Together, then, they struck out along a side-path toward a thick copse. Kesley's hand slipped down from the bridle to feel the comforting hilt of his knife at his waist. He glanced at van Alen, and saw that the Antarctican's blaster gleamed dully, ready for use, in the man's hand. The eight bandits drew up in a tight phalanx facing the copse. They were swarthy, dark-skinned men with heavy mustaches. "Off your horse," van Alen whispered. Kesley slipped to the ground and began to tether the mutant to a low-hanging branch. "No," the Antarctican said harshly. "Let the animals roam free. Their noise will confuse the bandits." "Right." He released his grip on the reins and slapped the beast affectionately. The swaybacked mutant began to amble off into the depths of the copse, crashing down on fallen branches as it went. Van Alen's horse struck out in another direction. Kesley grinned suddenly; the sight of his clumsy old horse thrashing away into the darkness was utterly ludicrous. Then Kesley glanced back at van Alen. The Antarctican was kneeling in a soft mossbank, aiming his blaster. He squeezed the firing stud. A bright beam of light licked out. The horse of the leading bandit whinnied and looked down in amazement at the pastern that was no longer there, and then toppled, dropping its rider. Van Alen fired again and a second horse went down. At that the bandits scattered. The two men on foot hit the ground; the other six rode off around the copse. A loud report sounded from the left, followed by an agonized neigh of pain. Kesley stiffened. _They shot my horse_, he thought. For some reason, hot tears of rage came to his eyes. The awkward-looking mutant horse had been a good friend for four years. Kesley felt as if his last bond with Iowa Province had just been severed. He yanked out his knife. Pale moonlight flickered on the polished blade. Van Alen tapped Kesley's arm, shook his head cautioningly. Kesley saw the Antarctican aim the blaster. Another spurt of light. The smell of singed leaves, sharp and acrid--and then, the smell of singed human flesh. A dull groan. "That's one," van Alen muttered. "Seven to go." Branches rustled behind them. Kesley whirled and raised his knife, but it was only van Alen's horse returning to its master. At a gesture from van Alen, Kesley slapped the steed's rump and sent it roaming again. Overhead, hoarse-voiced birds chattered their angry commentary on the conflict below. The blaster spurted again, and in its sudden light Kesley saw a shadowed figure outside the copse char and fall. Kesley began to perspire. There were still six bandits at large out there, and eventually van Alen's blaster would run out of charges. Another bullet came whistling through the woods and thunked into a tree overhead. "They've spotted the source of the beam," van Alen said. "Let's get moving." "Where to?" "Anywhere. We've got to misdirect them. I've only got two charges left."