodily at a lump of snow. “It’s a long trip—back into the hills. You have supplies?”

  “Some. I’ll talk when we’re safe—when Dessie is safe—”

  “I don’t know—a child—the going’s pretty tough.”

  “You’ll find we can keep up,” Dard made a promise he had no surety of keeping. “But we had better start now— there’s just a chance that they may be after us.”

  The man shrugged. “All right. Come ahead—the two of you.”

  Dard handed the bag of supplies to the other and took Dessie’s hand. Without another word the man turned to retrace the way he had come and the other two followed, keeping as well as they could to the trail he had broken.

  They traveled on all that night. Dard first led and then ca
rried Dessie, until, after one halt, the guide waved him on and raised the little girl to his shoulder, leaving Dard to stumble along unburdened. They rested at intervals but never long enough to relax, and Dard despaired of being able to keep up the pace. This messenger was a tireless machine, striding as might a robot along some hidden trail of which he alone knew the landmarks.

  At dawn they were close to the top of a rise. Dard pulled himself up the last of a steep slope, panting, to discover the other waiting for him. With a jerk of his thumb the man indicated the crest of the divide.

  “Cave— camp—” he got out the two words stiffly and put Dessie down. “Can you make it by yourself?” he asked her.

  “Yes,” her hand sought his confidently. “I’m a good climber.”

  There was a hint of smile, an awkward smile, pulling long forgotten muscles about his tight mouth. “You sure are, sister!”

  The cave was fairly deep, the narrow entrance giving little hint of the wide room one found after squeezing through. It was a revelation to Dard as the guide snapped on a hand beam from a tiny carrying case he took from a ledge by the entrance. This was, the boy gathered, a regular camping place used by the underground travelers. He sank down on a bed of leaves and watched their companion pull out a black box, adjusting a dial on its side. Within seconds they began to feel the heat radiating from it. Free Scientist equipment all of this—all top contraband. Dard had dim pre-purge memories of such aids to comfort,

  Dessie gave a sigh of pure content and curled up as close to that wonder as she could get. She watched with sleepy eyes the owner of this marvel break open a can of soup and pour its half-frozen contents into a pan which he set on top of the heating unit. He rummaged through the bag of supplies Dard brought, grunting at the scantiness of the pitiful collection.