第53节

iability. Steve knew that if he ran into a bunch of Mutes whose clan

mark was on the bowstock he could end up being killed before getting a

chance to explain. Crossbows weren't things you just 'found'. A

warrior would rather lose his life than surrender such a highly-prized

object. For Steve to have one could only mean he had killed one or

more of their clan brothers to get it.

During his briefing, Karlstrom had revealed that killing Mutes was

something that Tracker renegades avoided whenever possible. During the

last several decades, the small groups of scavengers who roamed the

overground had gradually gained a measure of acceptance among the clans

whose turf bordered the New Territories.

As enemies of the Federation, their presence was tolerated but not

actively encouraged. A limited amount of trading went on, mainly

abandoned items of equipment, but no other kind of social interaction

was so.ught or offered by either side. They might be on the run but

most renegades were still Trackers at heart.

None of them were looking to share their bedrolls with lumpheads. The

result was a fragile and rather precarious kind of co-existence which

AMEXICO supported wholeheartedly when it suited their devious purpose

and also, with equal dedication, did its best to undermine.

Steve decided to leave the crossbow in the bolthole - a small escape

tunnel Snake-Eyes had excavated during the winter, and which was just

big enough to crawl through. The exit, which was at some distance from

the dug-out, was concealed by stones and undergrowth; the entrance by

an earth and wickerwork plug that the escapee pulled in behind him.

Everything of value that he did not need on the trip had already been

stowed inside.

Having closed up the bolthole, Steve then remembered he had forgotten

to pull the fish trap out of the stream. With a muttered curse he

picked up his rifle and went up the steps of the dug-out. Bar

scampered past him then stopped a few yards away with one front paw

raised and sniffed the air cautiously. Steve dropped down behind the

rocks and branches shielding the entrance to the dug-out and surveyed

the surrounding area with the aid of a battered pair of binoculars.

Once again he could discern no sign of danger. The landscape was as

empty of humans as it had been all week. Still one could never be

sure. Any renegade planning to evade the Trail-Blazer hit squads had

to master the art of concealment - something that was second nature to

Mutes. Steve had taken a crash course on the theory but was still

short on practical experience.

Whispering to Bar to come to heel, Steve moved out from cover and

headed down the gentle slope towards the stream, holding his rifle at

the ready, finger cocked around the trigger. The fur on Bar's

shoulders bristled as they entered the trees. He stopped again and his

muzzle shortened as he bared his teeth in a silent snarl.

Steve crouched down against the trunk of the nearest tree and listened

carefully. All he could hear was the rippling murmur of the stream

that marked the curving line of the valley floor. He checked the

ground behind him, on both sides of the dug-out, then made a crouching

run down the slope, rig-ragging from one tree to another until he

reached a large redwood.

Peering round the trunk, he saw what had made Bar's hackles rise. Over

to his left, by the leaning rock, a large furry animal was crouched at

the water's edge. Probably a bear. Steve had learned that some bears

made a habit of raiding fish traps in search of an easy meal. The

trouble was they usually wrecked the trap getting at whatever was

inside.

Steve closed in on the intruder. If he could save the fish and nail

the bear it would add variety to the menu.

With a limited supply of ammunition he had to try and bring the bear

down with one triple burst. These bears were tough customers. Three

rounds in the rump would only annoy it. He needed a head shot or, if

he could get the creature to rear up on its hind legs, three in the

heart.

Reaching the bank about fifty yards downstream of the trap, Steve found

a spot which gave him an unobstructed view of his target. The bear

lifted the trap out of the water and rose obligingly on its hind

legs.

It was only when he pulled the rifle firmly into his shoulder and took

aim that he saw that this particular bear had already been turned into

somebody's winter overcoat.

He lowered the rifle and moved forward, finger still on the trigger.

The owner of the bearskin turned towards him, still holding the trap.