Part 10

It was a magnificent animal, bulging with winter fat and the finest of heavy fur. Pic looked down upon it and sighed. Bears in general interested him and appealed to his gentler nature; bluff and ungainly and so different from skulking flesh-eaters. The beast had died without a chance to defend himself. Pic’s triumph was tinged with profound regret; but one or the other of them had to die, he consoled himself, and he preferred the bear to be that one. He marvelled at the beast’s vast proportions; its thick hams and mighty paws; then his attention was drawn to the fur. “A wonderful coat,” he said, as he kneeled and ran his fingers through it. “Would that I had one like it to keep out the cold.”

“It is yours; take it,” something within him answered and the idea once born, soon became a reality. In a trice, his ax-blade was unbound from its wooden handle and became a knife. With this, Pic began to skin the beast, a tremendous task for a lone man with nothing but a flint tool to aid him. But the flint was sharp and the man’s strength and determination carried him through. He slit the neck, chest and belly downward, then the forepaws, and after much cutting and tugging pulled the complete hide from the carcass. The hind legs were uncovered without slitting, leaving those parts of the skin solid like a pair of boots. When the hide was completely detached inside out, Pic turned it back the right way again and the job was done.

He remounted his ax-head, rested and refreshed himself with some flesh-strips from the carcass, then proceeded to have a try-on of his new one-piece suit. The hind legs made comfortable trousers, and the rest of it, although somewhat loose and badly hung, might have been much worse. No better garment could have been devised to keep out the cold, and that was the main idea. It had but one drawback. Pic found it a most unwieldy thing to navigate in. When he tried to walk, he did nothing but trip and stumble over his own feet. This was no more than amusing, for he was feeling warm and comfortable and ready to smile at anything. “Hairi and Wulli will be surprised when they see me in this,” he laughed. “Agh! What a relief! My coat is every bit as warm as theirs. Snow, ice, cold wind; what of them? Now our way may lead to the country of the Mammoth and Rhinoceros, for all I care.”

XXIV

The Mammoth and Rhinoceros were standing near the foot of the mountain beneath an overhanging cliff. From time to time they glanced eastward as though expecting some one. The storm had moderated considerably.

“It’s about time he were returning,” Hairi remarked. “I hope when he does come back he will be all rested and warm. What a pity he cannot learn to fancy the cold weather as we do.”

“Here he comes now,” said the Rhinoceros.

Both animals possessed keen ears and noses, but their eyesight was not at all good. They saw a blurred figure coming toward them through the snow, but neither one of them could have distinguished a man from an elk at that distance. The figure moved in a most peculiar manner. It walked on its hind legs, but as it approached them the two friends saw, to their astonishment, that it was not a man.

“A bear,” muttered Wulli.

“Yes, it looks like a bear,” said the Mammoth; “but did you ever see one behave like that?”

The creature was in truth performing most strangely. Its movements were those of one intoxicated, a condition that neither of the pair had ever observed in a bear or any one else, for that matter. It seemed to be having great difficulty managing its legs and feet. These tripped over and interfered with one another in an astonishing way. The big body heaved and tossed about because of its unreliable support. Finally, when several rods distant, it stumbled and fell sprawling in the snow. Hairi and Wulli looked on in amazement as the creature floundered helplessly upon its back like a turtle. After much puffing and grunting, it righted itself and again assumed an upright position.

A bear was nothing to be afraid of; so thought the Mammoth and Rhinoceros; but this one’s behavior mystified them. Once on its feet again, it lurched and lumbered forward, waving both paws as if in greeting. “Hi-yo, Hairi! Hi-yo, Wulli!” it cried.

The two friends jumped. They were trembling now and too scared to move. The words and voice sounded strangely familiar. They were those of a human being, but the creature was a bear. Then more surprising still, its head fell back and a man’s face appeared. The mouth was grinning as though it would split.

The Mammoth was on the point of beating a hasty retreat when Wulli suddenly squealed, “Pic! that is his face. What has become of the rest of him?”

Hairi’s eyes opened wide. “Pic, sure enough. But his body; where is that? The bear must have eaten it.”

“Perhaps he ate the bear,” whispered Wulli, clutching at a small ray of hope. “Let’s ask him.”

“Ho-ho!” laughed the unknown. “Did I frighten you? Now don’t run away, Hairi, for there is nothing to worry about. Nobody has eaten anybody.”

The voice was reassuring and it belonged to Pic without question. The Mammoth breathed more freely. He advanced a few steps and touched the other with the tip of his trunk. “Fur, long and thick like a bear’s.” He turned to the Rhinoceros and said, “I told him to do it and he has done it. But who would believe that he could grow so much hair and in so short a time?”

Sounds of muffled laughter greeted this last remark. Wulli now came forward to investigate the reason for this unseemly mirth. He sniffed at the bearskin, then suddenly backed away squealing with alarm. “Oo-wee! Blood! I smell it! Oo-wee; somebody has been killed.”

The two animals might have bolted then and there, had not Pic put an end to the farce. He threw the skin from his body and it fell in a heap about his legs.

“It is I; all of me,” he said. “Somebody has been killed but I was not the one. I slew the bear, otherwise he would have slain me. With my flint-blade I cut his pelt from him and now it is mine.”

“And so you did not grow it,” said the Mammoth, somewhat crestfallen. “At any rate, you did your best to do as I told you.”

Wulli took an entirely different view of the matter. He could appreciate a good fighter. “Only a big man could kill such a big bear,” he remarked thoughtfully.

“And a smaller bear would not have been much use to him,” Hairi sagely remarked. “He could never have gotten in its skin. I say he did right.”

“Right or wrong, only a good fighter could have done it,” grumbled the Rhinoceros.

“And now I am clad as warmly as you are,” said Pic. “It will be better for all of us, for we can travel as fast as we please. The skin will keep me warm. This makes us three instead of two Tundr-folk.”

The new arrangement was a success from the very start. The bearskin had its drawbacks, but they detracted only in a small measure from the main point. Pic could not make much headway in it traveling on foot; furthermore, the Mammoth was obliged to lift him to his seat when he vainly endeavored to mount. Pic was no more able to help himself than a turkey tied up in brown paper. However, when once astride Hairi’s neck, he was in the height of his glory. His new garment was impervious to wind and cold, and having nothing to do but sit and think, he felt thoroughly comfortable and contented. The two animals shared his good spirits. From then on the party got along finely and proceeded at a great rate.

The Ebro River soon appeared upon their left. It was fed by many smaller streams flowing into it from the mountains. The latter were frequently cleft by deep passes or defiles running through them from south to north. After crossing the headwaters of the Ebro the trio came in sight of another mountain pass traversed by a modest stream. This latter was partly frozen over, but the Mammoth and Rhinoceros were powerful cold-water swimmers and found little trouble in breaking their way through the ice to the opposite side. As they climbed the bank and halted to shake the water out of their shaggy coats, Pic saw before him a lofty peak in whose side, five hundred feet or more above the level on which he stood, loomed a dark spot. His trained eye immediately recognized it as a cave. It must be in or near the zone of human occupancy if what the snow-grouse had said was true. Now was the time to cut through the mountain range to the northern side.

Pic glanced at the sky. The sun was hidden in the west. Before long, all would be dark. The party must wait until morning before proceeding, and so they began to look about for a convenient spot to halt and rest. Pic resolved to spend his night in the cave, assuming it to be vacant. No fire burned upon its threshold. And yet, it might be the home of a man who could be forced to give information that might prove valuable.

The trio advanced to the mountain. It appeared near, but appearances were deceiving, and it was quite dark when they drew up at the foot of the steep slope. Here Pic and his friends parted; the former to climb upward, the latter to proceed a short distance, browsing as they went.

Pic discovered the cave to be a small one and unoccupied. However, it had been a man’s home and probably still was, for the human odor still clung to it. This was interesting and important, for it was reasonable to suppose that other human beings lived somewhere near. Pic glowed all over with the pleasure and excitement this thought aroused in him. The long climb too had warmed him, particularly as he was now attired in his bearskin suit. The latter was cumbersome, but it would make a comfortable sleeping bag, and for that reason he had been loth to leave it behind. Before settling down upon the threshold to rest he examined the cave. There was little to see, for it was a small and simple hollow in the rock and absolutely bare except for a single flat stone lying upon the floor. Pic lay down in the cave-entrance, gathered his robe about him and was not long in drifting to the land of rest and forgetfulness.

In the morning’s small hours he suddenly awakened. A low scraping noise sounded from behind him—from the floor of the cave. It continued with fits and starts. Still lying motionless, he turned his head around far enough to view the cave interior. He saw nothing there—nothing but the stone upon the floor. “Probably some small animal stirring,” he thought and then—the stone moved. For a moment he was startled, to say the least. No stone ever shifted about of itself. Something must be pushing it. He looked on dumbfounded as the stone hitched itself almost imperceptibly along the cave-floor. It appeared bewitched; and then, as he watched its strange motions while uneasiness and fear of the unknown began to creep over him, a vent appeared beneath the stone and from it issued a human hand.

A man! The mystery was now explained.

The cave-owner was concealed in a hole in the floor and was removing the stone which covered the entrance to it. Pic gathered his feet together under him, laughing softly to himself. What was there to fear from one man? He rose to a crouching position, relieving himself of the bearskin as he did so. Leaving this in a heap where he had lain, he crawled to the rear of the grotto and kneeled behind the hole in the floor, his arms outstretched—and waiting. The mysterious hands—there were now two of them—sank within the cavity and a head appeared. It rose until its eyes were above the level of the cave-floor. The eyes stared at the bearskin robe a few seconds, then the head settled down and again the hands reached upward to grasp the stone.

Quick as lightning Pic pounced upon the hands, locking both wrists in his iron grip. One heave and the unknown was plucked from his burrow like a rabbit, struggling and yelling like fury at finding himself so suddenly caught. A boy and a stout one, too, for he fought like a wildcat; but he was as helpless as a kitten in the clutches of the giant Mousterian. Pic held him fast and dragged him to the outside light. “Agh, little rascal!” he said. “And so you were the one who disturbed my night’s rest.”

At the sound of his voice, the boy gave a loud cry that made his captor’s heart leap within his chest:

“Father!”

Pic seized the lad’s head between his hands and turned it so that he could peer into the face. His knees trembled, his whole body shook as with ague.

“Kutnar! Boy, is it you?”

For an instant each face stared at the other as in the waking moments of a dream. Then came light and understanding and in a moment father and son were locked tightly in each other’s arms.

XXV

The sky might have fallen in just then; anything might have happened and Pic would not have noticed it. He had no thought of aught but the one happiness that filled his heart to bursting—Kutnar was found. The pursuit through southwestern France, the long journey across the Pyrenees, the terrible cold; all were set aside and forgotten for this supreme moment—one of the most blissful he had ever known. For a time, nothing was said. Father and son sat in the cave-entrance, holding each other tightly as though they would never let go. Kutnar wept silent tears. He had played the part of a man well, but once more under the protection of his powerful sire, the reaction was overwhelming and he was but a baby boy, tired and homesick and so glad to be again with the one he loved best.

When the first joy of meeting was over, Pic drifted back to earth. “What were you doing in that hole?” he asked.

Kutnar told of his escape from Castillo and the various events leading to it. Everything bespoke the Muskman’s perfidy and cruelty. Pic’s face became adamant as the tale of Gonch’s duplicity gradually unfolded itself. Driven to desperation, the boy had turned upon the traitor, who must have by this time breathed his last.

“I could tell you more,” said Pic, “but what you already know is enough. However, it would seem that what my boy has suffered has made him bear himself as well or better than a man. And this Gonch; are you quite sure he is dead?”

To this Kutnar replied: “No, I do not feel at all sure. When I left him lying in the bushes he still breathed. Something warned me to make an end of the ruffian, but I could not summon courage to deal the death-stroke.”

Pic fidgeted uneasily. “It would have been wiser had you shown him no mercy,” he said; “but you did well and I am proud of you. Now I am going to treat you to a pleasant surprise. You see, I did not come alone. The Mammoth and Rhinoceros are near at hand and waiting for us to meet them.”

While saying this, he was on his feet striding to the edge of the cave-threshold with Kutnar by his side. Suddenly he uttered an imprecation and withdrew hastily into the grotto, dragging the boy with him. “Your enemies! I had forgotten them,” he said. “Agh; let us hope they have not seen us.”

Vain hope; he had jumped back quickly, but too late. Several groups of men stood apart from each other at the foot of the eastern and southern declivities. They were waving their clubs and pointing upward to the cave. As Pic endeavored to conceal himself, a chorus of howls floated to his ears and he saw human figures scrambling up the steep ascent. For an instant he stood irresolute. If fight he must, he could not choose a better position than the one he now held. He was but one against many; how many? He gazed down at his enemies; here, there and everywhere. They seemed to be coming in swarms. He was a giant, past master with the flint-ax, but there were limits as to what one man could do. A sudden change came over him. His eyes blazed death. He bared his teeth and his features became those of a gorilla, tracked to his lair by the hunters and brought to bay. He beat his great chest with one clenched hand, while with the other he shook his ax at the men below him. He howled furiously. Four-score throats gave answer. The several groups of men had by this time spread out and joined each other in a long, thin line. Single figures were hastening toward the western slope to extend that line. They moved fast. The path westward was still open; soon it would be closed. There at the far end of it awaited the Mammoth and Rhinoceros. Pic was but one man pitting himself against a host. Even in his fury, he saw the better part of wisdom.

“Quick, run!” he cried, pointing to the west. “Once with our friends, we can laugh at any number of these wretches.” So away they scurried along the mountain side, while their pursuers, observing them, hastened around in the same direction to cut them off.

Hairi and Wulli were standing motionless on the western side of the mountain and to the north. They heard shouts and cries and saw two men running toward them along the heights. While they were wondering why there should be two instead of one, more men appeared, a crowd of them, also coming head on, but from farther down. What did it all mean? It would seem that the two were being set upon by many. If so, one of the fugitives must be Pic. Although uneasy and not knowing just what to expect, they kept close watch and waited until the time came to take some action.

So engrossed were they in the two men and their pursuers, they had no eyes for something far above their heads. The mountain at whose base they stood, ascended gradually to the Scarp—a precipitous rock-wall whose craggy pinnacles were lost above the morning brume. Apparently none but birds or the Chamois and Ibex among beasts could have found a footing upon its glabrous surface. But there crouched a man. None knew of his presence except himself. In the grey dawn he had crawled part way down the wall to hide where none dared come; none but one unusually sure-footed and possessed of a clear head. The man was Gonch.

He had journeyed by the early morning light from the northern side of the mountain where lived the cave-men of Castillo. A night’s rest and realization that he was still alive, had given him renewed strength and courage. He had been so bold as to creep half-way down the Scarp, where even on the smooth rock, occasional rugged projections and crevices gave him a chance to hold tightly on. He had paused to rest temporarily before descending further to where the wall leaned outward, forming a canopy or shelter over a ledge at the base of the Scarp. While resting and wondering what the day had in store for him, suddenly he espied two large animals standing motionless far down the mountain slope beneath him. He recognized them as the Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros. His face blanched. “How did they come there?” he muttered, gazing far and wide over the country below him. At that moment he heard distant cries and two human figures hove in sight. They were running swiftly toward him from the south and along the mountain side. More figures followed, many of them coming from farther down the slopes.

As the two figures drew nearer he recognized one of them, who led by several yards. The other who followed was a much larger man—a giant of herculean build. Gonch grasped the whole situation—at least he thought he did. Kutnar had been overtaken and was now being hotly pursued by the Castillan horde. The larger of the two men—presumably Totan—was on the verge of capturing the youth. Gonch looked on, growing more and more impatient as the latter drew nearer to his animal-friends. What ailed the hetman? Why did he not seize or strike down his quarry. “Agh, clumsy dunce,” he muttered. “Soon you will be too late. Strike, strike while you have the chance.” But the supposed Totan kept on as before, following Kutnar closely, but making no effort to kill or capture him. “Pig, lubber,” thought the Muskman. “Your folly will spoil everything. It is time for me to take a hand and make an end of it.”

He looked about him. There were several partly detached stone-blocks within his reach. He chose the largest and pulled it loose. The rock went bounding down the face of the Scarp. He found another and another and tore them from the wall. They in their descent dislodged other blocks and the stream of them crashed and bounded down upon the Mammoth and Rhinoceros. The latter heard and saw the oncoming avalanche and immediately flew into a panic. Squealing and bellowing with fear, they turned tail and dashed away, with the storm of rocks sweeping close behind them.

Gonch laughed wolfishly as he saw them go. He had meant to destroy them, and although this plan failed, there was some satisfaction in knowing that the next best thing was accomplished. Kutnar now need expect no assistance from his friends. The man and boy slowed up as the storm of rocks swept down the mountain side. They saw the two beasts gallop madly away. On the heights lay Pic’s only chance for fighting off the man-pack. It was then that he caught sight of the ledge and its protecting canopy at the base of the Scarp.

“To the rock,” he panted, and Kutnar turned to the right, with Pic after him. Gonch could now see the boy’s features; mouth open and nostrils dilated with excitement and fatigue. It was then that he also got a clear view of the man; the supposed Totan. It was but a fleeting glimpse, for the man and boy had already passed from his sight beneath the shelter, but in those few moments he learned his first mistake. It was not Totan but the giant Mousterian weapon maker, the man whom Gonch feared more than anything on earth. Cold sweat exuded from every pore of the Muskman’s body. His knees shook and he clutched the rocks to save himself from falling. Then came the reaction, as he saw the Castillan horde coming rapidly toward him. Gonch wiped the cold dew from his brow and laughed hideously. He was safe from Pic’s wrath and soon he would be forever rid of his most dreaded enemy. He descended the rock-wall until he stood over the ledge where he could hear, although not see, all of the tragedy about to be enacted. From this elevated position he watched the men of Castillo complete their enveloping movement. All chance of the fugitives’ escape was now gone. The cave-men came swarming up the slope in a wide semi-circle, baying like hounds. Gradually the wings of the line converged as those on the two extreme ends rushed toward each other. Those in the center drew closer together and moved forward to meet the wings. Thus the human net slowly contracted upon its prey—Kutnar the boy, and Pic, hetman and weapon maker of the Mousterians.

XXVI

In the brief interval allotted him, Pic rested and prepared himself for the impending struggle. He had one thing to encourage him; his position was admirably chosen. His assailants must meet him face to face and climb up to him. None could strike him from behind. He took his place at the edge of the rock-platform and hurled defiance at those who were advancing to destroy him. To the men of Castillo, the powerful figure and distorted features appeared as those of some unearthly being. The thought that his new-found cup of happiness might soon be snatched from his lips, had nigh driven Pic to frenzy. He was in truth a lion-man at bay, defending his cub.

Hiss! something whistled past. One of the on-rushing horde reeled and fell. Pic turned and saw the boy standing toe to the ledge-coping beside him. Already the sling was reloaded and whirling for a second cast. Hiss, again! Another man dropped back, holding his arm and screaming like a hurt beast. The stones flew fast, with few misses, for there was little need of accurate shooting at such a mass of men. Almost every shot left an enemy accounted for. The cave-men wavered as they witnessed the havoc wrought among them by the deadly sling. They might have fled, but Totan was there to drive on the laggards and strike down any man who attempted to run away. Kutnar strove to single him out, but one man was hard to distinguish in the ruck and the hetman escaped unscathed.