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"Humans beg help," Valentine said, loudly enough for all to hear.
That got them talking: humans begging. Whitefang slapped his callused, hairless kneecaps to silence them.
"Doublebloods attack humans," Valentine said. "Steal much. Capture many. Doublebloods worst enemy humans now."
Even more talk now, with some excited yips from the young warriors. Valentine suspected that the Doublebloods had done their share of raiding on Whitefang lands, being just across the river from southern Illinois. He suspected an old feud existed.
"Worst than Night-stalkers?" Whitefang asked, his eyes lit by the setting sun.
"Night-stalkers on other side of Great South river. Doublebloods on human side."
"Humans stop Night-stalkers," Valentine said. "Otherwise Night-stalkers raid Whitefangs."
This time Whitefang didn't laugh. The uneasy truce-not without the occasional raid and ambush-that had existed in southern Missouri between Grogs and mankind dated to the brief Kurian occupation of the Ozarks. Reapers had been loosed into Grog lands to drive them away from Solon's planned Trans-Mississippi empire. The Grogs were only too happy to see Southern Command return.
Callaslough, who'd evidently been able to follow at least some the conversation, reached into his shirt and pulled up a pair of black Reaper teeth interlaced with his dog tags. They were only short ones from the back, but the Grogs recognized them. Callaslough held them high and rattled them.
Valentine remembered teaching Blake to clean teeth just like those, only smaller, with a brush and baking soda.
"Humans beg battle alliance," Valentine repeated. "What Double-bloods stole, Whitefangs keep. Who Doublebloods capture, White-fangs release."
"Trophies?" Whitefang asked.
"All Whitefang keep."
The young warriors stirred at that. Their prospective mates among the females started chattering to each other. A warrior returning home with the blood of an enemy on his blade, or even better, some skulls or scalps, could marry, having proved himself worthy of establishing a household and producing children.
Whitefang's daughter stared out into the crowd. Valentine followed her gaze to a tall, proud-looking warrior standing naked with only his weapons, splendidly lush hair hanging from his head and shoulders and upper back. He hadn't wanted to contaminate his clothing with human blood, should it come to that, evidently. He stared back at the girl.
She whispered in White fang's ear.
Whitefang elbowed her hard and she toppled backward. He grumbled something to the female who ran to her aid.
The chief tongued the remainders of root beer out of his cup. "Trade root beer?" he asked.
"If battle alliance is successful."
"Trade licorice?" Whitefang asked.
"Yes."
Whitefang licked his lips and the eyes under the heavy brow brightened. "Trade-
Soka-coli?"
"All Coca-Cola same."
An entrepreneur was supposedly bottling RC down in the sugar farms near the Louisiana border. Valentine had seen some cases behind lock and key in Shrivastava's mercantile Galaxy.
Whitefang wouldn't notice the difference. He hoped.
Whitefang held out his hand, and a senior wife placed a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun in it. He extended the butt end toward Valentine.
Valentine wasn't sure what to do. He'd never observed a battle alliance; he just knew the term. But it never hurt to imitate the head honcho in any organization, human or Grog. He unslung his own carbine and held it toward Whitefang, butt end extended.
The oldster with the hand grenades cackled.
Valentine approached Whitefang, and the chief gripped the end of his gun. Valentine wrapped his fingers around the pistol grip of the shotgun.
