Free Cemetery World by Clifford D. Simak Page B

aside from that, I understand it’s chic to have an artifact or two on the mantelpiece or in a display cabinet.”
    I nodded, remembering Thorney, pacing up and down the room, striking his clenched fist into an open palm and fulminating. “It’s getting so,” he’d yell, “that an honest archaeologist hasn’t got a chance. Do you know how many looted sites we’ve found in the last hundred years or so—dug up and looted before we ever got to them? The various archaeological societies and some of the governments have made investigations and there is no evidence of who is doing it or where the artifacts are taken to be hidden out. We’ve found no trace of them or whoever might be responsible. They are looted and warehoused somewhere and then they trickle back into collectors’ hands. It’s big business and it must be organized. We’ve pushed for laws to forbid private ownership of any artifact, but we get nowhere. There are too many men in government, too many men who have special interests, who are themselves collectors. And undoubtedly there are funds available, from someone, to fight such legislation. We are simply getting nowhere. And because of this vandalism we are losing the only chance we have to gain an understanding of the development of galactic cultures.”
    The baying of the dogs had changed to excited yapping.
    “Treed,” said Elmer. “Whatever they were running has taken to a tree.”
    I reached out to the little pile of wood Elmer had brought in, laid new sticks on the fire, used another to push the spreading coals together. Little tongues of blue-tipped flame ran up from the coals to lick against the new wood. Dry bark ignited and threw out sparks. The fresh fuel caught and the fire leaped into new life.
    “A fire is a pleasant thing,” said Cynthia.
    “Could it be,” asked Elmer, “that even such as I should be warmed by such a feeble flame? I swear that I feel warmer sitting here beside it.”
    “Could be,” I said. “You’ve had a lot of time to grow—into a man.”
    “I am a man,” said Elmer. “Legally, that is. And if legally, why not otherwise?”
    “How is Bronco getting on?” I asked. “He should be here with us.”
    “He is sitting out there soaking it all up,” said Elmer. “He is weaving a woodland fantasy out of the dark shapes of the trees, the sound of nighttime wind in leaves, the chuckle of the water, the glitter of the stars, and three black shapes huddled at a campfire. A campfire canvas, a nocturne, a poem, perhaps a delicate piece of sculpture—he’s putting it all together.”
    “He works all the time, poor thing,” said Cynthia. “It is not work for him,” said Elmer. “It is his very life. Bronco is an artist.”
    Somewhere off in the dark something made a flat cracking sound, and an instant later it was followed by another. The dogs, which had fallen silent, resumed excited barking. “The hunter shot whatever it was that the dogs had treed,” said Elmer.
    After he had spoken, no one said a word. We sat there imagining—or at least I was imagining—that scene off there in the darkened woods, with the dogs jumping about the tree, excited, the leveled gun and the burst of muzzle flame, the dark shape falling from the tree to be worried by the dogs.
    And as I sat there listening and imagining, there was another sound, faint, far off—a rustling and a crackling. A breath of breeze came down the hollow and swept the sound away, but when the breeze died down, the sound was there again, louder now and more insistent.
    Elmer had leaped to his feet. The flicker of the fire sent ghostly metallic highlights chasing up and down his body.
    “What is it?” Cynthia asked and Elmer did not answer. The sound was closer now. Whatever it might be, it was heading toward us and was coming fast.
    “Bronco!” Elmer called. “Over here, quick. By the fire with us.”
    Bronco came spidering rapidly.
    “Miss Cynthia,” Elmer said, “get up.”
    “Get