CHAPTER IX

The hounds bayed on my trail, and the voice in my head called me forward. I picked up the Gladstone and hastened on, following an invisible path between oozing stretches of swamp under great creeper-festooned oaks, never putting my feet on anything but firm ground. I seemed closer to the earth than I had ever been. It spoke to me, mystically, silently, and I knew where was footing and where was treacherous bog. Even so a fox traverses new territory and never makes a misstep.

I don't know how long I walked through the marshland. My thoughts were busy, my heart was light and at the same time full of my hereditary wrath, and always my ears were cocked for the sound of the dogs.

At last I realized that they were much closer. I was going fast, but my route must have been deduced and short-cuts taken, on the chance that the dogs could pick up my scent again. I began to run. The rank hanging vegetation brushed my face, bringing a flash of that older hunting scene to mind.

Suddenly—and I use that well-worn word in its strongest sense, for never was anything more startlingly sudden—there was a man in the path.

I dropped the suitcase and sprang at him, reflexes acting without my conscious volition. My surprise was overwhelming when he avoided my leap with ease, and tripped me before I could turn. Then a number of bodies hit me and pinned me to the mossy earth. With a roar I flung them off, twisting and bounding to my feet. The first man stood near. I feinted and as he dodged I changed the direction of my grasp and caught him by one arm. Then he was above my head, held helpless by my right hand. I faced the others—three of them, there were—and rasped, "One move and he's dead." I wanted the respite of a second or two in which to plan an attack. These were strong and tricky foemen.

The man aloft wriggled. I was holding him by the back of the belt. I gave him a warning shake. "Lie quiet, little man," I said, "or I'll chuck you into the ooze."

The three moved forward uncertainly. "Wait," he said to them, his voice calm. Then he chuckled. I admired his nerve. "Big fellow," he said to me, "how long since you ranged the fens and slew the upstart Man?"

I set him on his feet. "I was right," I said. "The call wasn't in my mind alone."

He grinned at his friends. "Here is another who has the memory," said he.

I stared at him. He was short, stocky, with a great shock of yellow hair sleeked down with oil. His eyes were living gray jewels in a tan face. His friends were nondescript, yet they held an odd resemblance to one another: all were broad of chest and vital-looking, and—I liked them.

"You're a rugged one," said the leader. "How long since you came awake?"

"About thirty-two hours."

They exchanged doubting glances. "I mean the first token you had that you were—different."

"Thirty-two hours."

"And you remember the fens? Are you sure?"

"I remember that I was a Pict. I was called a vampire and likely a werewolf. And I've had intimations that I go back even farther than those fens."

"My God," said yellow-hair half-aloud. "Thirty-two hours! Did you get a swat on the skull, or was it natural?"

"I think I just woke out of a sleep with it. It took a while to percolate."

"Kill anybody?" he asked casually.

"Five men."

"The primal anger, yes. Five! Then you're Bill Cuff, of course. We've been hearing about you on the radio. Thought you might be one of the Old Companions."

"So that's what I am," I said.

"A name, only a name. We like the useless trappings of fraternity as well as Homo sapiens does."

"How far back do we go?"

"You'll know some day. Soon, if your progress thus far is a criterion. Better to remember by yourself." He shook his head. "You're a phenomenon. Do you know how long it took me to develop the memory? Seventeen years. And I am second leader here."

"Who's leader?"

"You'll meet him."

I clenched my hands, looked him up and down, and said. "Pict, wolf-man, or whatever, I tell you this. I take orders badly and I acknowledge no authority higher than myself." Anything less like the old Bill Cuff would have been hard to imagine, and yet I knew these things about myself and I spoke only the truth.

"Ah," he said, his jewel-gray eyes lighting, "you're a Tartar, all right. Goes with the swift progress, I suppose. We may have to tame you a little."

"Little man," I said gently, "you are welcome to try."

He jerked a thumb at my Gladstone. "Got anything worthwhile in there?"

"Just clothes and junk."

"Well, that's something. It would be hard to outfit an ox like you from our wardrobes. We don't generally run to height, you know." He said to one of the others, "Take it to the house, Trutch." The man (or I should say the reincarnated Pict) took it and disappeared down the trail. "Now we'll throw off your hunters. Many of them?"

"Hell, I don't know. Sounds like a lot of dogs."

He scratched his cheek. "Reinforcements," he said, and whistled a fluting call. Then he made a curious motion with his right hand. I knew that motion as well as his followers did. We stepped quietly in among the thick underbrush and, squatting down, waited.