"Kwangtan is coughing a lot. He's failing rapidly. We had always thought he would live forever."
Verrill shrugged. "He's old, so old he hasn't much time left. He'd rather die a little sooner than admit that there is anything I could possibly do for him. Letting me treat him would be casting serious reflections on the fire god. How was the raid—did it pay?"
"Pretty well, all around."
"A few more sheep, and some more work for me!"
"More than that," Ardelan corrected. "There's a nice looking valley, but it's always been deadly. Poisonous from the beginning. We've never used it. That stranger, that Dawson, must have found out that the curse is no longer on the soil. They've been using it for their flocks. Well, it's ours, it always has been, so we ran them out."
"They'll come back?"
"Of course they will; but with enough raids, we'll discourage them, and then we can send some of our own people to hold it permanently. Build a settlement."
Verrill had heard talk of all this, but not in such clear terms; now, having got it from the chief, he could take notice, and he was prepared.
"Your oldest son will live there," Verrill surmised, "to represent you?"
Ardelan nodded. "Good experience for him against the day of my death, when he will rule the tribe."