Someone shouted back, and a heated discussion raged. Jerry finally
banged on the table with a sugar bowl. "Let's hear from the sheriff." Watson hoisted his big frame, and sighed. "Jerry's right, boys. We got a
nasty situation building up. Right now, my old woman's so mad at the
Dark Valley people she could spit. And why? Only because she can't
figger 'em out." He brushed his mustache and looked at Tipton. "Them people are human
bein's, ain't they?" Tipton scowled, but nodded. "Anything they done that couldn't be explained by natural causes, no
matter how silly or complicated?" Tipton thought about it, and had to shake his head. "Believe me, boys, the only thing to get excited about is the stuff
that's missin'. If they're pinchin' it, we can catch 'em, and punish
'em. They may be foreigners but they sure as hell have to obey the law
of the land!" "Now," Hammond said, "we're talking sense." "Give me a list of what's missin'," Watson added, "an' I'll go to Dark
Valley this afternoon and take a look around the place." "Everybody satisfied?" Jerry asked. Everybody was. *       *       *       *       *

Sheriff Watson frowned at the list as Jerry drove into the first
barnyard. They scattered chickens, ducks, and children--seen blurrily as
they scrambled to hide. They remained a few minutes, ostensibly
visiting, then went on to the next farm, and the next.... Beyond the last one, on the rise that led to the Carver cabin, Jerry
stopped the car. They looked at one another. Watson rubbed his face
irritably. "I'm beat, Jerry. There's somethin' here I can't get my hands
nor my head onto." "I know." The sheriff banged one big hand against the crumpled list. "That butter
churn of Mulford's. By God, I saw it! Same brand, same color. Even had
scratches around the base where that old cat of his sharpened her
claws." "I know," Jerry said again. "But it had a letter 'Z' cut into it. Worn
and weathered, so you'd swear it had been there for years and years." "That spring-toothed harrow of Zimmerman's." "Except the one we saw had twelve teeth instead of fifteen. And even the
man who made it couldn't find where it had been altered or tampered
with." It had been the same with a score of other things. Each one slightly
changed, just different enough to make identification impossible to
prove. Slowly, Jerry said, "Wood gets weathered, metal oxidizes, honest wear is
unmistakable. And these all take time, which can't be faked." His implication hung in the air. If the things had been stolen, then
altered to avoid identification, whoever did it had more than human
ability. "Magic," Watson muttered. "There's ... no ... such ... thing!" "No, there absolutely ain't." They sat looking with troubled eyes out over Dark Valley, till Jerry
said abruptly, "I'm going on up to see the Carvers." Watson reached for the door handle. "They don't have no use for me. I'll
wait here. I got plenty to think about." Jerry nodded. The sheriff would be remembering the seeds already
sprouting in the kitchen gardens. The leaves that had jumped out on the
old fruit trees. The lambs and calves capering in pastures washed with
the green of new grass. The road was smooth, its ditches cleared and deepened. Bright clothing
napped on shiny new clotheslines (those were on the list, but how can
you identify a roll of wire?). Cordwood was stacked in every yard. New
shingles spotted the roofs, the windows held glass again, fresh paint
glistened on porches. In the fields, corn and oats and hay were shooting
upward....

Jerry found the Carvers waiting for him, their wrinkled old faces tense. They didn't answer his greeting, just jerked their heads. They led him
past the cabin, through open brush, and halted at a bare place. Slowly,
Jerry sank to his knees. Except for its size, it could have been a splayed-out cougar print. But
it was two feet across, and pressed more than an inch into the hard, dry
soil. Finally Ed Carver nudged Jerry. The gnarled finger pointed to a twig of
wild lilac eight feet off the ground. Caught on the twig were several
coarse black hairs, six inches long. Jerry looked from them back to the
Carvers, then down at the ground again. He didn't speak. What was there
to say? As they started back toward the cabin, Ed Carver said harshly, "We found
that two nights ago." Jerry brooded for some distance, then he said, "Ned Ames has the best
hunting dogs in the country." They looked at him disgustedly. "Dammit, you have to do something! Come back to town with me. We'll get
some of the boys together, and hunt it down." They had passed the cabin and reached the car. The Carver brothers
looked out over Dark Valley and shook their heads. "We've lived alone,"
Ed said. "We'll fight alone." When Jerry told the sheriff about the giant spoor, Watson gave a
derisive snort. "Those old coots got bats in their belfries!" "But I saw the print." Watson dismissed such evidence with a wave of his hand. "They made it
up, probably. Forget it till you see the animal itself. You'll have time
to believe it then. We got enough to worry about already." Jerry couldn't forget it. But there was a kind of reassurance in such
hearty skepticism. With each passing minute, that huge print seemed more
unreal. *       *       *       *       *

Halfway through the valley they stopped to look at the river. The bed
was half full--muddy, debris-laden, with a sheen of dust on the surface. But it was water--wet, tangible, undeniable. Watson took off his hat and rubbed his head and swore. "Good afternoon." They turned. Joe Merklos was smiling at them. "Hello," Jerry said. Watson just glowered. Merklos moved beside them and looked down. His brilliant teeth flashed. "Good, is it not?" The guttural words came out flat, one at a time, as
though shaped carefully. "Better than money, in this part of the world." Jerry's eyes narrowed. "Did you know about the water when you bought the valley?" Merklos smiled again. He was bare-headed, dressed in dark trousers and a
loose, short-sleeved blouse. His neck and muscular forearms gleamed
bronze in the sunlight. "You like what we do here?" he asked in his
deep, hesitant manner. "You've done wonders," Watson said shortly. Merklos' smoky eyes held Jerry's. "My people are used to work." Slowly, significantly, Watson said, "The thing we don't understand is
how you managed to bring so much equipment. The exact things you
needed--right down to the last nail." Merklos' inscrutable gaze swung around. The smile lingered on his face. "We are a careful people. We plan a long way ahead." Watson opened his mouth for another question--and shut it. Merklos'
attention had left them. The man was listening, his head slightly
cocked. After a moment he turned. "I am happy to see you making a visit. I hope you come again." He nodded and walked swiftly away. Wordlessly, Jerry and the sheriff got back in the car. "Could you hear
what he was listening to?" Jerry muttered. "I didn't hear a thing." "Notice anything else about Dark Valley?"