Once a respectably
sized tribe, including wounded men, marched across their route, seeking
a ford at the river.
"They've been badly mauled," McNeil whispered as they watched the people
huddled along the water's edge while scouts cast upstream and down,
searching for a ford. When they returned with the news that there was no
ford to be found, the tribesmen then sullenly went to work with flint
axes and knives to make rafts.
"Pressure--they are on the run." Ashe rested his chin on his good
forearm and studied the busy scene. "These are not from the village.
Notice the dress and the red paint on their faces. They're not like
Ulffa's kin either. I wouldn't say they were local at all."
"Reminds me of something I saw once--animals running before a forest
fire. They can't all be looking for new hunting territory," McNeil
returned.
"Reds sweeping them out," Ross suggested. "Or could the ship people--?"
Ashe started to shake his head and then winced. "I wonder...." The
crease between his level brows deepened.
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