“Milo, Kahl, look, there to the far west, obscuring the sun. It can be nothing but a prairie fire, a big one from the looks of it, too.
“Kahl, ride back to the farms and tell Daiv Djahnstuhn about this. Tell him to take some men and boys to the west bank of the creek and burn off all the brush for a half a mile beyond it. Set the womenfolks and kids to wetting down roofs, sidings, hayricks, anything that even looks flammable. Drive in and tightly pen up all the stock, too.
“Milo, best thing we can do for you and yours is to try to set backfires around your camp, drive the horses into the lake shallows and try to keep the critters there until the big fire has gone its way. Well, man, time’s a-wastin’—are we all to be alive this time tomorrow, let’s get going!” A note of urgency and agitation was now borne in the Dirtman’s tone.
But Milo continued sitting his horse and smiling. “Wahrn,” he said gently, “you’re wrong. That’s no fire-smoke, yonder; that’s dust, the trail dust thrown up by a moving clan and its herds.”
He mindspoke Snowbelly, beaming, “Cat brother, try to range a prairiecat mind off there to the south-west.”
A split second later, the big cat beamed back, “Not just one cat mind, Uncle Milo, but almost as many as I have claws on my feet. And I know those minds, too, they are of the cat clan septs that ride with Clans Staiklee and Gahdfree. The twolegs are less than a mile behind the cats.”
Milo beamed his thanks to the cat, then turned to the two farmers. “Clans Staiklee and Gahdfree will shortly arrive, gentlemen. Let us get our kills back to camp and begin to prepare a suitable reception for the chiefs and subchiefs.”
At a fast amble, the three men, the five horses and the bounding cat headed east across the face of the rolling grasslands.