XVI

“He Sank to His Knees, Dizzy and Scared”

Pic returned to the Mammoth and explained matters as best he could. There was a deep crack in the ice and the water running through it made much disturbance and noise. He would not ask his friend to jump over the crack; it was too wide for that; nor would he ask him to go near it. All that Hairi need do was to follow. Pic would lead him around it and to a place of safety.

The Mammoth appeared much relieved and consented to move on. Pic led him on a line parallel to the crevasse until the latter ended in a pile of shattered ice-blocks. Here the glacier’s surface was much broken and the two friends were obliged to watch their steps carefully on the slippery ice to avoid bad tumbles. In one place the surface inclined to form a chute or narrow slide, and Hairi in particular had a slow, hard time of it reaching the bottom. He and Pic were so busy finding their way around the end of the crevasse that they had neither eyes nor ears for that which followed in their wake. It was a shaggy-haired animal with nose held closely to the ground and following the same route over which Pic and the Mammoth had just traveled. Where the path turned at right angles, the newcomer looked up and saw the crevasse yawning in front of him. The sight threw him into a panic. Away he tore like mad along the ice-cliff squealing, “Oowee, oowee!” at the top of his lungs. Once he slipped and fell terribly near the dreadful gulf. He rose trembling with fear. His vocal cords became paralyzed and he could not utter a sound. He staggered toward the ice-hummocksnear the end of the crevasse, foam-flecked and steaming with the dew of death. The ground suddenly fell away in front of him and he began to slide. Too late; he uttered a last despairing squeak, then resigned himself to the inevitable, and with eyes tightly shut, went skidding rapidly on his downward flight to the unknown horrors awaiting him.

Pic and the Mammoth had passed around the crevasse and were putting it behind them as fast as they could when several shrill squeals rang out and startled them nearly out of their wits. Both stopped and looked back up the incline they had just descended. The sounds seemed to have come from the ice-blocks and hummocks at the top. Hairi’s mouth was wide open; his eyes were nearly popping from his head. Man and elephant stood rigid, listening, but all was now quiet. The squeals were not repeated.

“That voice,” said the Mammoth in an awed whisper. “How strange. It seems as though I had heard it before.” The two friends were still staring up the slide, when suddenly, without a sign of warning, a shaggy beast hove in sight at the top and shot down like a toboggan. It stood upright with feet spread far out. Had the creature’s legs been longer so as to elevate its center of gravity, it must have toppled over and tumbled ingloriously to the bottom. However, its legs were like four stout pegs. This made the weight hang low and the downward glide was completed right side up. As the newcomer coasted along the level, its speed slackened and gradually it came to a stop. This happened to be right in front of the two friends. Here it stood, motionless, with eyes shut tight.

“A Shaggy Beast Hove in Sight”

“Wulli! My own Wulli! Where did you come from?” bellowed the astonished Mammoth, staring as in a dream at his partner, whose dramatic arrival had occurred so suddenly and unexpectedly.

The Woolly Rhinoceros did not respond. He had made up his mind that he was falling into that dreadful hole and would be dead when he struck the bottom. He seemed to be sliding dreamily through space, falling more slowly every moment instead of faster as he should have done. The end was surprisingly calm and peaceful, for he reached eternity without a jar. Then sounded sweet music—the voice of the one he loved best. His was a happy journey to the golden gates, too unreal to believe. He opened one eye. There stood Pic and the Mammoth in the flesh. He began to feel grave doubts. “Am I dead?” he inquired feebly. “If so, cover me with stones and do not let the hyenas eat me.”

He spoke in the hushed voice of a departed spirit; that made it funny. Pic forgot his surprise and laughed loudly. “What makes you think you are dead?” he asked, and laughed again.

“I fell in that awful hole,” simpered Wulli, still unconvinced. “Every bone in my body is broken, and yet, strange to say, I feel quite comfortable.”

“Why not?” Pic demanded. “You only slid down that hill and you are not hurt a bit. What brought you here?”

“Brought me?” Wulli shed his angel wings and opened his other eye. “I don’t know,” he replied. “My legs, I guess.”

“He must have followed us,” said the Mammoth, his surprise fast changing to joy as he realized that he was really looking upon the Woolly Rhinoceros. “It is wonderful that we three can be together again.”

“Four of us would be better,” Pic muttered sadly. On being thus reminded of Kutnar, Wulli assumed an air of the deepest gloom. He told of his affair with the Cave Beasts and how he had come upon the trail of the Hyena Man and the smell of blood.

“Whose blood?” groaned Pic. His face had become deadly pale.

“Kutnar’s,” Wulli replied. “Several drops were on the ground. A stone-stick lay near them.”

Pic’s knees trembled. He spread out his hands as though to save himself from falling. “Dead? I can’t believe it,” he said in a dazed sort of way. “Why should Gonch kill the boy? And yet—Agh, I am so afraid. We were closing in upon them and the miscreant may have murdered him to save himself. You saw nobody?”

“No,” answered Wulli.

“And there was not much blood?”

“Very little; almost none.”

“Strange,” muttered Pic. “The boy may be yet alive. Then there is the ax; that puzzles me. Why did not the traitor take it with him?” Thus hearoused hope in his own breast, but this soon changed to depression. The next moment he raged and cursed Gonch for killing his boy and finally gave himself up to the deepest despair. The two animals watched these changing moods, with much concern. “I do not believe that the boy is dead,” said Hairi trying to comfort him.

“Nor I,” added Wulli.

“Nor I.” This third voice was a mere squeak and it seemed to come from the ground.

“Who said that?” Pic looked up at his friends, then at the ice about him.

“I said it and I mean it,” squeaked the voice again. It came from a little rat-like animal which was sitting upon its hind legs a short distance away. Its white fur made it almost indistinguishable from the hard-packed snow. Pic was the first to see the little creature. He pointed to it. His friends stared as though they could not believe their eyes.

“Obi!” squealed the Woolly Rhinoceros.

“Wulli!” piped the midget in response.

The Mammoth’s trunk reached toward the squeaks, whereupon he who made them ran up the trunk and jumped off onto one of the huge tusks. Here he perched bolt upright looking first at the Rhinoceros then at the Mammoth, out of his small beady eyes.

“It is Obi,” said Hairi delightedly. “How good it feels to see him again.”

Obi the Lemming danced up and down like a good fellow. He loved to be appreciated and wasnow enjoying himself thoroughly. “You know that I go wherever the ice goes,” he replied in his thin voice. “Some think me good for nothing because I am so small; but let me tell you something, big Trog-man, friend of all animals. Your young one has run away but he is alive.”

Pic could scarcely believe his ears. “Alive? how do you know this?” he asked.

“I saw him.”

“Where?”

Obi pointed a stubby paw westward. “He was with a Trog-man who wanted to kill me. The boy had that piece of skin he throws stones with. He threw at me but he made a nice face and I knew that he meant no harm. The stone flew wide and so I got away.”

Glorious news! Pic grinned from ear to ear. He howled and danced for very joy. The world now appeared all sunshine, for Kutnar was alive. Hairi caught the spirit of his master and endeavored to imitate him, dancing up and down and shaking his tusks so violently that the Lemming was forced to jump off. He slipped on the ice and sat down with a bump. Pic laughed, Wulli squealed and Obi squeaked at the sight. Even the Mammoth forgot how to look sad. He got upon his feet again thereby throwing his friends almost into convulsions. His fall had ripped a large patch of wool from his trousers’ seat. He knew nothing of this, which made it all the more comical, seeing that the joke was on him. The whole worldlooked bright and gay just then. The crevasse was screamingly funny; the booming torrent, sweet music; and Pic solemnly vowed that the air had grown quite warm. Everybody agreed to all of this, simply because Kutnar was alive and now they could go on their way again with light hearts to look for him.

Finally when all were sufficiently quieted down to talk matters over, Pic turned to Obi and said, “Never will I forget the sunshine and comfort you have brought us. Some day I may repay this service. And now you must go with us and show the way?”

The Lemming was greatly disturbed by this latter suggestion. “Go with you?” he squeaked in a most solemn manner. “No, that would not be right. I just came from there. You have forgotten that a Lemming cannot go to the same place twice in one season.”

At this, Pic looked so disappointed, Obi really felt sorry for him. “It would be dreadful for me to go twice to the same place,” he explained. “I go wherever the snow and ice is but I would die if I covered the same ground twice. I really could not think of such a thing.”

“His Fall Had Ripped a Large Patch of Wool from His Trousers’ Seat”

Obi was a Scandinavian and a most conscientious little animal. He was a tireless rover but like the Mammoth and Rhinoceros, he preferred cold to warm weather and only ventured south when there was plenty of ice. He took his traveling very seriously as though it were a most important duty. Some animals believed it was he who arranged the winter season, for no matter when and where he appeared, there was sure to be ice and snow behind him. Seeing that his scruples forbade his accompanying the party to a region he had so recently visited, he did the next best thing, giving most careful instructions as to the route Gonch and Kutnar were traveling. “If you fail to find the way, ask any animals you meet and they will set you right,” he said; and then it was good-bye and good-luck to Obi and the party proceeded without him.

The line of journey was now changed to the west and slightly north. Apparently the Muskman had not continued in a straight line but had turned due west, thus avoiding the Pyrenees Mountains over which our friends were now traveling. The passage over these mountains was most difficult. Now it was up, up until they stood far above the clouds amid bleak wastes of ice and snow; then down, down into the almost bottomless valleys with their tangled shrubbery and swirling streams. So it went with constant repetition until the party covered more distance to the sky and back to earth again than they did in a horizontal line. The Woolly Rhinoceros in particular, found this sort of touring most trying. It was not so bad going up but the coming down part terrified him. He was no mountaineer and he lost his head completely whenever he realized that the ground beneath him was no longer within easy jumping distance. Insuch circumstances, he stopped and squealed like a big booby, too frightened to move either up or down. This failing soon made him a nuisance to Pic and the Mammoth who were managing fairly well and making no complaints. Finally when Wulli balked for about the fiftieth time, the Mammoth lost patience. The Rhinoceros stood in front of him, squealing “Oowee, oowee!” and blocking the way. He snorted impatiently, then seized Wulli’s tail with his trunk as though to drag him to one side, whereupon the Rhinoceros proceeded briskly onward. Hairi released his hold and the Rhinoceros stopped. The Mammoth took a fresh grip and Wulli responded by moving on once more. Most extraordinary! but Hairi asked no questions and held on to his partner’s tail, for he saw that it produced results. Pic who had been an interested spectator, finally remarked: “Wulli is afraid of falling. As long as you hold his tail, he will fear no more.”

This was quite true. A simple remedy but the cure was immediate and complete. The Rhino’s tail was but a bit of frayed rope and would not have withstood a fraction of his weight. Wulli’s new sense of security may have been fancied but what of it? The Mammoth held his tail and that was enough. From then on, they got along finely, sailing up and down without a hitch and whenever Wulli showed symptoms of balkiness, the Mammoth cured him instantly by taking a grip on his tail.

They met the Chamois and the Ibex and the Snow Grouse, one after another, and learned that they were following the right path. The two first-named animals knew the direction only in a general way but the Snow Grouse flew about a great deal and kept himself well informed as to what was going on. From him, Pic learned that a tribe of cave-men lived far to the east on that side of the mountains which faced the sea. By continuing due west, the party would pass along the southern or opposite side of these mountains. Here they would be protected from the bitter winds and could cross to the north side at the proper time.

The Journey Across the Pyrenees

Winter had descended upon the mountains and valleys of northern Spain. Snow covered the slopes and lowlands. High above the ice-bound surface of the River Pas, opened the Cavern of Castillo, near whose entrance, Totan and his band were gathered about a roaring fire. Skin garments now relieved their summer nakedness. These were no more than untrimmed hides fastened about their bodies, hair outward. They were much frayed and blotched with bare patches which gave them an extremely shabby appearance. These garments had seen more than one winter season, for hides were scarce. The hunting had grown worse and worse and many a hide had been chewed and swallowed for the small nourishment it contained. The Men of Castillo in their penury were driven to eating the very clothes off their backs for the want of something better. Even the hyenas had packed up and gone away from a country that offered such poor pickings. Nobody regretted their absence. There was no need for scavengers or undertakers. The Men of Castillo attended to such matters, themselves. Whenever a man died, his companions made the funeral arrangements their duty and an occasionfor general rejoicing, using the corpse itself as material for the funeral feast.

At times, parties of men would detach themselves from the fire and sally forth in search of game. Rarely did they come back with anything worth eating. The little they did kill was poor enough and they ate it then and there. Not infrequently, a band would return numbering one or two less than when it set forth. At such times, those returning would appear well-fed and contented and would curl up by the fire to rest and aid their digestion. It was a case of each man for himself. He who hungered, must go forth and hunt his food. If he perished from weakness or exposure or was slain by wild beasts, his troubles were ended and his companions devoured what was left of him.

Totan and a dozen of his followers had but recently returned to Castillo from one of these hunting-trips. They and the rest of the band were now gazing down the mountain side at two men near its base who were slowly ascending. Even at that distance, Totan recognized one of the newcomers. “Gonch!” he exclaimed in surprise. “I thought him dead long before this. And who is it that I see with him? It must be the Mammoth Man, maker of wonderful flints.”

When the pair had completed two-thirds of the ascent, their forms and features could be easily distinguished by those watching from above. All recognized Gonch. The one with him was but a boy. A murmur of voices broke the stillness. Totanscowled and gnashed his teeth until his jaws cracked. “I fear that our comrade will be disappointed with the welcome we give him,” he growled. “It will be a warm one.” He looked knowingly at the fire as he said this, meanwhile licking his lips and grinning like a hyena.

Gonch arrived at the end of his long climb and stepped upon the cave-threshold. The boy Kutnar stood behind him. No shouts nor other noisy welcome greeted his appearance. He brought no food and his companion was a boy—not a man as might have been expected.

Such a reception was no more nor less than Gonch had anticipated and he was prepared for it. Neither his wit nor courage had deserted him and he now saw the need of both.

“I have come back as I promised,” he began boldly. “The journey has been a long one. I have survived much danger and suffering but I am here and alive.”

“Alive? Yes, for a time,” said Totan in as honeyed a voice as a bear would be capable of. “We see that you have brought the Mammoth Man with you. The journey must have been too much for him. He appears to have shrunken. No doubt you can explain why.”

“Young he is but more than match for our best hunter,” Gonch replied without flinching. “None can equal his skill with the fling-stone. If you do not believe, try him.”

Everybody laughed, not with genuine humor butin the only way these savage men knew how to laugh. One of them, a young fellow barely out of his teens, strutted forward and sneered in Kutnar’s face. Up to this time, the latter had remained a passive listener and spectator, staring curiously at the throng but at the sound of taunting laughter and the sight of him who sneered, he drew back and scowled angrily.

“A match!” roared the hetman springing to his feet. “Into the cave, every one of you, and give the youngsters plenty of room. Let the Stone Thrower try him. If he fails, I will be the first to pick his bones.”

Thus cautioned, the Castillan tyro selected his best stone and placed it carefully in the cleft end of his fling-stick. Kutnar did not hesitate, even though this was his first test in single combat. In a moment he saw what was expected of him. Quick as lightning, he unwound the thong from his waist and set a pebble in place.

“Good,” muttered Gonch between his clenched teeth. “The boy bears himself like a true warrior. I would be his friend if I could be anyone’s. No man, young or old, lives who can best him at his own game.”

Totan was now in fine spirits. This was good sport, a fight to the death, although rough and tumble with stout cudgels and grown men would have been better. Stone-throwing was child’s play but there was novelty in such a contest and it might prove entertaining. He hustled his followers outof the way into the cave-entrance and thus gave the two gladiators the whole threshold to themselves. Kutnar took his place at one extremity of the ledge; the Stone Thrower stood at the other. The spectators howled joyfully; then at a sign from Totan, all became quiet.

Swish! The Castillan drew back his arm and made the first throw—not badly aimed but Kutnar saw the stone coming and dropped flat. The missile whizzed over his head. Instantly he was up again, whirling his sling. Hiss! the pebble sped like a bullet. No chance to dodge a thing like that. Before the Stone Thrower could tell what struck him, he lay sprawling upon the ledge. His skull was cracked but there was no more than a bruise upon his temple to show for it.

Nobody laughed this time. All stared in wonder at the fallen man, then at the boy. Kutnar had no eyes for those about him. He stood motionless, mouth half-open, watching the contortions of his victim. This was the first human being he had slain. A fair fight and not one of his choosing but his triumph was tinged with remorse. It was with such feelings that he crossed the ledge and stood over the vanquished. Every pair of eyes followed him. Every voice was hushed. The stillness of death was in the air. And then as every Castillan waited breathless anticipating the final blow, the victor kneeled upon the rock and rubbed his foeman’s forehead.

A chorus of astonished grunts arose. Kutnarheard the sound of bare feet scraping on the ledge behind him. He looked around and saw the giant hetman.

“Well done,” growled the Castillan leader. “Even though it were a lucky stroke, a boy who can use a toy like that must be good for something. And yet you are but a child. The Mammoth Man is not a child.” As he said this, he scowled at Gonch who was standing near. The latter made haste to divert his chieftain’s mind.

“The boy is a skilled hunter,” he explained. “He can kill food enough for a dozen men. If you do not believe, try him.”

The cave-men were now gathering about the lad, pointing at both him and the sling he held. By look and act it was clear that they were deeply impressed with the way he had borne himself. Even the hetman eyed him approvingly. “Here, you,” he said to the men nearest him. “Take him down to the river and see what he can do.”

The boy gazed longingly at the fire. He felt cold and tired. He would have given almost anything for a chance to warm his body and rest himself but this could not be. Those chosen to escort him were already descending the mountain side and beckoning him to follow. Kutnar looked appealingly at Gonch, but the latter’s back was turned, so he merely sighed and went away with the cave-men for a test of his skill at food-gathering.

When the party had taken itself off, Totan led the Muskman to one side. “Son, did you say?But that does not make him the father. What has become of the Mammoth Man? You promised to bring him with you.”

Gonch gave a brief account of his doings in the Mousterian country and his dealings with Pic, the Weapon Maker. He described the latter as a hetman too, but made no mention of his physical powers.

“A hetman?” Totan lifted his eyebrows, then scowled darkly. “He would be no more than a flint-worker here. But you have not yet said why he failed to come with you.”

“I used the boy as a lure,” chuckled Gonch. “The Mammoth Man is following to rescue him. The son is a prize in himself but before long we will have the father too.”

“That may be,” Totan grumbled. “But I would have preferred the man. You should have brought him with you to make sure.”

“More easily said than done,” the Muskman replied. “No man could force him to do anything against his will.”

“No man?” The hetman scowled with wounded pride and jealousy of the unknown champion. Gonch gazed at him vindictively.

“He would yield to no man, for no man is stronger or braver than this giant weapon maker. He is mightier than the Cave Lion, larger than yourself and——”

“You lie,” roared the now thoroughly aroused hetman, beating his bristly chest with both fists anddisplaying his great bull-teeth. “No human being is my equal. I could eat your lion-man.”

Gonch exulted inwardly although he was careful not to betray his true feelings and draw the other’s rage upon himself. “You might find him a big mouthful,” he said. “This weapon maker can crush men’s bones in his hands. I have felt his grip. Never have I known such power. That is why I used trickery to bring him here. Such a big strong man.” Gonch lowered his voice and said, “Perhaps it is well that I did not bring him. It is not yet too late. He may be induced to return. We can send the boy to him and——”

“Ar-r-r!” Totan’s face swelled and reddened as though it would burst. He was no coward and the knowledge that there existed a foeman worthy of his steel, only aroused his fighting spirit. He was like a pit-dog held in leash, all aquiver with waiting for the joy of blood and battle. For a moment, the fight-lust nearly robbed him of speech.

“Bring me this man,” he snarled in a choking voice. “He is mine—mine; I will tear him to pieces with my teeth and eat his living body. Bring him to me and quickly. I cannot wait.”

“Have patience; he will soon come,” was the answer. Totan could only glare and pant. He listened sullenly as Gonch told of Pic’s pursuit. The Mousterian weapon maker was like a lion robbed of its cub. He would come; no doubt about that.

The hetman was only partly appeased. There was some pleasure in his feelings of anticipationbut he felt a consuming impatience to get the Lion-Man—as he called him—within his reach. His fingers itched for him so, he could hardly wait.

“But the Lion-Man might not come,” he growled irritably. “In that case, I am sure that things will go hard with you.”

Gonch pretended not to see the implied threat as he answered, “Do not worry. He will come,” and there the conversation ended, for although Totan fretted and fumed, he saw that he could do nothing but wait and give Gonch the time needed to make good his promise.

On the way down the mountain side, Kutnar had an excellent opportunity to gain a better knowledge of his new acquaintances. His first impressions were far from flattering. A more squalid, beast-like lot of men he had never seen. He mistrusted them at sight. On his long journey to the southland he had anticipated much pleasure in meeting them and learning about their superior flint industry. The latter was as disappointing as the men themselves. Fine weapons? Never had he gazed upon worse. He saw not a single flint ax-head or poniard; in fact, no stone implements with the exception of a few badly-hewn quartzite flakes. Apparently the Castillans relied almost entirely upon wood. Their clubs, javelins and fling-sticks were all made of this material. Even it was badly chosen and shaped. Kutnar made a wry face as he looked at his companions and their miserable equipment. “These cannot be Gonch’s people,” he finally consoled himself. “Soon we will pass on to the country of the southrons and the sooner, the better.”

Deep down in his heart, Kutnar knew that it was not a sight of the southrons nor their flint workmanship that he really craved. A quick turnabout anda trip homeward would have pleased him more than anything on earth. He was terribly homesick. It seemed ages since he had run away from father and friends. The knowledge that he had so recently slain a fellow-being, added to his depression. He thought of Totan and that reminded him of Pic. Both were strong men but there the resemblance ended. His father had a heart; the Castillan hetman appeared to possess none. “I have at least one good friend near me,” the boy remembered. Gonch was there and that gave him great comfort. “I am no longer a baby,” he thought, so he determined to bear up patiently until the time came for the long journey homeward.

Meanwhile the party had reached the end of their descent and were making their way across the lowland to the River Pas. Suddenly one of the men grunted and all stopped short. He who had signalled said to Kutnar in a low voice, “A hare! Quick boy; now is your chance to show what you can do.” The sling was loaded and ready before the man had ceased speaking. Kutnar moved noiselessly ahead of his companions to within throwing range. Whizz, sped the stone and a big snow-white hare leaped from a clump of bushes and bounded away. “A miss,” one of the hunters sneered as the boy glided forward like a cat. They saw him reach down among the bushes and then stand erect holding some animal by its long ears—a hare. There had been two. The one first seen had escaped but Kutnar had bagged the second.

Kutnar Bags a Hare

The cave-men were astounded. This was indeed fine shooting but there was more to follow. The lad flung his quarry to them and then went speeding across the snow-plain after hare Number One. The cave-men followed closely and were treated to a lesson in stalking which opened their eyes. Hare Number One had not fled far. His tracks were easily seen in the snow and it was not long before Kutnar saw him lying in a ball and trusting in his protective coloring to escape unseen. But this availed him nothing. He waited too long for his next jump, thinking he had but a fling-stick to deal with. He too was bagged and the boy found himself the center of the most thoroughly surprised lot of men that one would hope to see.

“He is not of this world,” said one of the band.

“Nor is his fling-string,” said another. “He has but to wave it and animals drop to the ground dead.”

These and other remarks, Kutnar listened to and they pleased him, for he was but a boy and relished the compliments of men. They made him feel as though he were a man too. Another hare was sighted and bagged and thus the hunt went merrily on. Kutnar even tried his skill on a young boar. He did not kill the animal but he disabled it so that the hunters could easily complete the work he had begun. When the party turned homeward, they took with them four hares, three grouse and the boar; and Kutnar had killed them all. A wonderful bag; all were agreed on that; and they wereagreed too that as a hunter and provider, Kutnar was worth his weight in the finest flints ever shaped by mortal man. When they arrived at Castillo and Totan learned of Kutnar’s success, he was mightily pleased. “If the boy can thus shame our best hunters, what could not the grown men of his tribe do?” he thought. This reminded him of the Lion Man and he revelled in the thought of what would happen if the latter would only come within his reach.

The Muskman’s star was again in the ascendancy. The boy had been tried and found all that any hunter could wish. Were these men jealous of his prowess? Certainly not. No half-starved beast or human being looks askance at the hand that feeds it. One and all praised his skill with the fling-string. Boy or no boy, he was certainly a godsend to these half-famished men and they were not backward in saying so. Some of them went so far as to volunteer their services to keep him supplied with the finest pebbles. They were not the ones to permit his ammunition to run low. They even gave him the hide of the boar he had killed. A chilled body might result in a stiff arm which would prevent accurate shooting and of course that would never do. In fact they were anxious to do anything for the lad that promised to improve their own health and comfort.

There was some satisfaction in finding himself welcome even among these savage men but in spite of that, Kutnar felt homesick and uneasy. “Why do we continue to stay here?” he asked the Muskman,but the latter merely answered: “Be patient. It is for a short time only. When the snow melts, we will be on our way again.” Kutnar forced himself to be content with this. He was but a boy who respected men and revered his friends. Gonch was his man-friend and it never occurred to him that the Muskman was playing him false; and so he did his part, which was no small task for now that his skill was known, he did more than half the hunting for the whole band. In addition to his skill with the sling, he possessed no mean knowledge of woodcraft, showing his companions many things about tracking and trapping game that they knew nothing of. Kutnar became leader of the hunters; that is, he did most of the work. The pebbles flew straight and far from his sling and there was both speed and force behind them. For their part, the cave-men who accompanied him on his hunting trips, did little more than watch him open-mouthed and retrieve the game he killed, like a pack of dogs. Kutnar deep down in his heart, despised these men as he did their weapons. Of them he had more to learn and also something that greatly changed his opinion of his good friend Gonch.

The latter was present one morning on one of the hunting-trips. It chanced that on this same morning a mighty hunter had descended from the foot-hills and was engaged in stalking a boar, grubbing about in the snow on the left bank of the River Pas. Kutnar and his band of cave-men had observed this boar but not the mighty hunter of thefoot-hills. Both sets of stalkers closed in upon their intended victim, who finding himself too much hunted, ran squealing away leaving his persecutors to face each other. A tawny body shot from the bushes and in a flash, one of the cave-men lay upon the ground beneath the paw of a huge lion. Kutnar was in the van of those who by much shouting and waving, so bewildered the big cat that it relinquished its victim and crawled away. The man was still alive although badly mauled. “Friends should ever help each other,” ran through Kutnar’s brain as he bent over the unfortunate and wiped the blood from his face with a bunch of leaves. Not that the man was his particular friend, but his heart was filled with pity at sight of a fellow-being in distress. Suddenly he was dragged to his feet and thrust roughly aside. He turned and faced Gonch.

“Stand back, boy; do not meddle,” cried the Muskman and then before Kutnar knew what his friend was about, the latter despatched the wounded man with a blow of his ax. Then as though this were not enough, he was the first of the hunters to spring upon the body with teeth and hands. As the boy looked on in horror at the man-pack snarling and devouring their dead comrade, the cobwebs fell from his eyes and he saw the Muskman in his true colors, a hyena-man unfit for the friendship of human being or beast. It was a terrible blow. He felt his life robbed of its last sweet essence. By that one act, Gonch had in a flash lost the right to trust and friendship and now in Kutnar’s eyes hewas a loathsome, detestable thing, more so than the meanest of his fellows.

Gonch was quick to see the change in the youth’s feelings toward him but he was growing careless with rising fortune and felt no need of making further effort to mask his true nature. “Flesh is flesh,” he leered in the boy’s face when the horrible orgie was over. “You will soon learn that man’s flesh is as good or better than any other.”

Kutnar spat in disgust. “When am I to leave here?” he cried. “I hate these men and—and now I hate you.”

“Leave here?” sneered Gonch. “Impossible. I could not bear such a calamity. My people dote upon you. I am quite sure that they could not live without their youthful hunter.”

This last sentence contained much truth. The Muskman felt its humor and he chuckled at his own wit; but the boy only glared.

“Your people? Then this is what you have brought me to. These wretches are the fine people of the southland. Tell me, filthy beast-man, why am I here?”

Kutnar held his sling threateningly. He was furious. The cave-men were now gathering around the pair. “Be quiet, boy,” the Muskman warned in a low voice. “A word from me and the flesh will be torn from your body. You hate me. Good; but take care.”

That was all but in that short time, the boy in some ways had become a man. He said no more,only hung his head, crushed and humiliated with disappointment and revulsion of feeling. It was the sudden shattering of an ideal. Now he had no friends, for the one man whom he had trusted and befriended was a cannibal and traitor doubly vile. He returned to Castillo with the others and chose a spot by the fire as far removed from Gonch as possible and sat there staring vacantly into the blaze. The shades of night settled over the mountain and still he sat motionless, oblivious to what was going on about him. One by one the cave-men retired to Castillo’s yawning entrance and curled up in their hide-wrappings to secure their night’s rest. All were gone but two—the boy and Gonch.

“You who perform one task so well, can bear another,” the Muskman sneered. “Watch the fire, and watch it well until the light returns. Do not fall asleep or it will be the worse for you.”

These were Gonch’s parting instructions and then he too lay down in the cave-entrance. Kutnar smiled bitterly. Another task was now added to his already overburdened shoulders; one that no man dared neglect. Without fire, life would have been impossible during the cold season. The roaring blaze warmed and cheered many a body which without it would have succumbed sooner or later to rheumatism, influenza or other virulent disease. Fire, a most difficult thing to create, was rarely permitted to die out. The Castillans took turns watching and feeding it day and night. Woe to himwho neglected his all-important task, a task that Kutnar was now obliged to assume.

But he neither rebelled nor complained. He was but a boy long accustomed to obey and respect his elders; and ingrained habits are slow to change. And yet as he gazed silently at the lashing flames and curling smoke-wreaths, his mind was experiencing one of those tremendous upheavals that, like the volcano or hurricane, preface their fury with outward calm. Kutnar was deadly calm. His thoughts surging one upon another were those of a sane and sober mind. But with all his illusions shattered, the child was become a man. He now knew that all of the southland wonders were the Muskman’s lies. There were no fine flints, no weapon-making; the men might have been wolves except for their human forms which however made their wretchedness and cannibalism even more beast-like in his eyes. So low had they fallen that they must needs depend upon himself, a mere boy, to feed them; but most dreadful of all was the knowledge that his best friend had sunken lower than any of them and had betrayed him from first to last.

As he watched the dancing firelight, bestirring himself at intervals to pile on fresh wood, the boy’s mind was saying, “I must do my best to be useful and earn the right to live. Brighter days are in store for me if only I will be patient and wait for them” and beneath this rumbled the voice of the man-mind, low and distant but ever coming nearerand nearer: “I despise these men; but he who has deceived me, I hate and loathe. Filthy beast-man whom I once called friend, the time will come when you must pay the penalty. When the sling sends you my message; listen to the stone-hiss, ‘Greetings from my master, son of the Mammoth Man. He bids me fly straight and fast, bearing to you his traitor-friend the reward that you have so nobly earned—death.’”

It was not many days before Gonch found himself subjected to increased pressure. The grim hetman fretted and chafed incessantly simply because the Lion Man failed to appear. With all his sharpness, Gonch had merely relieved one bad situation by creating another. He was congratulating himself for his shrewdness in diverting Totan’s channel of wrath to someone other than himself, but now that the Lion Man had become rooted in the hetman’s mind, Gonch found himself worse off than ever. Pic did not appear. There were no others worth while to soothe Totan’s pugnacious spirit, so he centered the burden of his rancor upon Gonch.

“Time passes and still your Lion Man does not come,” he fumed. “I believe you lie when you say he will.”

“And I still say so,” replied the Muskman although in a less cocksure manner than formerly, for he was beginning to feel grave doubts. “But the lad; does he not please you? Never have we fared so well as since he came here.”

The Hetman Loses Patience

Totan gave his henchman a sour look. “Lad? Ugh; he does better than all the rest of you put together. But bah! why speak of him? I want none but his father the Lion Man, Weapon Maker or whatever else you choose to call him. I hunger to crush his bones.”

Gonch sensed the approaching storm. He grasped desperately at a straw. “Weapon Maker?” he whispered looking carefully around him as though he were about to impart some deep-dyed mystery. “You ask for him who makes the fine blades? Pst! he is here.”

“The Lion Man?” roared Totan, leaping to his feet and snatching at his club. “Where?”

“Son of the Lion Man, you mean,” corrected Gonch. “It is my little secret. He makes the fine weapons even better than his father. What a prize; a hunter and flint-worker, all in one.”

“Agh! the boy again,” howled the hetman in a great rage and then his curiosity got the better of him as Gonch hoped and half expected it would. “The boy a flint-worker?” he sneered. “This is another of your lies; but you have said it and I will know the truth, even if I have to eat it out of you.”

“Try him,” said the Muskman much relieved that he had so neatly turned the trend of conversation. “I said and proved that he was the equal of our best hunters. I say and will prove that he is a skilled flint-worker. To-morrow he will begin making the fine blades.”

“And a sorry day it will be for you if he fails,” snarled the giant enraged at being so easily diverted from the main idea and yet not having wit enough to stick to it.

And so the storm-clouds lifted temporarily, giving Gonch a chance to keep his hide on him and him in it. He sought Kutnar and said, “Those who do nothing, shall eat nothing. You idle too much. Now is the time for you to hammer and finish the fine flint weapons. You know how the work is done. We must have blades. Make them.”

And so more was required of him. Kutnar’s eyes glittered as he answered, “But there is no flint here. Blades cannot be made from nothing. Find me flint-lumps if you must have the tools.”

“Find them yourself,” snapped the Muskman irritated by the boy’s reply. “If you fail, I will see that you get no food.”

So Kutnar did as he was bidden or tried to at least. It was past mid-day and he would have welcomed a rest after his morning’s hunting trip. The blood was surging to his temples but the boy-mind still ruled and so he went down to the river bank to search the gravels for material on which to work. But he found only disappointment, for the waters were ice-bound, and even if flint-lumps were there, he could not reach them. He returned to Castillo just before nightfall, and of course he returned empty-handed. Gonch scolded him soundly, even as he trembled for his own safety at thought of what the morrow might bring when Totan learned of his failure. He jerked the boar-hide loose that Kutnar wore about his body and hissed, “No food nor warmth either for him who does nothing. You shall pay by taking a turn at fire-watching to-night.To-morrow will be your last chance. The blades we will and must have.” He would have said more but as he looked about him, he saw the giant hetman watching and beckoning him to come that way. Gonch went reluctantly, for he had a fair idea of what was in the chieftain’s mind.

“The boy pays small attention to your orders,” Totan said grimly when the two were together. “I believe that you have grown careless. He is a flint-worker but he works no flints. No doubt you lie when you say he does.”

“Blades cannot be made from nothing,” was the answer. “The lad cannot find the flint on which to work.”

This was in part, repeating Kutnar’s own words and the hetman’s reply was curiously enough word for word the same as Gonch had given the boy.

“Find them yourself,” was his gruff response. “I will have no excuses. The blades must be made or no one knows whom we will be eating next.” He leered so affectionately at Gonch that the latter felt cold chills creeping up his spine. He determined for his own health he would accompany Kutnar on the morrow and help him find the flint-lumps. He could not hold Totan off forever, for the latter was already nearing the limit of his patience. “If Pic would only come, my troubles would be ended,” he thought. “These two giants would destroy each other, leaving me master beyond dispute.”

But Pic had not yet arrived and there seemedsmall chance of his doing so in time to improve the situation. “To-morrow I will help the boy find the flint-lumps,” he assured his chief. “He dare not fail me this time. I will not let him out of my sight until he secures the material and begins to make the blades.”

Before curling up in his hide-wrapping, he gave Kutnar his parting instructions: “Watch the fire to-night. In the morning, you will join the hunters in search of game. This done, we will go forth together and find the flint-lumps. Before sunset you must be at work making blades. Then, if you have done well, another shall have a turn at fire-watching and you may rest.” With that, he went his way.

Kutnar listened but said nothing. When he could sit alone and gaze into the firelight, it was the nascent man-mind that now whispered to him: “Drudgery and death will be yours if you stay here. Why serve them you despise and him you loathe? Up, boy, and prove yourself a worthy son of the Mammoth Man. Your friends are rushing to your aid. Far in the distance behind the screening haze, I see the form of a huge beast with long, gleaming tusks, ploughing toward you through the drifts. A mighty man sits astride his neck and a stout shaggy animal trots by his side. Awake and bite back at these yapping wolves or remain a slave and see no more of father and people and your friends the Hairy Elephant and Woolly Rhinoceros.”

When Gonch arose next morning, he found Kutnar piling fresh wood upon the cave-hearth fire. The boy had been awake all night, nevertheless he appeared in good spirits. For some reason or other this angered the Muskman and he curtly ordered Kutnar to make ready for the morning hunt. This in itself was a flagrant violation of the Castillan code. Night fire-tenders were always permitted a rest after their labors while others attended to the next morning’s food-gathering. But this was an exceptional case. Gonch found the hetman’s brow-beating too much to bear and so he passed the burden with his spite added, on to the boy.

And still Kutnar did not complain but made ready as he was told. It would appear that he had resigned himself to the position of menial and camp drudge and would perform any work allotted him. So it seemed, judging by his actions; but Gonch was keen enough to see that the boy’s manner was not quite the same. He appeared to have changed over night. The change was in the look of his eyes. Gonch recalled that same look in the eyes of a wounded wolf he had once cornered. The beast had sprung upon him and bitten him severely as heapproached to club it to death. The comparison might be a product of his imagination, but Gonch deemed it wise to take no chances. He would watch the boy and be on his guard, for there was no knowing what Kutnar might do if he once made up his mind to do it. The main thing to guard against was the sling. If the boy ever took a notion in his head to attack anyone with it, no doubt he would prove a dangerous customer. “A deadly toy,” was Gonch’s opinion of it. “I will keep an eye on the lad and see that he does not get a chance to use it.”

Kutnar took his place as usual in the morning hunt and Gonch accompanied him. No matter where they tramped; through snowdrifts and over hill and dale, whenever the boy looked behind him, there was the Muskman standing close at his elbow.

It was past mid-day when the party returned to Castillo. Kutnar had no sooner thrown himself down by the fire to rest than the Muskman curtly informed him it was time to descend to the bank of the River Pas and search for flint-lumps. Without a word, the boy rose obediently to his feet. Gonch again observed the strange hunted look of those eyes; also the jaws were set tightly together. It was on his mind to take several of the cave-men along too, for there was greater safety in numbers, but he put this notion scornfully aside. “What a fool I am to fear him and his fling-string,” he reflected. “A mere lad who knows better than to pit himself against a man”; but he was careful just thesame and kept his ax in readiness to strike down the lad if he made a move to use the sling girt about his loins.

In this manner they descended to the river bank. Then began the search for flint-lumps, but in spite of their diligence, they had no success. With the passing of time, Gonch grew more and more desperate as he thought of the trip back to Castillo where he must face the hetman empty-handed. “Look closer, boy,” he snarled. “If you fail, there will be neither food nor rest for you to-night when we return.”

Kutnar looked furtively about him, not toward the ground but at the distant mountain of Castillo, the snow-covered lowlands and up and down the ice-bound stream. His hands fumbled with the rawhide thong tied about his waist. In an instant the Muskman’s ax flashed threateningly above his head.

“And so the little boy would play with his fling-string,” sounded Gonch’s taunting voice followed by a fierce command: “Quick, give it to me or I will kill you.” Kutnar’s nostrils swelled and his face reddened but there seemed no help for him. He loosened the sling from his body and cast it at the Muskman’s feet. At sight of the youth now completely disarmed and at his mercy, Gonch laughed a loud brutal laugh charged with cruelty and malice. “You hate me,” he hissed; “but your hatred is a mere pebble beside yonder mountaincompared with what I feel toward you. Do you know why?”

Kutnar made no answer; merely glared at his tormentor with hunted eyes.

“Because you are the whelp of the Mammoth Man,” snarled Gonch. “He, your father, I hate even worse than I hate you. You do not know why.”

Again no answer; Kutnar only glared.

“Because he has the heart of a woman in his great lion body,” Gonch raved on vindictively. “Because he is a friend of beasts and would withhold them from the paunches of hungry men; because he would make weaklings of hunters and warriors; and because of the strength in his lion body which prevented my bringing him here a slave.”

Kutnar’s chest rose and fell with his hard breathing. He bit his lips until the blood came; but still he said nothing.

“I was but a wolf running amuck in his flock,” the Muskman sneered. “A rock fell from the cliff and nearly destroyed the Mammoth and Rhinoceros. Who pushed it down? I. A man set upon the Mammoth caught fast in the mire and would have destroyed him, had it not been for the meddling Rhinoceros. Who was that man? I. Who stole the Lion Man’s cub when all chance of securing the Lion Man himself was gone? I. Do you hear me, whelp? It was I.”

The boy’s eyes were now blazing like coals of fire. His face had become livid. Gonch noted the effectof his cruel mockery and he gloated over it even as he gloried in the boy’s helplessness.

“We were such dear good friends,” he scoffed. “I loved you, my comrade, as a hyena loves a bone. We fled to the southland together; you and I. Your father pursued us. He rode upon the Mammoth and soon we were overtaken. I thought it unwise for you to know who was pursuing us, for your father was angry and would have spoiled all. We lay hidden in the bushes. Another moment and you would have learned the truth, had not someone struck you from behind. Who struck that blow? A lion? No. It was——”

“You!” screamed Kutnar, and like a flash, he launched himself at his tormentor’s throat.

So sudden and unexpected was the attack that Gonch’s weapon was stricken from his hand. Now he too was unarmed. Over and over they rolled in the snow; first the man, then the boy uppermost, clawing and biting like wildcats and without apparent advantage to either. Gonch was howling with fury but Kutnar fought silently like a weasel and his hands ever worked for a weasel hold on his foeman’s throat. Rough and tumble, kick, strike, gouge; they struggled with all the strength and fury of madmen. For an instant they separated and each stood upon his feet. Gonch sprang to recover his ax but Kutnar frustrated this attempt with a quick leap that bore his detested enemy to the ground. The Muskman’s guard was open and Kutnar found the opportunity which he had longsought. Both hands clutched the Castillan’s throat and clung there like death.

Over and over they rolled again. Gonch’s cries were now screams of pain and rapidly losing force, even as his struggles to free his neck from that tearing, strangling clutch, became feebler and feebler. Kutnar felt his foe weakening; he gripped the tighter. Gonch’s body jerked convulsively, the blood trickled from his nostrils, then he relaxed and lay still. Kutnar released his hold and stood erect. The Muskman never moved. “Men will soon know of this,” the boy muttered; but there was no need of their knowing it too soon, so he seized the body by the shoulders and dragged it out of sight among some neighboring bushes. This done, he recovered his sling, also not forgetting to appropriate the Muskman’s fine flint-ax for his own use; then he was ready to proceed.

The die was cast and now there could be no turning back. Sooner or later, the man-pack would be after him. “To be caught is to be killed and to be killed is to be eaten,” he thought and so he made ready to escape with all speed. Which way? There was the broad highway eastward across the windswept snow-plain. It was the shortest route back to home and friends. He gazed longingly in that direction then shook his head. An endless journey in the dead of winter; the attempt would be madness. He could do it after the first spring thaw but not now. There was no help for it; the path pointing to the east meant cold, sickness anddeath. He turned to the south. There lay the mountains full of hiding places and caves no doubt where he might live protected from the elements. Food? His sling had killed for many; now it could surely kill for one. Yes, he would flee southward and take refuge among the mountains until such time as the return of mild weather would permit the long journey home.

He was making off along the line of the Pas when he thought of the Muskman. Something prompted him to look once more upon the body of his enemy and for the last time. He retraced his steps and entered the bushes. Gonch lay there upon his back. As Kutnar gazed down at him, he said in a melancholy voice: “The rogue has met his just deserts; and yet—it is hard to forget that I once looked upon him as a friend.”

He kneeled over the body and laid one ear against the chest. “Can it be that he is still alive?” he asked himself. “The heart still beats; the flesh is warm.” The thought disturbed him. He raised his ax. One blow and all doubts would be removed; then for some reason he hesitated. “He will die anyway,” the boy reasoned. “It would be but striking a corpse.”

“That may strike back if you do not,” something within warned him and he raised his ax once more, only to lose heart when it came to actually dealing the finishing stroke. “He will surely perish of cold if nothing else,” he said finally. “The nightwill soon come and none can find him before morning.”

That settled it. By morning, Kutnar would be well on his way and among the mountains; then he need worry no more about the Muskman, be he dead or alive.

He left his fallen enemy lying among the bushes, took one more longing look at the broad eastern path and then fled rapidly in the southern direction along the line of the River Pas.

Gonch was not dead although a few moments more of Kutnar’s throttling grip would have made him so beyond question. Some men are hard to kill. Gonch was of that kind. Even as he lay, to all appearances, stiff and stark, the life-blaze flickered feebly, gathered fresh strength and flared up. His chest heaved, he uttered a deep sigh, then groaned and opened his eyes.

For a moment he was dazed by the position in which he found himself. He lay sprawling in the snow among the bushes, staring at the sky. Far in the distance, he could see the peak of Castillo. The sun setting behind the mountain-top, crowned it with a rubescent halo. The day was nearing its close.

Gonch gnashed his teeth with terrible rage as he remembered why it was he lay there. He, warrior and second man of the Castillan tribe, had been bested by a boy. His humiliation was beyond power to describe. His hate and fury were even worse. He would have given his last drop of life-blood for a chance to grapple again with Kutnar but this opportunity was denied him, for the lad was gone.

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