The Invaders | Page 2

between two rows of hills which curved together as higher, jumbled
foothills to the west.
Jerry's car trailed a plume of dust as it slid down to the dry riverbed. He
made a left turn and started up the valley road. At the first farm he saw
dark, plump women in billowing dresses, wearing peasant scarves over
their heads. They moved about the barnyard, raking dead leaves and
scratching busily at the baked earth of the old truck gardens. Chickens
and ducks strayed, and Jerry caught a glimpse of children. He waved to
the group and was answered by nods and flashing smiles.
Then he had a shock. One of the women was working the handle of a
pump that had been bone-dry for fifteen years--and a slender stream of
clear water spilled into her wooden tub!
Somewhat dazedly, Jerry drove on. He saw more of the Merklos people
at other farms. Men were working in the withered orchards. New fence

posts and rails were going up; bright axes flashed in the dry and
scraggly wood lots.
Jerry's thoughts kept returning to the water in that first pump. Could it
be that they had learned the valley had a supply again? That would be a
mighty joke on Hammond and the First National Bank.
The road, badly rutted by erosion and drifted over with sand and dry
leaves, began to rise. Jerry shifted into low gear. Then, suddenly, he
stopped. He'd had another shock. He had just realized this road was
unused. He recalled the twin ruts, patterned with rabbit and bird tracks,
clear back to the turn-off. Without question, his car had been the first to
mark the road since winter.
Then how had these dozens of people come, with their chickens and
ducks and children and tools? He had seen no cars, no wagons, no carts.
How had these people come?
Jerry sat back in the seat and grinned. He fished out his tobacco pouch
and filled his pipe. There were times when he considered himself fairly
mature, fairly well balanced. Yet he was as ready as the next to build a
house of mystery out of the insubstantial timber of ignorance.
Of course there was a reasonable explanation. They must have walked
from the railroad. It was a good many miles, but it was perfectly
possible.
Feeling better, Jerry followed the tortuous road to the western crest. His
long legs hadn't taken him far from the car when he heard a harsh,
"Hold up!"
First one, then the other Carver brother stepped out from a scrub oak
thicket--short, leathery old men, with ragged whiskers and dirt seamed
into their faces and wrists. They eyed him malevolently over raised
shotguns.
"Came to talk to you," Jerry said mildly.

One of them--he thought it was Ed--spat.
"Ah, now," Jerry went on in an aggrieved tone, "that's a fine way to
treat a son of Jack Bronson."
The Carver brothers glanced at one another, then the shotguns lowered.
"Come along," they said gruffly. In the littered yard by their cabin, they
pointed to a bench and squatted down before it on their thin old shanks.
"New people in Dark Valley."
They nodded.
"They've bought it from the bank. They own it clear to the ridge line,
including your place, here."
"We been here forty years," said Ed.
"If I owned it you could stay forty more."
"They send you?" the voice was sharp, suspicious.
Jerry shook his head. "I just thought you'd like to know about it."
For a couple of minutes the Carver brothers chewed tobacco in unison.
They stood up, reached for their guns. "We'll see," they said.
Jerry nodded. They walked beside him, kicking thoughtfully at the
leaves. The brother named Mike rubbed his whiskers. "Get much of a
look at 'em when ye passed through?"
"Some."
"They furriners?"
Jerry sighed inwardly. "Maybe. They look like hard workers."
The Carver brothers cackled suddenly. "They better be! To farm that
land."

Jerry passed back through the valley. A man knocking out stumps
waved to him. A woman in a barnyard swished out her big skirts,
shooing chickens. At that first farm, a trickle of water still ran from the
pump....
* * * * *
Wide Bend was a normal community. Along with its natural curiosity
there was a genuine feeling of neighborliness--heightened by the
conviction that these hardworking strangers had thrown their money
away on a hopeless venture. So, one way and another, a fair percentage
of the town's population found excuses in the next few days to get out
to Dark Valley. Bit by bit the reports filtered back to Jerry, and they all
added up about the same.
Joe Merklos and his people were incredibly industrious. Already they
had cleaned up the yards, repaired sagging barns and roofless