As his imagination came to life the moving
points of light were transformed into the raiders, the merchants'
caravan, the tribe on the march. There was ingenious deployment, a
battle, a retreat, a small victory here, to be followed by a bigger
defeat there. The game might have gone on for hours. The men about him
muttered, taking sides and arguing heatedly in voices low enough not to
drown out the moves called by the players. Ross was thrilled when the
red traders avoided a very cleverly laid ambush, and indignant when the
tribe was forced to withdraw or the caravan lost points. It was the most
fascinating game he had ever seen, and he realized that the three men
ordering those moves were all masters of strategy. Their respective
skills checkmated each other so equally that an outright win was far
away.
Then Jansen laughed, and the red line of the caravan gathered in a tight
knot. "Camped at a spring," he announced, "but with plenty of sentries
out." Red sparks showed briefly beyond that center core.
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