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climbed into the saddle on the postman’s back. Listening to Sweet Thing, he had come to the conclusion that whatever he did, he could not avoid at least going to the valley and talking to the outlaw chief. In the absence of orders from his superiors he had no choice. But he certainly had no intention of challenging Bone Breaker, no matter what Sweet Thing thought. What he could and would do, would be to spin out negotiations until Greenleaf got back, which would certainly be within four or five days at most.
    “—Of course,” said the Bluffer, unexpectedly breaking the silence as the trees closed about them, “naturally, that’s why the Tricky Teacher hasn’t been having much success getting these Lowlanders to use all these tools and things you Shorties have brought in.”
    Bill, by this time, was beginning to get used to the unexpectedness of Dilbian conversation. It required only a little thought on his part to realize that the Bluffer was continuing the conversation begun inside the Residency after Sweet Thing’s departure.
    “What’s why?” Bill asked, therefore, interested.
    “Why, the fact there’s no point in these farmers learning all sorts of new tricks so they can grow more food,” answered the Bluffer. “The outlaws just take anything extra, anyway. The more extra food they raised, the more extra outlaws they’d just be supporting.”
    “How far is it to the valley?” Bill asked.
    “Just a step or two,” answered the Bluffer economically. However, a step or two by the Bluffer’s standards seemed to be somewhat more of a distance than the term implied to human ears. For better than half an hour, the Bluffer strode rapidly into rougher and rougher country. The Dilbian sun was close to the tops of the hills and peaks ahead of them, when the Bluffer at last made an abrupt turn and plunged downward into what looked like an ordinary ravine, but which suddenly opened up around a corner to reveal, ahead and below them down a narrow ravine, a parklike, green valley, walled in all other directions by near-vertical cliffs of bare stone from fifty to a hundred feet in height. Softly green-carpeted with the local grass, the valley glowed in the late afternoon sun, the black log walls of a cluster of buildings at its far end soaking up the late light.
    That light fell also on a literal wall made of logs about thirty feet high, some fifty yards ahead down the path. This wall was pierced by a heavy wooden door, now ajar but flanked by two Dilbians wearing not only the straplike harness and swords Bill had seen on those at Tin Ear’s farm, but with heavy, square, wooden shields hanging from their left shoulders, as well. Sweet Thing’s words about challenging Bone Breaker came uncomfortably back into Bill’s mind.
    The Hill Bluffer, however, had evidently come here with no sense of caution. As he approached the two at the gate, he bellowed at the two outlaws on watch.
    “All right, out of the way! We’ve got business with Bone Breaker!”
    The guards, however, made no move to step aside. Their nine-foot heights and a combined weight of probably over three-quarters of a ton, continued to bar the entrance. The Bluffer necessarily came to a halt before them.
    “Step aside, I say!” he shouted.
    “Says who?” demanded the taller of the guards.
    “Says me!” roared the Bluffer. “Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am. The official postman’s got right of entry to any town, village, or camp! So clear out of my way and let us through!”
    “You aren’t being a postman now,” retorted the Dilbian who had spoken before. “Right now you’re nothing but a plain, ordinary mountain man, wanting into private property. Did anybody send for you?”
    “Send for us?” the Bluffer’s voice rose to a roar of rage, and Bill could feel the big back and shoulder muscle of the Dilbian bunching ominously under him. “This is the Pick-and-Shovel Shorty who’s here to tangle with Bone Breaker if