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

talking about the Staffa River country—running up to the Peaks. I may ride on to see it—” One excuse for remaining foot-loose was as good as another, the Terran thought wearily.
    Larkin brightened. “That’s good grazin’ land—the Peak country. I’ve been thinkin’ some of that lately myself. Me, I’ve been doin’ pretty well at importin’ horses. But there aren’t goin’ to be many more brought in from off-world. Sure, we can buy ’em like these—or other fancy stuff from Argol. But that’s a lighter breed, not suited to range work. The old Terran stock is gone. So I’ve a plan runnin’ around in my head. I’d like to round me up some good basic stock—some of these we got right out here in the herd, and some range stuff of at least two generations Arzoran breeding, plus a few mounts out of the Norbie camps. Mix ’em and see what I can do ’bout buildin’ up a new strain—a horse that needs less water, can live off scrub-feed ground, and follow a frawn drift without givin’ out at the end of one day’s trottin’. Now, son, you’re a master hand with animals. You ride down there and cast an eye over the Peak country. If you’re willin’—look me up here at the fall auction and we’ll see about a partnership deal—”
    Again that tug deep inside, a blow at the wall he had built around himself. Three times now Storm had been offered a possible future—by Gorgol, by Dort, and now by Larkin. He shifted slightly and used the evasive tactics he had developed as protective armor at the Center.
    “Let me see the land first, Larkin. We can talk it over in the fall—”
    But long before fall he should meet with Brad Quade—Brad Quade and maybe his son Logan in the bargain.
    Partly to get away from his own thoughts, Storm allowed Dort to persuade him to visit the Crossing at night, leaving his team in camp and riding with Lancin and Ransford into a town that made him blink a little, it was so unlike other villages.
    Arzoran settlements such as this one were almost a hundred Terran years old now. Yet there was a kind of raw newness about them that Storm had not seen elsewhere. Between the half-yearly explosions of auction week, Irrawady Crossing was close to a ghost town,though it was the only village in several thousand squares of range land. Tonight the town was roaring, wide open. Life here was certainly far removed from the peace Storm had known on Terra, or the regimentation and discipline of the Center.
    The four from the trail camp had no more than stabled their horses when they witnessed the end of a personal argument, both men having drawn stun rods with speed enough to drop each other flat and unconscious. And they skirted another crowd moments later, watching another dispute being settled bloodily by fists.
    “Boys playful tonight, aren’t they?” inquired Dort, grinning.
    “Anybody here ever try to activate a stun gun with a blast bolt?” Storm asked. He was astonished at the grim chill of Ransford’s reply.
    “Sure—that’s been done—by outlaws. But any fella who tried to blast wouldn’t last long. We don’t hold with murder. If the boys want to play rough with a stun—and that sure leaves an almighty headache to follow a guy for hours—or try to change another fella’s looks with fists, that’s their right. But blastin’s out!”
    “I saw a couple of riders mix it up with Norbie long-knives once,” volunteered Dort. “That was a nasty mess and the winner was sent down to Istabu for psychin’. ’Course Norbies duel it out to the death when they give a ‘warrior’ challenge. But that’s accordin’ to their customs and we don’t bother ’em about it. Nobody is allowed to interfere with the tribes—”
    Ransford nodded. “Tribe wars are somethin’ like religion to a Norbie. A boy has to get him a scar in personal combat before he can take a wife or speak up in council. There’s a regular system of points for a man to gather ’fore he can be a chief—all