Et Silmarn sighed heavily. "It is not for us to understand the aliens. On our next visit we will discreetly record what the female Gol'berg-ah has to say, and we will suggest that she and maybe some others accompany us to Ocean Station, although I doubt Sharl will permit that to happen. I do not like to work behind Sharl's back, but Et Avian's primary mission was to uncover those very secrets."
"The humans are uncomfortable in our presence," the copilot said.
"As it would be for us if our roles were reversed," Kateos replied. "They are frightened of the power we hold over them." "They have seen nothing, yet," Et Silmarn said.
The alien airplane flying along the river valley rumbled into the distance. MacArthur, sucking on thickweed, waved at Tonto and Bottlenose, signaling them to come no closer. The fluttering of their wings would spook the trapped animals. Satisfied his brain was clear, MacArthur extracted the masticated weed from his mouth and placed the lump of chewed greens in a pouch hanging from his neck. He looked to each side. Chastain and Petit skirted the left edge of the ravine while Shannon and O'Toole took position on the right, each Marine carrying a lariat made of parachute shroud. Shaking out the coils of his rope and slinging aside his leather poncho, MacArthur stalked the terrified horses. Three golden beasts had been funneled into the narrow wash, their escape prevented by boulders and branches laboriously transported to the gully. Effort had borne fruit; the trap had worked.
MacArthur swung the lariat easily, allowing the noose to expand. He nodded to O'Toole who also began swinging his noose overhead, just as MacArthur had trained him. Only two would throw their ropes; any more would just get in the way.
"Go for the small mare," MacArthur cautioned, his voice calm. "Throw for the neck. I'll go for the legs. Make it count!"
O'Toole crept along the edge of the wash, approaching the skittish animals. MacArthur, in the wash, stayed close to the bank, giving the animals room. The largest animal, a stallion, took chopping steps directly at MacArthur and snorted, its bulging brown eyes surrounded with frightened white. The animal's streaming, golden mane rippled and waved with abrupt motion, its long tail held high and flowing. Barrel-chested, mule-eared, blunt-nosed, heavy-legged with large feet and knobby knees, the animals did not match MacArthur's boyhood memory of his grandfather's Calgary ranch horses, but they were definitely horses. The soundsand smells were pure horse, and they were beautiful, powerful animals.
MacArthur flattened against the ravine's rock wall. The stallion bolted past, trumpeting a loud, rasping whinny. The mares, confused and frightened, reared and twisted, leaping to follow the stallion's lead.
"Now!" MacArthur shouted. He stepped in toward the last animal and made a well-timed throw, looping one foreleg and tangling the other. He dug his feet into the ground and wrapped the lariat around his back and shoulders. Excited, O'Toole threw too hard, missing high. One mare thundered by and was free. The second frightened female took her first step and fouled in the snaking rope, jolting MacArthur from his feet. The Marine sprawled in the dust and was dragged along for a stride and a half before the mare stumbled to the ground, the lasso intertwining her forelegs. MacArthur and horse regained their footing simultaneously. The golden horse leapt sideways and kicked, jerking hard to free its encumbered foot. MacArthur resumed his wide stance, grabbing the line and bracing himself for the inevitable muscle-wrenching tug, but he was too slow and too weak. His hands were burned viciously as the line spun through his grasping fingers. Feeling diminished resistance, the horse leapt to a gallop, and MacArthur—on his knees in pain—watched, powerless, thinking all was lost.
Not to be denied, Chastain made a dive for the trailing end of the lariat. And missed. But the horse's rapidly moving legs whipped the rope into a tangle ensnaring her own rear legs. Again, the horse crashed to the ground. As the determined mare struggled to her feet, the quick-footed O'Toole dashed to the horse's head and slipped his noose over her neck. Chastain made another gallant effort to reach the bitter end of MacArthur' s tangled line and was successful. The combined resistance from the two ropes threw the animal off balance, and the unfortunate mare tripped for a third time. MacArthur grabbed Chastain' s dropped lariat and dashed forward, making a quick looping throw that settled over the golden neck.
"Sarge! Hold this line. Give me yours!" he shouted as Shannon joined the fray. The sergeant did as he was told, and the horse was held at three points. Struggling fiercely, the indomitable beast searched for any leverage. MacArthur darted forward and, risking injury from flying hooves, looped a fourth lariat around the animal's rear leg. The powerful animal, tangled and restrained from multiple directions, gave a last valiant struggle and fell solidly onto her side. Except for labored breathing and an occasional flailing leg, the mare lay still.
MacArthur, on his knees and gasping for air, handed the taut rope to Petit. As he released his grasp, the ache from his fingers and hands shot straight to his brain; he squatted on his haunches, head back, his throbbing hands held tightly in his lap. Petit pulled on the lariat.
"Damn, Mac! This rope's all bloody!" he shouted. "You okay?"
MacArthur looked at his lacerated palms and winced.
"Mac wouldn't have fun if he didn't bleed," O'Toole grunted, heaving on his rope.
"Slack up, Terry," MacArthur gasped. "You're cutting her wind." Moving quickly, before his fingers locked up, MacArthur shook out a pair of hobbles and slipped them over the animal's trembling legs. He dropped another noose over the horse's head and slipped off his hide poncho, wrapping it around the mare's head. Then, breathing mightily, he lay exhausted on the ground, his weight against the magnificent animal's back.
"Let her up," he exhaled. "Be ready!"
Chapter 35. Ferry
The soft, full light of a late summer morning revealed a straggling group of humans—a foraging party—carrying empty sacks and crude buckets along the receded waters of the great river. Beppo Schmidt' s thick thatch of flaxen hair gleamed like a white pearl. Red-headed Sandy Tatum and powerful Jocko Chastain, both of towering height, stood out as well. Fenstermacher, Goldberg with her baby, and Wilson rounded out the complement. They all wore ragged jumpsuits, or at least remnants of jumpsuits; several had cut off the lower portion of the jumpsuit arms and legs. A couple of them augmented their attire with hide ponchos, but all wore leather sandals laced up their calves.
The foraging party worked its way along the gravel-strewn bank, leaving the roaring cataracts and sparkling mists behind. Once past MacArthur's Valley the great river settled to a more placid pace. The main channel widened and the current diminished; narrow river islets dotted the watercourse; and river otters and long-legged waterbirds abounded. In many respects it became a long, narrow lake, easily crossed with dugout canoe, especially during the late summer and autumn. Human traffic over its span was necessary, primarily to gather furs and buffalo meat. The demands of this traffic precipitated another Fenstermacher innovation—a ferry.
The ungainly log raft floated between boulders in the eddying river waters. It was secured by four spring lines, its two big oars shipped and secured alongside; a smaller sweep oar—the tiller— hung down in the water at the stern. Fenstermacher and Chastain, wading in the gentle current, grabbed the lines and hauled the tall raft shoreward until it grounded. The group waded in to board, with Tatum taking the baby from Goldberg until the mother was safely pulled up.
"Tatum, you want the tiller?" Fenstermacher asked, standing in the water.