The Invaders | Page 3

sheds.
Curtains fluttered at the windows. Cows had appeared, and sheep, even
a few horses. Somehow, perhaps from accumulated seepage, they were
still bringing water from the rusty pumps. And--though it was surely an
illusion--Dark Valley seemed to have taken on a tinge of green again.
Wide Bend's womenfolk brought gifts of home-made preserves, jelly,
canned vegetables ... and came away puzzled. No, they hadn't been
badly received. All was politeness and smiles. But there was--well, a
sort of remoteness about these people. The kids went out of sight the
minute you turned into a place. And you just couldn't get close to the
grown-ups. Dark, they were, and heavy-looking. They smiled a lot,
jabbering in an unknown language. They had beautiful white teeth, but
no jewelry or ornaments, such as gypsies might wear. They always
appeared pleased that you brought them something. But on the way
home you discovered you still had your presents, after all.
The best guess as to the number in the tribe (somehow, that seemed the
best way to describe them) was sixty, give or take a few.
The general verdict was expressed by Henderson at the next club
luncheon. "They're odd, but they're hard workers. Darned good thing

for the community."
Miller, the jeweler, agreed vigorously.
"Self-interest," Jerry murmured, "is a wonderful thing."
They turned on him. "They haven't bought a thing from us! And what if
they did?"
"Kidding, boys. I've got something to sell, too." Then Jerry frowned.
"They haven't bought anything?"
Around the table, heads shook.
"Probably," Caruso growled, "they wear their hair long, too."
In the laughter, the matter was forgotten.
But Jerry remembered it that night, sitting on the porch of his house.
There must be hundreds of items--tools and nails and hinges and glass
and wire and sandpaper and oil and rope and seed and salt and
sugar--that the tribe needed. How could they--?
There was a step on the path. "You there?" Caruso called.
"Yep."
The barber sat in the other chair, hoisted his feet to the railing. "You
know how kids are."
"Um."
"That boy of mine, he couldn't stand it about Dark Valley. He was out
there with a couple of pals, poking around."
"Yes?" Jerry didn't realize his voice was sharp.
"Oh, no trouble. But the middle fork of the river's started to run again!"

* * * * *
For a long time after Caruso had gone, Jerry sat with his cold pipe in
his mouth. There were reasonable explanations for every one of the
small oddities that had cropped up with Joe Merklos and his people.
But he couldn't shake a growing feeling of uneasiness.
Jerry went to bed muttering, for he was a man trained to keep emotion
and fact well separate. But the feeling was still with him when he
awoke, and he recognized it later on Henderson's face.
"We got to get the boys together and talk this thing over," the feed and
fuel owner said.
"What's up?"
"This stuff that's missin'."
Jerry gave a start. He had just spent at least half an hour looking for this
garage lock.
"Every day of this week," Henderson went on heavily, "I've had people
in to replace some little thing that was lost. Hatchets and feeding
troughs and spare parts and panes of glass and things like that. A
couple of old chicken brooders that was stored. Ten salt blocks
Anderson had in his barn."
Just then MacAllister stepped over from his drugstore to join them.
"Dammit," he said plaintively, dusting off his store jacket, "I been in
the basement the last hour looking for an old pipe wrench. I swear I left
it there!"
Jerry met Henderson's glance. "All right," he said. "Let's get the gang
together for lunch today."
Sheriff Watson joined them in the back room of the restaurant. When
the coffee came Jerry rose to explain the purpose of the meeting. "Our
problem," he began, "may amount to nothing at all. Or it could turn out

to be mighty nasty. Hen and I thought it was time to talk it over."
Briefly he recapitulated Dark Valley's reawakening. He described Joe
Merklos and his people--their odd clothing, their independence, their
alien language.
"Point one," he said, "most people don't like strangers."
He described the tribe's arrival without cars or wagons, without even a
mark on the abandoned road. He spoke of the pumps that came to life,
the river that now ran again. The progress the tribe had made seemed
almost beyond human capacity.
"Point two," Jerry said, "most people don't like mysteries." He turned.
"Okay, Hen."
First Henderson explained that none of the tribe had bought supplies of
any kind in Wide Bend. He got corroboration from other businessmen
present. Then, as he summarized the missing articles, heads began to