The tribesman nodded. "I figured, from the way he was actin'." He seemed
to make no particular signal--perhaps none was needed--but Geoffrey's
arms were suddenly taken from behind, and his wrists were tied.
"We'll see if he can get him a mark today," Weatherby said. He looked to
his left, where other men were just pushing Dugald into the ring they
had formed around the group. "Seein' as there's two of them, one of 'em
ought to make it."
Geoffrey and Dugald stared expressionlessly at each other. The Barbarian
kept his eyes on Geoffrey's face. "That's right," he said. "Can't have
two men fight to the death without one of them coming out alive,
usually."
* * * * *
The tribesmen lived in wooden cabins tucked away among trees and hidden
in narrow little valleys. Geoffrey was surprised to see windmills, and
wire fencing for the cattle pastures that adjoined their homes. He was
even more interested in their rifles, which, the tribesmen told him,
were repeaters. He was puzzled by the absence of a cylinder, such as
could be found on the generally unreliable revolvers one saw
occasionally.
The tribesmen were treating both him and Dugald with a complete absence
of the savagery he expected. They were being perfectly matter-of-fact.
If his hands had not been tied, Geoffrey might not have been a prisoner
at all. This puzzled him as well. A prisoner, after all, could not
expect to be treated very well. True, he and Dugald were nobles, but
this could not possibly mean anything to persons as uncivilized as
mountain tribesmen.
Yet somehow, the only thing that was done was that all of them; the
tribesmen, The Barbarian, Myka, Dugald and he--made their way to
Weatherby's home. A number of the tribesmen continued on their way from
there, going to their own homes to bring their families to watch the
test. The remainder stayed behind to post guard. Dugald was put in one
room, and Geoffrey in another. The Barbarian and Myka went off somewhere
with Weatherby--presumably to have breakfast. Geoffrey could smell food
cooking, somewhere toward the back of the house. The smell sat
intolerably on his empty stomach.
He sat for perhaps a half hour in the room, which was almost bare of
furniture. There was a straight-backed chair, in which he sat, a narrow
bed, and a bureau. Even though his hands were still tied behind his
back, he did his best to search the room for something to help
him--though he had no idea of what he would do next after he managed to
escape from the room itself.
The problem did not arise, because the room had been stripped of
anything with a sharp edge on which to cut his lashings, and of anything
else he might put to use. These people had obviously held prisoners here
before. He sat back down in his chair, and stared at the wall.
Eventually, someone opened the door. Geoffrey looked over, and saw that
it was The Barbarian. He looked at the inlander coldly, but The
Barbarian did not seem to notice. He sat down on the edge of the bed.
"On top of everything else," he began without preamble, "I've just
finished a hearty breakfast. That ought to really make you mad at me."
"I'm not concerned with you, or your meals," Geoffrey pointed out.
The Barbarian's eyes twinkled. "It doesn't bother you, my getting your
help and then not protecting you from these intransigent tribesmen?"
"Hardly. I'd be a fool to expect it."
"Would you, now? Look, bucko--these people live a hard way of life.
Living on a mountain is a good way not to live comfortably. But it's a
good way of living your own way, _if_ you can stand the gaff. These
people can. Every one of them. They've got their marks to prove it.
Every last one of them has fought it out face to face with another man,
and proved his fitness to take up space in this territory. See--it's a
social code. And they'll extend it to cover any stranger who doesn't get
killed on his way here. If you can get your mark, you're welcome here
for the rest of your life. They keep their clan stock fresh and vigorous
that way. And it all has the virtue of being a uniform, just, rigid code
that covers every man in the group. These barbarian cultures aren't ever
happy without a good code to their name, you know."
"Yours seems to lack one."
The Barbarian chuckled. "Oh, no. We've got one, all right, or you'd
never have had me to worry you. Nothing we like better than a good,
talented enemy. You know, these people here in the mountains used to be
our favorite enemies. But so many of us wound up getting our marks, it
just got to be futile. Once you're in, you know, you're a full-fledged
clan member. That sort of divided our loyalties. The problem just seemed
to solve itself, though. We understand them, they understand us, we
trade back and forth ... hell, it's all one family."