"Goddammit, Henry!" Girenas shouted. It seemed an appropriate war cry for this particular fight.

He shot, and the warrior folded around his gut with an ooooffp. Girenas ignored him, since he wouldn't be getting up again. Another one was running forward to spear Morris on the ground, and there was no time to reload. Pete's horse bounded forward-it was half quarter horse and had great acceleration-and he threw himself out of the saddle, landing between the spearman's shoulder blades. The impact knocked the breath out of both of them, but the Islander was expecting ft. He came up first, slammed the edge of his hand into the back of the Indian's neck, grabbed chin and hair and twisted hard. There was a green-stick crack, and the man went limp.

Girenas rose, whipped out his bowie, and looked around. The fight was over; the topknot warriors were running-the twenty or so left alive-with the three mounted Islanders after them. Puffs of smoke rose from their rifles, and now and then a man would go down. Girenas nodded, his breathing slowing, the diamond focus of combat opening out. They couldn't afford to have the topknot people dogging their tracks in blood-feud mode. Good hunters could outrun horses, over days or weeks.

He sheathed the knife, found his rifle and loaded, and whistled up his horse, all the time looking at the braids-and-feathers warriors. There were five left on their feet: two men in their prime, an older one with a wrinkled face and white threads in his black hair-call him forty or so-and a teenager. The women and children were still up on the rise, but beginning to talk. The men laid down their weapons and held up their hands toward the Islander; Girenas nodded, made as many as he could remember of the peace gestures-quite different- of the tribes they'd met, and moved to his injured comrade.

Morris was semiconscious, stirring and moaning a little. Girenas knelt by his side and opened one eye, then the other. Mild concussion, he thought. The leg wasn't ripped or bleeding, but Morris stirred and screamed as the ranger's strong hands manipulated it. Oh, great, our doctor's injured.

Awareness returned to the green eyes. "You with us, Henry?" Girenas asked.

"S-s-sure. Ah, Christ."

"That arrow was a bad idea, Henry."

"Yeah… Jesus, my leg!"

"Broken."

The older man slowly, cautiously felt it himself. "I'll say," he said. "Two places. Should heal if it's splinted. Look, Pete, I'm sorry; I screwed up. You've got a better sense of these things than I do. Won't happen again."

"Okay, man, no problem," Girenas said, his anger guttering away. "What about the leg?"

"It'll heal." Morris hesitated. "I'm afraid it's going to take a while, multiple fracture like this."

"How long?"

"Ah… two months. Possibly three. Of course, I could die," he went on, avoiding Girenas's eyes.

The ranger came to his feet, snorting disgust. The others rode back,

Sue quiet, Dekkomosu impassive, Eddie Vergeraxsson whooping and waving a couple of bloody scalps.

Girenas winced. Not many Indians in this era took scalps, but the Sun People tribes did. The locals were looking impressed and horrified, in various degrees.

"How's Henry?" Sue Chau asked anxiously. "I'll go rig a travois so we can get him back to the camp and the aid kit… but how is he?"

Girenas sighed. The travois ride would hurt like hell, which was just what Henry deserved.

"How is he?" he asked, looking around. True, it was a pretty spot. "Let's put it this way. We've found the place we're going to winter, I think."

May, Year 9 A.E.

(April, Year 10 A.E.)

"dapa… Oh, God…"

Swindapa laughed softly in the darkness; the breath fluttered cool against the damp skin of Alston's neck. They wound arms and legs around each other; Marian sighed again with contentment at the closeness, the sheer satisfaction of touching and being touched. She tasted the sweat on Swindapa's neck and shoulder, nuzzling, hands stroking.

"Why couldn't we have the lamp on?" the Fiernan chuckled in her ear. "I like watching your face."

"Put it down to inhibitions," Marian laughed softly. Silhouettes showed through backlit canvas. "Bad enough you're going to yell later."

Growing up in a Fiernan greathouse, with scores of a single intermarried cousinage living from conception through birth to death under one big circular roof, did not breed an American sense of privacy. Swindapa had some inhibitions of her own, but none of them applied to making love.

Nice to have some time to relax, Marian thought, running her fingers down the other's spine. Ship about ready to launch. No sign of the Tartessians for weeks, so they'd cleared out. And right now, the camp was good and quiet; their daughters soundly asleep next door, tomorrow the day of rest-make-and-mend, no reason not to sleep in, so-

"Commodore!"

Swindapa groaned, gripped her tighter, and mouthed "Go away" silently. Alston rolled her eyes and carefully kept resentment out of her voice. Uneasy lies the head that bears final responsibility, for everyone feels entitled to interrupt you, she thought.

She went on aloud: "Yes?"

"Commodore, it's the local." The voice was Lieutenant Jenkins; he was OOD for this watch. "The one with the sore ankle? He's real upset, trying to tell us something. I thought you'd want to know."

"It's two o'clock in the goddam morning," Marian whispered under her breath. In a normal tone: "Thank you, Lieutenant. That was entirely correct. I'll be right there."

They rose, splashed water on themselves from the basin on the table-cabin furniture hadn't been reshipped yet-toweled down, and dressed. The air was cooler on her face after the close, musky heat of the tent and their bed. She took a deep breath and pushed her mind to alertness. The moon was down and it was dark except for a heavy frosting of tropical stars overhead and a few watch fires along the edge of the camp.

And we just dismounted the cannon to reship them, she suddenly remembered. They were on the Chamberlain's gun deck; they'd been lucky with the tidal scour in the outer passage, and it was deep enough to take the ship fully laden. But from the ship, they wouldn't bear on the shore, and they couldn't leave until the stores were all aboard. Uh-oh.

Jenkins was waiting patiently; his arm was still in a cast and sling, but he was walking well again, well enough to stand watch. X'tung'a the hunter was behind him, with a shaken-looking sailor behind him, rifle slung over her shoulder and cutlass at waist.

"Ma'am… he was just there, all of a sudden, right beside me on the parapet!"

"At ease, sailor. That's their specialty." And they could track a ghost over naked rock; she'd learned that hunting with them these past brace of weeks.

X'tung'a made an impatient gesture at the conversation in a language he didn't understand, then composed himself with an effort, squinting as Swindapa came out of the tent with a lantern. The pool of yellow light grew as she turned the screw that raised the wick; for a moment he forgot everything with the mercurial swiftness Alston had noticed among his folk, smiling with a child's delight at the wonder. Then he shook his head again and signed to her.

Alston crouched as he did, the posture for serious conversation among his people. X'tung'a pointed southward, then walked two fingers over his palm. He reached out and touched the pistol at the commodore's belt and made a scowling face.

"Ba'ad!" he said. "Many-many."

The walking gesture again, and then he pointed to a particular bright star. When he was sure she'd fastened on the right one his pointing finger traced an arc down to the horizon.

"Uh-oh," Marian said aloud. If that means what I think it means…