With a Hoarse Cry Pic Sprang to His Feet
With a Hoarse Cry Pic Sprang to His Feet
“A cave man’s home? Can it be possible?” he asked himself. As if in reply, an almost inaudible scraping sound broke the dead stillness of the cave,followed by the low breathing of some living thing behind him. A dim shadow spread itself over the floor, creeping forward inch by inch until it reached the side wall and rose slowly upward. Pic followed it with a fascinated horror that robbed him of power to use his voice or limbs. Gradually the grey phantom ascended the wall before his eyes and resolved itself into the silhouetted head and shoulders of a man.
With a hoarse cry, Pic sprang to his feet. Before he could turn, something descended upon his head with crushing force. Slowly he rolled over in a crumpled heap. His limbs stiffened, then relaxed and his senses flew to the winds, shutting out all sight and sound and thought of the Mammoth and Rhinoceros anxiously awaiting on the opposite side of the gorge.
A straggling spray of light reflected from the cliffs overlooking the Düssel, penetrated a dark cavity in the southern limestone wall—the Cave of the Neander Gorge. It dimly disclosed a dark mass heaped in one corner of the cave. The mass—something lying beneath a frayed hyena-skin—was surmounted by a large bun-shaped head, faced with gaping eye-sockets, protruding muzzle and chinless jaws. The head seemed lifeless. It remained cold and still, as a wasted hand, thin and nail-clawed, emerged from under the hyena-skin and stole tremblingly upward. A pair of eyelids fluttered in the gaping sockets as the hand encountered the cold brows above them. The eyelids lifted and two eyes gazed up at the low roof and dusky walls, then rolled in the direction of the cave entrance. As they encountered the outside light, they blinked feebly and stared through the glare in wonder at the pale blue sky and feathery clouds beyond. Then the head turned slightly and permitted the eyes to look upona shelf or platform of rock, fronting the cave-mouth.
Upon the platform, sat an image which appeared out of harmony with the lifeless things about it; nor did it resemble sky or cloud. It was the figure of a man sitting upon a rock near the cave entrance; a man bare of all vestment except that which covered his body from head to foot—his own hair, thick and bristly like a boar’s. His head was inclined forward so that only the base of the skull-cap could be seen. The latter was of lesser girth than the huge neck which joined it to the shoulders. And such shoulders! They and the broad back were proportionately even more massive than the bull-like neck. That was all. The image sat with features averted and the wondering eyes could see no more.
And then, as though sensible of something regarding it from behind, the image moved. The great back turned slowly around and a face peered from behind one shoulder at the figure lying on the cave-floor. As its gaze met that of the wondering eyes, the image unfolded its limbs and stood erect, a living man.
A man?—rather a giant; stranger from another world. The eyes staring from the grotto had never gazed upon a more extraordinary human being. The heavy brows so characteristic of all cave-folk,were exaggerated into great bars of bone which transformed the deep eye-sockets into cavernous recesses. They continued far forward from the sloping forehead like the eaves of a roof. The skull top receded at a low angle to meet the hind portion. The mouth was large, the lips thin, the nose prominent but well-formed. The body and, limbs, particularly the arms and shoulders were of tremendous size and strength.
The apparition now strode to the cave entrance whose roof barely cleared the huge head. As it stood silhouetted against the sky, its herculean proportions were clearly displayed. And yet in spite of his gigantic stature the Man of the Neander Gorge was but an exaggeration of a familiar type—the race of Moustier.
He entered the cave and bent over the figure lying there. The wondering eyes followed his every motion as in a dream. What with the sombre surroundings, the death-like silence and this vision of a motionless image suddenly transformed into a living being, the eyes continued staring as though just opened for the first time upon the marvels of an unknown world.
Slowly the Giant’s huge hand reached down and stroked the cold forehead,—a hand of iron and yet so soothing, the eyes drifted back to earth and became one with the mind and substance of the body.They lost their blank expression and stared curiously into the strange face now bending over them. A touch of crimson warmed the sunken cheeks and the sick man asked in a hollow voice: “Who are you?”
“A man.” The Giant’s face brightened as he answered. That touch of the hand, the look of sympathy, were indications of certain elements which define human character and which men alone possessed. The Cave Man of the Neander Gorge was fierce and terrible to look upon; but all the more, a man.
The sufferer’s eyes closed and he sighed as though content. The corners of his mouth expanded slowly backwards towards his ears. The Giant stared amazed; but as he looked and wondered, a warm glow arose within his breast. His face reflected the sunshine of that smile whose like he had never seen light the features of beast or man. It was but a grinning mouth; and yet for the first time he gazed upon white teeth that neither snapped nor threatened but touched a responsive chord in his own breast.
“And what strange being are you?” he asked in a deep voice. “You whose snarl would make even a rabbit lose its fear of red jowl and gleaming fang?”
“I?” The eyes of the sick man opened wide.His brows wrinkled as vainly he strove to collect his thoughts. “Arrah; I do not know,” he answered faintly. “Where am I? Why am I here?”
The Giant’s face darkened. “Ugh; that I would like to know. Did you think to drive me from my cave? Who are you?”
“I do not know,” replied the sick man, startled by the other’s manner. “I remember nothing but what I have seen these few passing moments.”
The Giant’s wrath subsided as he observed the invalid’s perplexity. He even chided himself for his hasty display of temper. As the sufferer dozed off, he resumed his seat near the cave-mouth, turning from time to time to glance at the sleeper like a nurse awaiting the patient’s pleasure.
This was but the awakening,—light emerging from obscurity; the return of a mind long dead to the living body. But in that which lay upon the cave-floor, none would now recognize the once powerful Ape Boy of Moustier.
Long illness had wasted his muscular frame almost to a skeleton. His head was a grinning skull with hairy parchment stretched so tightly over its ridges and hollows, they threatened to break through. His body and limbs were little more than hide and bone. He was dead to look upon. The life-spark glowed feebly; but it burned. The fever had now left him, permitting his strength to returnand repair the ravages of disease. His mind ceased to wander. It rejoined the body newly arisen from the grave and both followed the thread of life anew.
The Giant kept his patient supplied with food and water and covered him at night with the hyena robe. It was this latter that brought a first message from the forgotten past. One morning as Pic raised himself on one elbow to take his fare, his eyes fell upon the skin under which he lay. A strange look came over his face as he ran his fingers through the long thick fur.
“This skin?” he asked. “How came it here?”
“It came with you,” was the answer. “You wore it.”
“Yes, I remember now,” muttered Pic. “I wore it to keep warm. The air was cold. I do not feel cold now.”
“That was long ago,” said the Giant. “The snow and ice are gone. The birds have returned and all creatures have crawled from their holes. Buds and green leaves brighten every bush and tree. Until their coming, you lay as one dead. This is the first time you have awakened since my club crashed down upon your skull——”
“You struck me?” Pic cried. “Then it was you who crept upon me from behind—the shadow on the wall.”
“Yes it was I.” The Giant pointed to an objecton the cave floor, a bludgeon of seasoned oak, the length and thickness of his arm. “The one blow failed to kill. I withheld the second and brought you back to life instead.”
“Why? Men are none too gentle with those who intrude upon them, I know.”
“Nor do men of this day carry great hand-stones,” the Giant replied. “But for it, your bones would now be whitening at the bottom of the gorge. Who are you—a boy who comes upon me as though from the sky bearing the blade of a race long dead—the Terrace Men—?”
“Terrace Men? Agh-h-h!” Pic’s eyes were starting from his head. His jaw dropped until the chin touched his breast. A lump arose in his throat. He could say no more.
“Yes, the Terrace Man’s hand-stone,” said the Giant. “The one you bore bound to a wooden haft. Wait and I will fetch it. When you see, you will remember.”
He entered the cave and returned in a few moments with a great almond-shaped flint of lustrous grey—the blade of Ach Eul still bound to its long wooden handle with strips of hide. He laid it in the Ape Boy’s trembling hands.
“Agh; I know it now—my ax, my father’s ax made by a man of the River Terraces.” Pic clasped the weapon to his breast while the Giant lookedcuriously on. In a moment he turned to his companion with a puzzled look upon his face.
“Hand-stone; hand-stone?” he repeated several times. “I do not understand. Does the flint please you—as it pleases me? You spoke of Terrace Men. What do you know of them?”
“I know of a race long dead,” the Giant replied in a voice so deep and hollow, it seemed to arise from the earth. “A race of mighty men who roamed along the river banks; who fought and hunted in the warm sunlight and slept beneath the blue sky and twinkling stars. They vied with the Mammoth, the Rhinoceros——”
“Agh! I am listening,” Pic muttered hoarsely. “Go on.”
“And other beasts,” the Giant continued. “Then”—his voice sank almost to a whisper—“the Storm Wind descended upon them from the north. They were mighty men—the People of the Terraces—but even their strength could not match that of the Storm Wind. One by one they died of cold, hunger and disease. Wild beasts set upon them in their weakness. Those who survived, fled to the shelter of caves—gloomy holes where many sickened and died. The others lost all remembrance of things. They sat still and stared and snapped like wolves—and they died too. All were gone—allbut one who yet lives; here alone in a cave high above the gorge——”
“You—a Terrace Man?” cried Pic as he gazed up awe-stricken into the Giant’s face. “Arrah, I have found you now: big, strong Man of the Terraces, maker of wonderful flints. I have searched the world for you and now I will learn the secret of how flints like this were made.”
The Ape Boy was now soaring in the clouds. His eyes shone with the zeal of a fanatic, as every moment he took in more inspiration from the ax of Ach Eul which he held closely to his breast. The Giant was speechless with amazement. He could only listen as Pic rambled on:
“You see how large and shapely it is; the same on both edges—on both surfaces. Such work was not done entirely with the hammer-stone. Some other tool was used after the blank was hewn. See where the tiny chips were removed to form the point and edges. Soon I will know how they were struck off and the flint thinned down, when a blow however slight might break and spoil it.”
The Giant shook his head vigorously. “You mistake,” he said. “I know nothing of flint-working nor did any others of my tribe. We carried hand-stones—the ones our fathers’ fathers made long before my time. They were poignards—axes without handles. They and clubs were our weapons;but the blades were lost or broken one by one and none knew how to replace them. The hand-stone has long passed away. Those are dead who can tell of its making. I never knew. I do not know now.”
Pic’s heart sank. His head fell forward upon his breast. “And so I will never know. What is left, worth living for—to the miserable Ape Boy hiding in a man’s skin? Nothing; not even the friends you spoke of.”
“Friends?” the Giant exclaimed. “I spoke of none. Who were they?”
Pic’s head sank yet lower. His eyes stared vacantly at his companion’s feet.
“The Hairy Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros,” he replied.
For moments which seemed hours, Pic remained silent, staring at the ground; and in those few moments, his remembrance of past events drifted slowly back; his alliance with the Mammoth and Rhinoceros, his travels and adventures with those wonderful beasts and the various incidents leading up to his mishap in the Giant’s stronghold.
He had been very ill, his mind a blank and his body all but consumed by wasting fever. Now he was on the mend, his brain cleared; but the Mammoth and Rhinoceros were gone—forever.
“You spoke of the Mammoth and Rhinoceros.” The Giant was regarding him with amazement. “Those two are animals, not men. No man has animals for his friends. You do not remember. Your head is not yet well.”
“You are mistaken,” Pic replied with an earnestness that impressed the other deeply. “All is well here;” he pointed to his forehead. “I have been very ill, I know. Once I remembered nothing; but now everything is clear. The Mammoth and Rhinoceros were my friends,—the best I ever had—butnow they have gone away; where, nobody knows.”
The Giant gulped. Never had he heard the like. Here was a man who chose to debase himself by associating with inferior creatures and was not ashamed to confess it. Preposterous! He found it difficult to hold his temper.
“What matters it if a mammoth and rhinoceros are friends or not?” he growled. “But any man who chooses to associate with them is no better than they—a beast.”
“But I am alone,” said Pic. “That is why I chose the Mammoth and Rhinoceros——”
“Quite right. Men cannot live alone either,” the Giant interrupted. “It destroys something here;” he touched a finger to his forehead—“Return to your own people before it is too late.”
“But I am an outcast, a renegade from my tribe and am not permitted to return,” said Pic, sobered by the other’s earnestness. “I was lonely. I met the Mammoth and Rhinoceros. They were wonderful creatures. We had many adventures. They saved my life and I saved theirs. Men never did as well for each other. I will give up my friends for no man.”
A low rumble sounded in the distance. The Giant looked up with a start and stared across the gorge—at a mass of dark clouds slowly risingabove the horizon. His eyes shone with a strange light. He shivered and trembled like a frightened child. Pic began to understand. The Giant was afraid of the thunder-clouds. All men feared thunder and lightning.
“It makes him nervous and ill-tempered,” thought Pic. “When the clouds pass, he will be himself again.”
Suddenly the Giant sprang to his feet and glanced behind him, listening attentively and sniffing as animals do when they strive to catch the scent. His club lay on the cave floor. With the stealth of a panther, he glided to the weapon, seized it and edged nearer to the rear wall. Pic waited in breathless suspense. He could now barely discern the Giant’s dark figure standing with bludgeon held across his shoulders as though awaiting the attack of some unknown enemy.
All was as quiet as death. While Pic looked on, scarcely daring to breathe, he heard a faint scratching sound. It came from the rear wall, low and muffled as though originating in the heart of the rock. Gradually it grew louder, more distinct and with it, the labored breathing of some living thing. The Giant must have heard the sounds but he made no sign, only stood like a stone image with weapon held ready—and waiting. Pic raised his ax and kept his eyes and ears open for something whichmight break the spell and explain the scene before him.
Suddenly a loud scuffling sounded from the darkness; a fearful snarling and growling and a gaunt, shaggy figure bounded to the entrance. The bludgeon descended with a crash and a great wolf fell sprawling on the ledge. Like a flash, the Giant dropped his club and dashed upon the struggling brute. It snapped and snarled horribly as he seized it by the scruff of the neck with his bare hands. In a twinkle the wretch was raised aloft like a kitten. One mighty heave; and it whirled high into space, then descended with a splash into the river below.
“A wonderful toss,” muttered Pic as the brute went spinning aloft; and he gazed in awe upon the Giant who now stood watching him with arms folded across his broad chest.
“Cave-wolf?” asked Pic. It seemed an absurd question, but he could think of nothing else to say.
“Ugh; a cave-wolf,” growled the other. “I heard him coming and was prepared to strike. Thus I kill all who intrude in my cave.” He glared at Pic so savagely, the youth shrank back alarmed; and yet his fear failed to silence the question that arose involuntarily to his lips:
“The wolf came from the cave. How did he get in?”
Without replying the Giant abruptly left thecave and began to ascend the cliffs where, on one side of the cave-mouth, the steep wall was broken by corners and crevices. This was the Giant’s stairway, his means of ascending from the grotto to the plateau above.
Pic followed and looked on while his surly host clambered up the rock-ladder and disappeared over the top. Once alone, he squatted upon the cave threshold to think over the recent happenings and make his plans.
“I will leave with the next sunrise,” he determined; and as he made this decision, he remembered the Giant’s warning: “Return to your people before it is too late.” He felt lonely and now that the Mammoth and Rhinoceros were gone he longed for a glimpse of his home on the Rock of Moustier. “Perhaps you and your people have misunderstood each other,” a low voice within him said; but the truth was he felt homesick and now longed for human companionship. The Giant’s latest mood inspired his mistrust. In his weakened condition, Pic fully realized his own helplessness, even when armed with his wonderful flint-ax, the blade of Ach Eul.
As he looked upon it, he felt that it had brought him nothing but trouble. His search had ended in failure. True, he had at last found a Terrace Man, only to learn that the latter knew nothing of whathe sought—the art of retouching hammered flakes. That art would never again see the light and with that hope gone, his ambition was gone with it. His efforts at flint-making would end now and for all time. He would return to his people—to be a hunter and warrior and live as a man should. The finger of scorn would no longer point at him, the Ape Boy—the little beast without a tail, hiding in a man’s skin. He would be known as Pic, leader of men, enemy of beasts; the Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros alone excepted. He glowed, he smiled; for on the morrow he would be on his way—back to his people and the Valley of the Vézère.
A dull, rumbling noise overhead disturbed Pic’s reverie. He looked up startled and saw that the sky had become heavily overcast. Black, threatening clouds were slowly closing the last gap of blue in the southwest quarter. He arose to his feet and entered the cave to find refuge from the storm-clouds that threatened at any moment to pour down their wrath upon his head.
The rumbling sounded again. It was as though some savage beast were growling in the sky. Pic peered into the darkness of the cavern. The wolf had sprung from there—from where? Pic had never examined the cave interior. His whole interest had been in sunshine and fresh air. But the wolf had come from it and others might do the same.For some unknown reason, the Giant had resented any questioning on the subject. The mystery could be investigated during his absence—now.
After a moment’s wait to accustom his eyes to the darkness, Pic groped his way to the rear wall. As his hands glided along the clammy rock, it suddenly sank into empty space; a large hole partly covered with a limestone slab and large enough to admit a man’s head and shoulders. He was about to examine further when he heard a low scraping noise—rustling—as of something moving in the heart of the rock. “Another wolf;” he smiled grimly and raised his ax all prepared to strike—just as the Giant had struck. The noise grew louder,—scraping, scratching, growls and mutterings. Pic’s hair stood on end. His knees trembled. He bent down and hastily replaced the stone slab across the opening; then tip-toed to a far corner of the cave—his corner and bed of leaves. For an instant, the latter rustled noisily as he made a nest for himself, then all was quiet there except for loud breathing as of one who sleeps.
His face was turned towards the crack in the rear wall. One eye watched the limestone slab through half-closed lids. It saw the stone thrust gently aside. A head appeared in the opening. Two eyes—fire-specks in the center of great black blotches—turned this way and that; towards the cave entrance,the outside ledge and lastly the interior of the cave itself. In a moment, they alighted upon the figure lying on the bed of leaves. Pic’s eyes were closed. To all appearances, he was sound asleep. The head, then shoulders and body drew themselves clear of the dark hole and re-set the stone in place. This done, the newcomer glided to the far corner of the cave and stood over the figure huddled in the nest of leaves.
For Pic, this was a terrible moment. He breathed heavily—so heavily and his heart pounded so loudly against his ribs, he dreaded less they arouse suspicions as to the soundness of his slumber. Great was his relief when he heard the intruder turn away towards the entrance. He opened one eye and saw a huge, dark figure standing in the cave-mouth, peering up at the sky. The figure was the Giant of the Neander Gorge.
The sleeper stirred, yawned audibly and rubbed his eyes, whereupon the Giant looked around, growled and straightway resumed his sky-gazing. Pic sat up; but he made no effort to leave his nest. He was wondering how he could leave the grotto and reach the stairway leading to the plateau above without being observed. His host blocked the exit. No longer did he think to withhold his departure until morning. His plans were laid to leave at the earliest possible moment.
He shuddered, for just then the Giant whined as though in fear and shrank back within the cave. Pic glanced through the entrance into the world outside. The clouds no longer moved. They hung so thick and low, it seemed as though any moment, they might fall and fill the gorge. The air was warm and stifling beneath the black pall overhead. It was not air; only a dark greenish haze occasionally lighted by a momentary radiance. The storm was at hand. All grew dark. Pic shut his eyes and tried to forget.
A tremendous crash and a flood of dazzling light penetrated the innermost recesses of the cave. With a cry of terror, Pic looked wildly about him. His eyes were half-blinded by a succession of brilliant flares which momentarily lighted up the cave-mouth and platform outside. The flares alternated with thunderous roars which made the rock-roof tremble above his head. Outside, the rain descended in torrents. The wind swept in blind fury across the gorge—a black, howling madness, battering against the southern limestone wall.
As he cowered trembling in his corner, a low, beast-like snarl fell upon his ears—more menacing, more terrifying than the roaring tempest. Suddenly a flash of light revealed a sight that made his hair stand on end. The staring eyes, bared teethand distorted features of a fiend were seared upon his brain as with a red-hot iron.
“Men cannot live alone;” Pic remembered his companion’s recent warning; and now he understood. No human being could long endure the companionship of none but his own thoughts, the gloom of a cave and the cold and darkness of winter, when even the sight of his own shadow was denied him. The Neander Giant had gone mad.
Pic’s blood ran cold. He had no fear of the storm now. He feared nothing but the fiend beside him. Not even the Cave Lion could have inspired a fraction of the terror he felt at that one glimpse of the madman’s distorted face. The Giant had warned him to leave. He must go now—at once.
He raised himself clear of his nest and felt about for his ax. His hand found it and gripped the haft. Slowly and without a sound, he glided towards the cave-mouth. Another moment and he would have turned the corner to safety when suddenly a hand touched his shoulder—an iron hand which silently bade him advance no farther. He stopped. Cold sweat broke out all over his body. He would have shrieked but his throat could give forth no sound. Again he tried to pass; but the hand and arm behind it were like an iron beam which held him back. He shrank into the cave once more and the pressure was released. No wordswere spoken—only low growls and beast-like snarls. The lightning flashes increased in frequency and force. They revealed the mad Giant standing guard in the entrance. Pic gripped his ax with a desperate fleeting notion of closing in and attempting to match the other’s strength with his blade of Ach Eul; but another glimpse of the diabolical face and he faltered. Such an idea were madness itself.
And then—he suddenly bethought himself of the opening behind the slab in the rear wall. It was a secret passage, a tunnel communicating with the outside world—liberty. The Wolf had come from there; the Giant too. His despair changed to hope. He retreated to the depths of the cave. It was but the work of a moment to find the limestone panel and push it noiselessly aside. He dropped flat on his belly and thrust his head and shoulders into the opening. The cold water streamed through and almost overwhelmed him, but he paid no heed. He followed with his body, his legs, his feet; and the cave with its mad occupant was left behind.
The passage inclined upwards. It was a crack or seam in the rock, smoothed and enlarged by the water that had trickled through it for untold centuries. He could progress but slowly as he lay flat on his chest and stomach and pushed himself along with his feet and hands. The passage-way seemed endless but he kept on upward as fast as he couldcrawl. And now he was nearing his journey’s end. Every moment the path ahead was illuminated by flashes of reflected light. He could faintly distinguish a roaring above his head as though the thunder was welcoming his escape from the Giant’s wrath. With a supreme effort he reached the outlet; then shrank back appalled as his head encountered the fury of the storm.
For an instant, he looked on, dismayed. The end of all things, appeared at hand; then the remembrance of the cave and its mad occupant urged him to seek the open—the lesser evil. Once more he pushed his head through the hole. He was about to draw himself clear when something closed on one ankle with an iron grip. A great hand held him fast. It was as though he were chained to the rock. He heard no sound; but with that grip upon his foot, his last chance had passed. In a panic of fear, he turned and struck behind him with his ax. A blood-curdling yell; and the crushing hold on his ankle relaxed. With a bound, he hurled himself clear of the opening, stumbled and fell heavily upon his back. A huge head sprang up behind him. A pair of hands with fingers spread and curled like eagle’s claws, stretched over the prostrate figure. Pic groaned and shut his eyes as the cruel talons descended to clutch his throat.
A deafening crash; a blot of dazzling flame shotdown like a meteor from the heavens, striking the madman in the very midst of his spring. A second flash showed his great head and shoulders thrown back across the opening. Both arms were raised aloft and the look on his face was ghastly. Flare after flare revealed him sinking lower and lower, his eyes protruding in a hideous death-stare as though in hatred of the thunderbolt that had cheated him of his prey. Slowly he slid back into the fissure while Pic looked on in fascinated horror until the now lifeless body disappeared from sight.
For an instant, the darkness remained unbroken; then a momentary gleam disclosed a scene of wild desolation along the storm-swept heights overlooking the Neander Gorge. It lighted up the now empty mouth of the fissure and the figure of a man fast disappearing in the blinding fury of the tempest.
The break of winter had just begun to heal the frost-scars and revive the blighted vegetation of the Vézère. The broad table-lands, crags and meadows were already casting their withered coats and preparing to don the green garb of spring, a welcome change after the long season of cold withering death.
A solitary figure was making its way across the meadows towards the Vézère river. It was the figure of a man bearing over one shoulder a flint-ax—a keen blade of lustrous grey bound to a stout wooden shaft. Pic the Ape Boy, grown to manhood after two years of travel and adventure in the north, was nearing his home at last.
As he reached the river and halted to gaze at the familiar scenes about him, he became imbued with the spirit of gladness which shone from every inanimate object, even the ordinarily cold limestone cliffs. The warm sunlight glare reflected from rock and river, diffused through his brain and body a sense of lazy comfort. It cast over him a spell too subtle to resist. With a sigh of content, he stretched himself full-length upon the grass near the riverbank and gazed abstractedly at the ripples and whirling eddies as they sped past to mingle with the waters of the Dordogne. By degrees, his mind wandered, his eyes closed and his thoughts relapsed into reveries, then fanciful visions.
He was alone, high upon a rock, squatting before his fire, gazing through the smoke-wreaths. Slowly the latter gathered in volume until they were expanded into a pair of gigantic figures—a mammoth and rhinoceros. Other forms followed one after another—four-footed beasts of every shape and kind until a mighty throng was assembled about him, pressing threateningly forward. He turned to flee into his cave but it had disappeared. In its place, stood the Hairy Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros, their faces stern and filled with deep reproach. He averted his gaze expecting to encounter the menacing beast-throng; but all had vanished. In their stead, a pair of eyes flashing like red-hot coals pierced him through and through. His brain burned as the mad stare was directed upon him from two cavernous sockets surmounted by great bone-ridges. A sloping forehead took shape above the eyes; an arched nose, protruding muzzle and chinless jaw below. The face became a head mounted on bull-neck and massive shoulders.
“Who are you and why do you come here?” Pic boldly demanded; but cold sweat dampened hisforehead and he cowered in terror, for the head was drawing nearer and nearer, muttering low growls and gnashing its teeth the while.
“Who am I? I was a man before I became mad. See me now. Men cannot live alone nor can they live with animals. You have done both. The Ape Boy will be the same as I unless”—and the voice grew deep and solemn—“he takes heed before it is too late.”
Pic could now feel the hot breath of the Neander Giant. He endeavored to rise and flee but his muscles would not respond. He averted his face and strove to call for aid; but his tongue was numb and no sound came.
The rocks seemed to rise and float away. He heard voices; then a sense of earthly things crept over him, with a change from gloom to light. He opened his eyes and saw not one but a score of faces scowling fiercely upon him. With a startled exclamation, he strove to rise but found himself held fast in the grip of many hands.
“Who are you? From where do you come?” demanded a red-eyed fellow as he threatened Pic with his upraised ax.
Overwhelmed by his rude awakening, Pic was slow to respond. A violent kick in the side aroused him from his stupor.
“I am a man like yourself,” he hastened to reply.“Back all of you and let me rise. I have just returned. My cave is in the high rock overlooking the valley;” and he pointed in the direction of Moustier.
Again he attempted to stand but the hands still held him fast. The man who had first spoken, shook his ax and snarled angrily:
“You lie; the Cave Lion lives there as we all know.” He threw back his arms and displayed a hideous breast-scar not entirely healed. “Behold his work! The bones of him who fared worse are scattered upon the ledge;” and he made a horrid grimace as though not at all pleased at the recollection.
Pic saw and hesitated. In the face of such evidence, it seemed a waste of words to parley with his captors; nevertheless he made the attempt.
“Grun Waugh may be there now,” he snarled; “but the cave is mine. Loosen my hands, so that I may visit the Rock and drive the beast from his den.”
At this brazen insolence, every face became a picture of amazement, changing to furious rage as its significance dawned upon all. The fierce looks and growls of the Cave-men boded ill for Pic who now realized that his words were neither wise nor well-chosen. He glanced curiously from one to another. In them, he recognized human beings of hisown tribe; natives of the lower Vézère Valley, the same as he. He noted their hollow eyes, sunken cheeks and emaciated forms. He had seen such things before; the results of cold, hunger and disease and a spring season of fruitless hunting. Famine had hardened every ridge and furrow and made hideous the features of these famished men. To them, strangers were unwelcome at best; but the sight of the newcomer’s well-rounded figure was more than these hungry mortals could endure. One of the band bent down and smote Pic’s cheek with his open palm.
“So we have a lion-tamer come amongst us,” he sneered. “We, your good friends will accompany you to the Rock and learn how cave-lions are managed.”
“To the Rock with him,” cried a voice. “The braggart shall furnish sport for us and the Lion both, provided the beast is at home and ready for another meal.”
Pic was jerked roughly to his feet—a vigorous young giant standing amidst an emaciated horde. His ax—which until this moment had escaped the notice of his captors—was now exposed to view. The man who had struck him, bent low to secure the weapon. As his eyes caught the great blade’s lustrous gleam, he jumped back with an astonished yell:
“The flint! Arrah! Come all and see.”
Every pair of eyes followed the outstretched arm and hand pointing to earth—at the blade of Ach Eul lying upon the ground.
A great commotion followed as the warriors surged around their captive for a closer view of the wonderful flint. In the excitement, Pic was left the freedom of his limbs. He was preparing for a bold dash to freedom when suddenly a voice bellowed from the outskirts of the group: “Stand back, crow’s meat;” and a burly figure forced its way toward the prisoner, thrusting aside those in front of him with no gentle hand.
All fell back and made room to let him pass. From the manner in which they submitted to his rude buffeting, Pic knew that the chief of the band was approaching. The burly newcomer was a man of broad shoulder and powerful limb. In spite of his famished condition, his arm and body muscles bulged through their drawn skin-covering and concealed all but the joints of his big-boned frame. As he glanced curiously at Pic, then at the ax lying upon the ground, a look of astonishment came over his face. He bent low and clutched the wooden haft.
“None can mistake this blade,” he muttered. “How came it here?” He turned to his prisoner. “Who are you?” he roared. “Common beasts donot go about alone, bearing chieftains’ blades. How did you come by this flint? Quick, answer before I stir your tongue with a burning brand.”
“I am not a chieftain,” Pic protested loudly. “But the ax is mine; rightly won and mine to hold and fight for if need be;” then as low growls greeted these bold words, his voice softened and became appealing. “Hear me, you warriors,” he pleaded, glancing from one face to another. “For three long winters, have I lived alone with the finger of scorn pointing at me—one who would neither hunt nor fight. All men are warriors; some are flint-workers but not one can make flints as they should be made. I have striven to be that one. I have searched in vain for what would make me that one; and now I know it cannot be. No longer will I live alone nor with”—he checked himself and went on—“Now I have returned to live as a man should. My arm is strong, seasoned for the hunt and prepared to cross axes with any man. The Ape Boy has passed away. Pic the——”
He got no farther. A bedlam of howls and yells rent the air:
“Death to the renegade! Arrah! Burn the Ape Boy! To the Rock; to the Cave Lion with him! Kill; kill!” The fierce Cave-men surged about him so furiously that no ax could be brought to bear, so much were one and all of them hampered by theeagerness of their fellows. Above the tumult now thundered the chieftain’s loud command: “Silence! Stand back, all of you,” and as the howls subsided into snarls at his bidding, he stepped forward and shook his ax-blade in Pic’s face.
“Ape Boy? Agh-h! Now we know you—friend of beasts, enemy of men. The Cave Lion is too gentle for such as you. Back to the shelter with him,” he roared. “No beast shall cheat the stomachs of starving men.”
In a moment, Pic was overpowered and borne to the ground. While half a dozen of his captors held him down and pinioned his arms behind him, others bound his wrists together with strips of hide. When he was thus securely trussed, the Cave-men helped him to his feet; and then, with their captive in the center, and the blade of Ach Eul borne triumphantly on the burly chieftain’s shoulders, they began their march across the meadows towards the overhanging cliffs bordering the valley.
The valley of the Vézère was a thick rock-bed, through which the river had—in remote ages—carved a deep channel with almost vertical sides. In time, the course of the stream became diverted at intervals throughout its length. In places the limestone walls fell in or weathered away, leaving broad rock-floors only a few feet above the normal level of the stream. During the melting and rainy seasons, these low areas were subject to intermittent flooding as the Vézère overflowed its banks. This irrigation, further aided by deposition of silt or river mud, gradually transformed the bare rock-floors into fertile meadows, covered—even during the cold season—with fresh, sweet grass.
On the western side of the Vézère River, several miles above its junction with the Dordogne, one of these low, grass-covered areas extended some three miles inland, then terminated abruptly in lofty limestone cliffs. The latter marked the valley border, a step from river lowland to high plateau. A northwestern tributary of the Vézère formed the meadow’s northern boundary.
This broad lowland was a region much frequented by Mousterian Cave-men, particularly that portion of it lying directly beneath the limestone cliffs. In one place, the massive rock-wall was deeply undercut so that the cliff-face rose not straight upward, but inclined outward, thereby forming an overhanging shelf or canopy protecting the ground directly under it.
Such was the Ferrassie Rock-shelter, summer home and metropolis of the Vézère Cave-folk. It was a human habitation, an open-air camp where men gathered each spring to enjoy the bright, warm sunlight after a winter season of confinement in damp and gloomy caves.
Close to the base of the cliffs and shielded from wind and rain by the overhanging rock, burned a great fire of dead branches and unhewn logs. The smoke therefrom curled outward and upward, clinging closely to the shelving wall. The latter served as a broad chimney enclosed only on one side. The wall was stained greasy black, changing to grey with increased height, indicating that the smoke had followed the same course for an extended period of time.
Arranged in a semi-circle about the fire and with their feet almost in the hot ashes, squatted ten or more grizzled men and women. All sat silent and motionless, gazing into the smoke-wreaths whichcurled up the overhanging wall. They stared with dull, unseeing eyes, for their minds had grown callous with sorrow and suffering. For them, the joys of life had passed. They were beings, prematurely aged who should have been but in their prime. Their bodies were little more than skin and bone—skeletons clothed in hairy hide, and their faces were stamped with the symbol of death—a dark patch in each hollow parchment cheek. Each drawn face and emaciated body bore the unmistakable signs of famine and disease—hunger-marks—which made those who wore them, hideous in face and form.
On the outside of the group squatting about the fire and beyond the cliff overhang, six or seven younger people, all women, sat, reclined or lay full length about a limestone block. This block lay deeply embedded in the soil. Its exposed part formed a table with a level top about one foot high and a square yard in area. Its surface was scratched and worn. It was a butcher-block where the Cave-men were wont to dismember venison, beef or other game for convenience of handling before subjecting the raw chunks to fire treatment. It served also as an anvil where unusually tough flesh of aged buck, steer or other antiquary could be hammered and softened when no better offered. Lastly, the limb bones could be laid upon the flat stone surface and split open, thereby exposing the marrow within.Cave-men were ever partial to marrow bones and so the butcher-block bore the marks of long hard usage.
It was immaculate, smooth and polished as though freshly scrubbed, a surprising condition considering that cave-men were none too particular as regards their personal habits. But necessity rather than scruple had driven these hungry folk to seek out and consume every scrap of fat or flesh even to the last dried shred. The surface of the butcher-block was licked, gnawed, bitten until no trace of refuse remained, not even the grease veneer nor inlay of brown dried blood.
Now that spring has come at last, the Cave-folk had crawled from their holes to gather hope and strength from the fresh air and the sun’s warm rays. Through the long dreary winter they had remained underground, venturing forth at rare intervals to replenish their diminishing food-supply. Half clad in hide wrappings and with fires continually burning near the entrance of their dwellings, they had huddled together awaiting the return of mild weather which many would never see again. And finally from the rock-holes where they had so long lain, ghostly relics of once powerful men and women had crawled to gaze again upon the sun and feel its warmth beneath the Ferrassie cliffs. The warriors staggered out to the meadows and soughttheir next meal with ax, dart and throwing-stone, leaving the old people and women behind to await the fruits of the first hunting.
A laughing bark sounded from the outskirts of the camp. Wolves and hyenas prowled where bones and scraps of meat were frequently cast out as refuse or where bodies of men were conveniently placed to be cared for by these ghoulish undertakers, after the fashion of Mousterian funerals.
The bark—a mere nothing in itself—signalled the approach of a band of figures coming across the meadows. The figures were those of men, bearing darts and flint-axes in their hands. In a moment, they were espied by the women who leaped to their feet dancing and shouting: “Here they come! The hunters are returning. What do they bring with them to fill our stomachs?” Those about the fire left their comfortable positions to join in welcoming the newcomers and all hobbled forth, a procession of living skeletons to meet those who stood between them and starvation.
As they glanced wildly from man to man and saw no trace of beef or venison, they gave vent to their bitter disappointment in loud wails—the cries of hunger unappeased. The hunters had returned empty-handed. One of the women, a scrawny old hag, whose eyes protruded with the stare of madness, pushed her way into the group of men, examiningeach one closely to assure herself that none bore food of any kind. From the way all made room and the rude deference shown her, it was evident that she was a privileged character—a creature who inspired the Cave-men’s awe. The burly Mousterian leader sought to avoid her but she stood in his path and blocked the way.
“No meat?” she whined. “No beef; no venison; not even a rabbit or squirrel?”
The chieftain only shook his head and growled. The old woman was about to make a sneering remark when she caught sight of a figure in the center of the group—a young man of bold mien and powerful build. His hands were held behind him but he bore no weapons. The hag singled him out, elbowing her way through the throng until she stood before him.
“Whom have we here?” she demanded. “Where can men live and keep themselves so well-fed and strong? Does he come to tell us of the good hunting that has put such meat upon his bones?”
“That meat will soon come off,” the chieftain grunted. “Your eyes grow dull, mother or you would remember your good friends. Look closer and see if he does not resemble one of our young men—one who fancies the beasts more than ourselves. He has changed much in several seasons butwe, who once knew him, were quick to recognize him.”
“The Ape Boy!” cried the old hag. “I did not know him at first! he has grown so big and strong.” At that moment she perceived the thong which bound the captive’s wrists. Her features assumed an expression of savage cunning. She leered in his face, even as she rubbed one hand upon the other and chuckled to herself:
“And so my young men have not returned empty-handed, after all. I had hoped for beef or venison, but I see that they have done even better. Now we can fill our empty stomachs and cheat the hyenas that howl about us.”
“A welcome change from bugs and willow-bark,” said one of the hunters. “Plump and round he is, like a raccoon stuffed with winter fat.”
“Good; very good,” chuckled the old witch. “A present for your dear old mother, eh? Too long have I lain in your filthy cave with nothing but cold air to stir my stomach. But you shall all share alike and I ask nothing—nothing but the heart all warm and bleeding. Quick, bring him to the butcher-block so that he may be dressed and served without delay.”
“What, and bring the lions down upon us?” cried a voice.
All turned towards the speaker, a young womanwho had suddenly appeared from behind a bend in the cliff wall. She was gazing curiously at the prisoner. “You know the rule as well as I,” she said boldly even as the old hag glowered savagely upon her.
Grunts of approval sounded on all sides. Pic evinced a sudden interest in the newcomer. He saw before him a mere girl whose wan features and wasted body nevertheless retained much of youthful feminine grace. Her face lacked the great hollows and bone-ridges so marked in the visages of those about her. Pic took in these details at a glance. They pleased him; he smiled. The girl’s face assumed an astonished expression; and then—she smiled too. Pic could not repress the exclamation that arose to his lips. Never before had his peculiarly human and friendly greeting been returned in its own coin. At the sound he made, all turned upon him in surprise, then to the cause of his outburst, only to see the eyes of both lowered meekly to the ground and apparently without interest in the things about them.
The burly chieftain now ended the matter with a wave of his ax.
“The girl is right,” he growled. “The rule stands even though we starve. The day grows short. None shall taint the camp with fresh blood and draw the night-prowling lions and hyenas upon us. Notuntil the first streak of dawn, can we bring him to the butcher-block and break our long fast.”
As the sunset afterglow faded out of the western sky, the Cave-men sought comfortable positions beneath the shelter and made ready for their night’s rest. The prisoner was forced to lie upon the ground and his captors then arranged themselves about him so that any move on his part would be quickly observed. Pic submitted without a protest—not that he had become resigned to his fate—but he deemed it wise to assume a passive attitude and thereby dull any suspicions that might be entertained of what was passing in his mind. His hands were tied behind him—so tightly that his fingers were numbed and swollen; but his legs remained unbound. None seemed to think it necessary to deprive him of the use of his legs; nor did he feel it his duty to remind them. He heaved a deep sigh, closed his eyes and in a few moments was—to all appearances—sound asleep.
All was now quiet in the camp except for the hard breathing of weary men and the distant cries of night-roving creatures. One of the sleepers stirred and raised himself on one elbow. It was Pic. His chance had come. He gathered his legs under him and crouched low on bent knees. A twig cracked beneath him. A shoulder moved. Its owner’s head arose and sniffed the night air. Withouta sound, Pic settled down again upon his face and stomach and lay still. The voice of the old hag now fell like death upon his ears.
“Up, fools,” she croaked with all the cunning of an unbalanced mind. “Would you permit your next meal to be lost forever? The Ape Boy may untie his bonds and escape. Some of you must lie awake and watch:” then as nobody answered, she shook the man nearest her until the teeth rattled in his head.
“Ugh! Be quiet mother,” protested the one thus roughly handled. “Tired and starved bodies must have rest. I will not lie awake even though to-night be my last sleep.”
“Nor I; and I,” grumbled several others. “Do the work yourself if you feel that it must be done;” and with that they rolled over again and breathed loudly.
The old hag foamed with rage.
“May you rot, every one of you, and find your night’s rest in hyena’s stomachs,” she cried. “This Ape Boy shall not escape. I will kill him now, even though it bring the lions upon us.”
As she groped about in the darkness for an ax wherewith to carry out her threat, two of the men leaped to their feet and seized her arms.
“Hold,” said one of them. “Would you call upon the wild beasts to destroy us? He is secure enoughand sleeps soundly. Look and see for yourself.”
Pic’s eyes were closed. His mouth was wide open and he breathed noisily as the three bent low and peered into his face. But even his wit was overmatched by the old hag’s malevolent and uncanny craft.
“Fools! dullards!” she croaked. “Cannot you see that with all of our noise, he should now be wide awake? He but makes a pretense of sleep. An end to your trickery,” and she cuffed the prisoner’s ears.
Pic made a clumsy effort to appear as one suddenly aroused from his slumbers. His savage tormentor looked closely into his face.
“You sleep soundly for one who has so short a time to live,” she sneered. “But now that you are awake, we three will keep you company and watch over every hair of your body.”
Her two companions became impatient at the thought of losing their night’s rest but at the same time they hesitated to trust the old woman alone with the prisoner.
“Much good that will do us,” one of them growled. “Let someone else watch while you lie down and sleep before the limit of our patience is reached.”
An idea came suddenly to the wretched old creature’s mind.
“Arrah! I have it,” she said, climbing over thoseabout her to one of the sleepers who lay on the outside of the group. “Here is one who can and shall do this night’s vigil. Those who stay at home and lie around, need no rest. Get up and follow me.”
A slim figure rose quickly to its feet and followed along in the darkness behind its fierce mentor. In a moment, the pair were standing over the prisoner.
“Keep your eye on this tidbit,” directed the old hag, indicating the captive with a well-aimed kick. “Watch him closely, for your own life will depend upon the watching. Do you hear?”
“Yes, I hear.” Until this moment, the slim figure had made no sign. The voice was that of the girl.
“Take care that you do not fall asleep and permit him to escape us,” warned the old witch. “If you do and he is not here in the morning, you must take his place on the butcher-block.”
“Let us hope he will find wings and fly away,” growled a voice. “Of the two, I can easily make my choice.”
Loud grunts greeted this sally, showing that even these starving men were not entirely lacking in humor. Gradually their merriment subsided, the old hag stretched herself full length upon the ground and Pic was left to the tender mercies of his newly-chosen guard.
He opened his eyes. The light of the rising moon reflected in the sky, showed him the form of the girlseated by his side. Her features were obscure. Her face was turned away, watching not him but the encircling sleepers and in particular the old hag who rolled and tumbled about as though in a torment of fanciful dreams.
Pic groaned inwardly. Would his jailer never weary of her task? The girl was wide awake and alert as he could see from her attitude and poise of head. Time was passing. If he could but free his hands, he might strike her down, leap clear of the group and escape.
As he strained the muscles of his arms to rid himself of his torturing bonds, a hand touched his shoulder. He ceased further effort and lay still. The girl was bending over him. Her face brushed his elbow. He could feel her warm breath gliding downward towards his wrists. Something tugged at the rawhide thong—something that sniffed and panted warm, moist respiration upon his palms. The girl was untying the knot with her teeth.
Little by little, the green leather relaxed and the blood circulated once more through Pic’s numbed hands. The wrappings were quickly removed. He was free. Not a word was spoken. He raised himself to a squatting position. An ax—the blade of Ach Eul—was placed within his grasp, then a hand patted his back and a voice whispered in his ear, one word: “Go.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, he arose to hisfeet and with body bent low, stepped among the sleeping men. Accidentally he touched one of them who stirred and half awoke, whereupon the fugitive sank quickly and silently to the ground and lay still. The moon was now climbing rapidly above the heights, flooding the heavens with its brilliant light. Pic became alarmed. The lifting darkness enabled him to see more clearly but it permitted others to see as well and thereby lessened his chances of escape. He allowed himself a brief period of inaction so that the one he had disturbed might become quiet; then rose again and glided forward with ax held aloft to brain the first who might awake and give the alarm. Had a single eye opened, it might easily have seen his dark form outlined against the sky. But no eye opened, not a sleeper stirred and he passed among them without let or hindrance.
As he stepped clear of the last prone figure, she whom he had left behind, remained silent, watching him steal slowly away. As he passed into the shadow of the cliff wall, she sighed deeply and her head fell forward upon her breast. Had Pic looked back, he might have seen the slim figure sitting upright with head bowed like a lamb amid a pack of blood-thirsty wolves. But he neither looked back nor saw, for already he had rounded a bend in the wall and was gone.
Once clear of the Rock-shelter and its sleeping inmates, Pic cast about him for the best route to complete his escape. The meadows lay before him to the north and east—broad and free of all obstacles; therefore the easiest way. He started toward them but as he emerged from the cliff shadows and stood a conspicuous object in the brilliant moonlight, he stopped.
“They will soon learn of my escape,” he thought. “I can be seen and followed across the meadow.” No, the easiest route was not the best. He glanced up at the cliff behind him. It could be scaled—by such as he. The plateau with its rocks and underbrush was a labyrinth where he could hide with little fear of being discovered. At the worst, his pursuers would be obliged to separate into groups of two or three to ferret him out and he could then deal with them separately. Even a dozen half-starved men would find him no easy prey, armed as he was with the blade of Ach Eul.
He retraced his steps to the shadow of the rock-wall and glided along its base to a point where thecliff arose almost straight upward and without overhang. Here he climbed. At such work, Pic excelled. His flexible hands and feet took advantage of every break in the limestone to anchor him firmly while he pulled himself upwards with his muscular arms and shoulders. He was a human fly crawling up an almost perpendicular wall. A single slip of hand or feet, even a mis-shift of balance, would have sent him crashing to the ground below. A stone dislodged and tumbling noisily down would have betrayed him in an instant. But his head was clear, his heart strong and his iron muscles stood him in good stead. With jaws clenched on the haft of his ax, he forged steadily upward without a mishap and reached the summit.
In a moment, he had scrambled to safety and was peering over the edge to learn what might be going on in the camp below. No sound nor movement there gave indication that his flight was known. He turned away and made off through the underbrush until he was beyond sight or hearing of the cliffs and therefore reasonably secure. His enemies might now awake and follow, for all he cared. Merely to make certain, he continued his way leisurely for some distance, then mounted a rock-pulpit which afforded him a commanding view of the surrounding country. Here he lay down to secure a few moments rest.
It seemed as though he had no more than closed his eyes and drifted into dreamland when he awoke. A faint glow in the eastern sky showed that day was breaking and that the night had reached its close. In the distance from whence he had come, sounded a faint hum—a low, almost inaudible droning as of angry bees. It might be the cries of wild beasts; but the sound came from the direction of the Ferrassie shelter.
Pic yawned, stretched his limbs and chuckled softly to himself. Yes, the Cave-men were wide awake now. They must know by this time that their captive had made his escape. Little good would such knowledge do them. It was amusing to consider that they were probably dashing over the meadows, never dreaming that their prisoner had chosen so cleverly to throw them off the scent.
He was safe. His enemies must find other means to break their fast. There were other means, he suddenly remembered. His blood chilled at the thought. The old hag had threatened and the time had come when she might make her threat good. If the prisoner escaped, his jailer would be held responsible and be compelled to take his place. Pic’s forehead wrinkled in perplexity. Cave-men were not cannibals by nature but they must eat the food nearest their hands or starve. A young woman’s flesh was far preferable to that of a muscular man.The more Pic considered the matter, the more dissatisfaction he felt with his own present security. His enemies would waste little time pursuing him, as long as his hostage remained in their power. The girl was theirs and would answer the purpose even better than he. It was all very disconcerting, this turn of affairs, just when he was congratulating himself that he had managed so well. He paced up and down among the rocks like a caged lion, biting his lips and beating his hands together.
The girl would be killed and eaten by her people, simply because she had permitted him to escape and herself remain behind. She alone could take his place in the morning’s festivities. This last notion was the one which so disturbed his peace of mind; and yet he rebelled at the very idea. Why should this girl cause him so much concern, simply because she had prolonged his useless life at the expense of her own?
“Ugh,” he growled. “She must either starve or be eaten and have to die in either case, so why not let her perish and save the others, just as she has saved me.”
In spite of this apparently sound logic, Pic failed to convince himself of its justice. Then, too, the girl had smiled upon him, he suddenly remembered. It was but the faintest glimmer of a friendly greeting—but she had smiled.
With a yell that could have been heard for miles, he leaped down from the rock-pulpit and went bounding off through brake and thicket, over rock and fallen tree, with the speed of the wind. The sharp rocks and thorns tore his limbs, the vines and branches overhead bruised his head and shoulders; but he heeded none of them. As he sped over the rock-strewn plateau, the one thought in his mind was: would he reach the Ferrassie shelter before it was too late? Dazed, bleeding and so exhausted he could hardly stand, at last he burst into the open and halted on the edge of the cliff overlooking the meadow and Mousterian camp below.
The Cave-folk were all gathered about the butcher-block. Kneeling before it, with head bent low, was a slim figure, the sight of which together with the dark form of a man standing over her with upraised ax, made Pic’s blood run cold.
Putting hands to his mouth, he uttered a piercing cry that carried clear and strong to the group below. All looked up quickly and saw him as he stood outlined against the blue sky. A chorus of wild, unearthly yells arose:
“The Ape Boy; there he stands! Death to him!” And high and shrill above the tumult, rang out the screams of the old hag:
“After him, every one of you if you would liveto see the next sunrise. Seize and bring him to the block.”
The Cave-men answered with savage yells and raced to the cliff. In a moment they were swarming upward like a pack of famine-maddened wolves. They held their weapons between closed jaws, leaving their limbs free to cling and climb. High above them, Pic leaned over the edge with arms held out imploringly.
“Faster, faster, clumsy dolts,” he urged the panting men. “Will you lag or must I throw down your next meal upon your heads?”
All paused amazed. They had expected him to turn and flee or at least make some effort to defend himself. He surprised them by doing neither. He had chosen his fate and was prepared to die as he had lived—with a smile upon his lips; and then a strange thing happened.
While Pic was watching the Cave-men swarming up the cliff, he failed to observe a figure approaching from behind him—a four-legged animal with shaggy hide and short, curling horns. This creature was glaring at the man. Its feet were pawing the ground. The shouts and cries infuriated it. They sounded like a challenge to battle.
The animal was a wisent or bison, a lover of meadows and grassy plains. For some reason and by some way unknown, it had strayed unwittinglyto the heights above the Ferrassie Rock-shelter. The Bison had become nervous amid its unfamiliar surroundings. At sight of Pic this nervousness increased to vexation. At sound of the other’s cries, its wrath passed all bounds. With a loud snort, it dashed blindly forward in a thunderous charge.
But for the warning snort, Pic would have been overwhelmed in an instant. He glanced quickly behind him and had time only to spring nimbly to one side. The great brute swept by so closely, its streaming locks brushed his shoulder. Unconscious of peril and unable to check its momentum, the doomed beast plunged to the brink of the precipice. Too late, it saw the destruction awaiting it and reared high over the abyss in a last frantic effort to escape death; then with a terrified bellow, down it fell. The forelegs plunged into space and the huge body followed tumbling head over heels in a mad death-whirl to the ground below.
The Cave-men had nearly reached the summit of the cliff when they saw Pic suddenly step back. The next moment, a great hairy body came flying over their heads. A loud crash; and as they gazed below, there lay a full-grown bison quivering in the last agonies of death. All saw and were dumbfounded. They turned to Pic who was leaning forward with arms outstretched like one petrified as he peered down upon the brute whose wrath hehad so narrowly escaped. The evidence was clear; he had hurled the bison down. Had he not urged them to hurry and partake of the feast?
For an instant, they stared in awe at the author of their good-fortune, then with one accord, back they scrambled pell-mell the way they had come. As Pic looked down he saw them leap upon the dead bison like a pack of ravenous beasts. They howled, shrieked, screeched with joyful anticipation as they cut and chopped the lifeless animal with their flint-blades. In a jiffy, the hide was ripped and torn off in a dozen gory fragments, permitting the Cave-men to set upon the carcass itself. In the meantime, several of the women with some wits left, ran about shouting to their companions to bring fuel and prepare the fire for the coming feast. In a few moments the Rock-shelter was a hive of buzzing activity. The women made ready the fire, stirring the embers and piling on wood while the men carried great hunks of flesh and severed limbs to the butcher-block, licking the dripping blood and meat-shreds to momentarily ease their hunger until the feast could be prepared and served.