Free Beast Master's Planet: Omnibus of Beast Master and Lord of Thunder (Beastmaster) by Andre Norton, Lyn McConchie

him.
    “Storm!” That shout was so imperative the Terran dared not ignore it and waited for the other to come up. “Look here, kid, Quade told me about your being jumped by a knife-man in town—what kind of trouble are you in anyway?”
    “None—that I know of—”
    But the other was frowning. “I tried to find out somethin’ about that rider you put to sleep—but nobody knew him. Sure it wasn’t him waitin’ for you?”
    “Might have been—I just sighted a shadow with a knife—never saw his face.” Storm longed to get away. Quade was dismounting and he was sure the settler would join them.
    “I put Dort to askin’ around some,” Ransford continued. “He knows men in about nine-tenths of the outfits here for the auction. If anyone is out to get your hide, he’ll hear about it—then we can take some action ourselves—”
    Why was everyone so interested in his affairs? Storm wanted desperately, at that moment, to snake Rain out of the picket lines, call his team, and ride off alone into the wilderness. He did not want such solicitude, in fact it scraped raw some nerve he had not known he possessed. He asked nothing but to be left alone, to go his own way. Yet here was Larkin—and Ransford—and Dort—and even the Norbie, Gorgol, all with splendid little plans, or concern, or helpful hints for him. Storm could not understand why—any more than he knew why Bister wanted to make trouble for him.
    “If anyone is gunning for me,” he returned as well as he could without betraying his rising irritation,” it won’t do him any good after tomorrow morning. I’ve signed up as scout for a Survey expedition and am leaving town.”
    Ransford gave a sigh of relief. “That’s usin’ your head, kid. Maybethis hothead got a skinful of tharman juice last night and when he sobers up he’ll have forgotten all about it. Which way you headed?”
    “To the Peaks.”
    “The Peaks—” That echo came from Quade. Then the settler added in a language Storm had never thought to hear another speak again:
    “Where do you ride, man of the Dineh?”
    “I do not understand you,” Storm answered in galactic one-speech.
    Quade shook his head, his blue eyes measuring Storm astutely.
    “You are Terran,” he switched to the common tongue of the space-ways, “but also you are Navajo—”
    “I am Terran—now a man of no planet,” Storm replied shortly. “I do not understand you.”
    “I think that you do,” Quade countered, but there was no abruptness in that, only a kind of regret. “I overheard you saying that you had signed on as a scout with an expedition into the Peak country. That’s good land down there—look it over. My son has a holding in that district.” His eyes dropped to his hands, twisting his reins. “If you see him—” But Quade did not finish that sentence, ending with another suggestion altogether. “I’d like him to meet you—you are Terran and Navajo. Well, good luck, Storm. If you ever need anything, try my range.” His foot was already in the stirrup and he swung into the saddle, moving off before the Terran could answer—if he had wanted to.
    “If you do see Logan,” Ransford broke the silence, “I hope he’s not in trouble up to his chin. That boy’s as hard to ride herd on as a pack of yoris! Pity—Quade’s the easiest man livin’ to rub along with—if you’re straight and doin’ your job right. But he and his own kid can’t be together more’n a week before fire’s bustin’ out all over the range! Nobody can understand why. Logan Quade’s crazy about huntin’, and he lives with the Norbies a lot. But the kid never did a crooked thing in his life and he’s as decent as his old man. They just can’t seem to live together. It’s a shame, ’cause Quade is proud of the boy and wants his son for a partner. If you hear anything good about the kid, tell Quade when you come back—it’ll mean a lot to him—and he’s taken a big likin’ to you, too. Well, good