Instantly the ironwood tree came to life. His hand was one blurred motion as it jerked his odd-shaped pistol from its holster, squeezed the trigger. A silver streak flashed from the barrel, struck the man's arm before the club could fall. His arm froze in mid-swing.
"Drop those sticks and get off this planetoid!" As the bare-chested one came out of the shadows, his voice had virtually the force of his weapon.
The men stood with clubs half-raised, staring at him. "It's Lou Flint," one of them whispered.
"Watch him! That's an ice-ray pistol!" They lowered their clubs slowly, glancing toward their leader.
The big fellow rubbed his rigid right arm with his other hand. It stuck out before him at a grotesque angle; he couldn't move it yet. As he looked at Flint his eyes were deadly. "Don't stick your nose in this business, trapper." His thick lips curled. "You don't own this land."
"I'm sticking my nose into any business that kills off a thousand feather-deer in two weeks," Lou Flint said. "I've seen enough of your butchering."
The big man's stiffened arm suddenly dropped back to his side, perfectly normal again. An ice-ray's harmless effect lasted only a minute—but while it lasted it was a potent weapon. "You're a big talker with that gun in your hand."
In answer, Flint dropped the pistol at his feet. The other glanced at his men, saw them waiting for his next move. He strode forward. Flint waited solidly before him, fists on his hips. "You aren't leaving?" "Nope." Then quick as a snake the fellow bent, tried to scoop up the pistol. Flint was quicker. His fist plowed into the man's chin. The blow lifted him up on his toes, sent him stumbling backward till he crumpled silently to the ground. "Anybody else got any arguments?" Flint asked, looking toward the others. Nobody had. "Then get off this planetoid. If I catch you here again I'm going to send your hides back to your filthy fur boss."
Two of the men came over with tight lips and picked up their unconscious comrade. Straining under his weight, they rejoined the others who were moving back toward the trampled jungle, muttering silently.
Flint picked up his pistol, dropped it in his holster. He strode over to the side of the corral and kicked a hole in the fence to let out the feather-deer. Then, with a glance at the low-lying sun, he set out down a dim trail, walking fast.