Part 2

“He smells like a cave-beast,” said another. “Perhaps he came here to hunt.”

“To hunt panthers,” the boy laughed. “A queer odor but what of that? He saved me from death.”

He was a sturdy lad of about sixteen years, clean-cut and well-muscled. He wore a strip of rawhide wound several times about his waist. A skin-pouch filled with large pebbles hung from his shoulder.

“My name is Gonch,” said the man rubbing his sore head. “The cave-beasts are my enemies. I have not yet washed from my body the taint of their killing. One panther more; what does it matter?”

Those about him lifted their eyebrows and stared at him who made so light of his prowess.

“Killer of flesh-eating beasts? That is good,” said a man, “but he has not yet told us why he comes here.”

“Who are you to question a chief?” retorted Gonch scornfully. “I will answer to only one; him I have come to see.”

“Who is that?” asked the man abashed by the stranger’s authoritative tone.

“The Mammoth Man.” Gonch gazed from one huntsman to another, to see the effect of this. All faces were now turned toward the boy.

“I can take you to him,” said the latter. “When you are able to walk, we will go.”

“Where?” asked Gonch.

The lad pointed up the bank to where a line of cliffs extended far into the valley. “He lives there; I live there too. We can go together.”

“Who are you?”

“Kutnar,” replied the boy. His face expanded in a broad grin. “I can show you where you wish to go as well as anybody, for I am the son of the Mammoth Man.”

IV

The Rock of Moustier, a truncated pyramid of buff limestone, was but a portion of the distant plateau jutting far into the valley to the right bank of the Vézère River. On one side of the Rock, a steep causeway of broken stone led to a broad deep ledge midway between base and summit. This ledge served as the threshold of a grotto which opened into the wall back of the ledge.

Three men all carrying heavy burdens were ascending the causeway to the cave-threshold, while above, stood a fourth, waiting as though to receive them. He was a large man of mighty chest and shoulders and yet neither overfleshed nor muscle-bound but fibred and corded from neck to heel like a fight-trained lion. The newcomers were big strong men but he who stood upon the ledge seemed a giant beside them. They greeted him with a certain deference that marked the larger man as a person of more than ordinary importance. One by one they cast down their burdens upon the rock-platform and squatted beside them. These consisted of several bison hides, bundles of faggots, a leg of venison and several large stones about the size of a man’s head.

After a hasty survey of the various articles, the giant’s interest centered upon the stones. He selected one of them and held it in the palm of his left hand. This was done seemingly without effort and but for his swelling biceps, one might have thought the stone a trifling weight. Using a large pebble as a maul, he struck the stone a resounding blow, separating it in two halves as cleanly as though cut with a knife. The newly fractured surfaces were wax-like in appearance and of a lustrous grey color. The giant smiled broadly and nodded to the three men. He seemed much pleased with the stones and well he might be, for they were the finest of beeswax flint. All about him were strewn chips of similar material; small piles of blanks and partly finished flakes. Near the cave-entrance lay many much used mauls and hammerstones of various shapes and sizes; the tools of the flint artisan.

One of the three men coughed noisily. Having delivered their goods, the trio were growing impatient. They wanted their pay.

The giant set aside the flint lump and hammerstone and brought out from the grotto a small hide full of finished flints, all nicely shaped, edged and pointed. They were of various shapes and sizes, each one designed for a special purpose; small tools for scraping hides, knife-blades, dart-heads and axes. The three men bent over them expressing by word and gesture their appreciation of every piece. One of them gathered up the four corners of the hide and swung it over his shoulder; then the trio descended the causeway to the valley below.

The giant weapon-maker was preparing to turn again to the flint-lumps when he caught sight of two figures making their way up the causeway toward him. The giant smiled upon one of them—a boy—then gazed inquiringly at the other. The pair reached the ledge. As the unknown stepped upon the rock-platform, he bent low and laid down his ax with much ceremony, then stood erect with both hands raised high above his head. Strangers with good intentions always behaved themselves in this manner—presenting themselves unarmed and at the mercy of them they visited. The boy came quickly forward and for several minutes spoke in low tones to the giant, glancing from time to time at his companion. The flint-worker’s face fairly beamed as he listened.

The youth explained the circumstances of his meeting with the stranger, enlarging upon his own narrow escape from the panther and how his benefactor had so nearly paid the penalty of death for the part he had chosen to play.

“Good,” said the giant when the boy had finished. “Friends should ever help each other.” With that, he picked up the stranger’s ax and presented it to him, then led his guest to a fire which burned near by.

The Muskman’s brain was in a whirl. He had accomplished wonders in a single day. So long had he known naught but hostility from man and beast that this peaceful reaction from danger and privation, to say nothing of his recent mauling, nigh overwhelmed him. He passed one hand across his forehead where the blood had not yet dried.

“The boy tells me that you leaped upon the panther from the sky,” the giant now said. “Men do not leap from the sky however. How and why did you come here?”

Gonch felt the other’s piercing gaze directed full upon him. The deep-set eyes seemed to be searching his inmost soul.

“Mine is a restless spirit,” he replied. “It has led me through many lands to see strange and wonderful things. I have been told of the Mammoth Man, maker of the finest flint-blades the world has ever seen. Are you he?”

“I am called many names,” said the stalwart flint-worker with a twinkle of his deep-set eyes.

“To some, I am known as Pic, the Weapon Maker; to others—but no matter. One name is as good as another. Yes, I am the Mammoth Man.” He folded his arms across his broad chest and even as he looked kindly upon his visitor, his eyes as much as said: “Can it be possible that mere curiosity has brought you here—to see me?”

Gonch did not notice the look of those eyes; he was watching the man himself. Such evidence of physical health and strength, he had never before observed in a human being. “I can see now why they call him the Mammoth Man,” he thought to himself. “He is a giant among men as is the Hairy Elephant among beasts.” But all he said was:

“I helped your boy. Perhaps for that you can look upon me as a friend.”

Pic’s eyes softened. He looked down at the ground and replied sadly: “Yes, you have done me a great service. Since his mother died, he is all I have.”

“Why not get another?” the Muskman suggested. “Women are plentiful enough. A man like you could have any or all of them.”

Pic scowled and raised his hand in protest. “She is gone,” he muttered hoarsely. “None can take her place; and of this you need say no more.”

Gonch was taken aback by this peculiar display of sentiment. “One woman?” he sniffed: “Ridiculous. The man is a giant but a simpleton for all that. All giants are simpletons.” But now that Pic had declared himself upon the subject of women, Gonch prated of the southland; its fine climate, abundance of game and the strong men who lived there; painting the picture in such brilliant colors that he almost believed in it himself. But in spite of his eloquence, Pic remained unmoved. Whether he believed or not, he showed no more than ordinary interest. There was a note of sarcasm in the flint-worker’s voice as he made brief comment: “If this is so, why do you come here?” to which in spite of his eloquence Gonch could find no ready answer.

The latter took another tack. “Men say that you are a mighty hunter,” he began; “and that you scorn such small game as the ox and bison, reserving your great strength for the Lion and Hairy Elephant.”

Pic’s nostrils swelled. There was a sinister glitter in his eyes as he directed them full upon his guest. “Who says that?” he growled. Then without waiting for a reply, he added: “Men who are wise, do not speak to me of the Lion and Mammoth in the same breath.”

“Agh, I forgot,” muttered Gonch completely abashed. “It was of another they spoke. You are a flint-worker who neither hunts nor fights.”

Pic scowled at this impudence and was on the point of replying angrily, when he checked himself as a thought suddenly occurred to him.

“Hunt? fight?” he said sternly: “It is well that you reminded me. You are a stranger here and should know our rules. Listen to them and heed them well for it is quite necessary that they be most carefully observed.”

“Rules?” Gonch awaited curious. His host now spoke in a tone of authority and yet he had mentioned “ours.” A chieftain would have said “my rules.”

“There are three of these rules,” said Pic in his most impressive manner, holding up three fingers by way of illustration. “The first concerns our young men. It is not permitted for them to do any unnecessary quarrelling among themselves. If they should quarrel, it must be a fair fight and for some good reason.”

“He must be joking,” thought Gonch. “No fighting? Whoever heard of such a thing?”

“Our second rule is equally simple,” Pic went on. “Also equally important. There must be no waste of game. The valley abounds with animals of every kind and they are easily caught. We wish these conditions to continue. Without beef or venison, we would starve and so these animals should neither be alarmed nor driven away. Promiscuous slaughter is therefore forbidden. Men must not kill more than they need.”

Gonch gasped as the true meaning of this astounding utterance forced itself upon him. The motive that inspired it and its sound logic were too lofty for his understanding or appreciation. Had Gonch not been born hungry and hungered all his life, he might have understood, for his wits were as keen as those of a fox. But killing was his primary instinct. His every thought and act sprang from his unquenchable blood-lust. “Simple rules indeed and a simpleton who says them,” he sneered under his breath. “This Pic has gone crazy with his flint-working. No wonder his people put him here by himself where he can do no harm.”

But outwardly, Gonch appeared only an attentive listener. “Good,” he said, “I understand. These are your hetman’s orders.”

“Yes, our hetman’s orders.”

“And this hetman, who is he?” asked Gonch.

“You will know him in good time,” was the reply. “You will also learn that he is a man not to be trifled with. And now for our third rule, an important one which you must be sure to remember. Of all animals, the Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros are absolutely immune. No man shall hunt, harm or annoy them in any way. The penalty is death.”

This was too much. The Muskman laughed like a hyena in Pic’s face. “Death no doubt,” he sneered. “Those two animals can take good care of themselves. But you have forgotten one; there is a third.”

“What?” demanded Pic, his eyes blazing.

“The Cave Lion. No fool would——” and then Gonch wished he could have swallowed his words before he said them, for the giant flint-worker’s face fairly flamed with terrible rage. He thrust his great head forward and bared his teeth in the Muskman’s face. He extended his right arm. Gonch felt the huge hand closing like a vise upon his wrist. An ounce more pressure would have meant crushed and broken bones. He cowered sick with terror as the threatening jaws opened wide as though to tear his throat.

“Meddler!” roared Pic. “Kill the Cave Lion if you can or let him kill you; either way, it would be good riddance; but the other two beasts are my friends—friends, do you hear? If you dare disobey my commands and harm one of them, I will tear you to pieces with my teeth and hands.”

He released his grip upon the Muskman as he said this. His face relapsed into its former calmness and the storm-wrath rolled away as quickly as it had come.

“You saved my boy,” he said in a voice so gentle that Gonch stared at him amazed at the sudden change. “I am not ungrateful and will treat you as a friend, provided you do not break our rules. Be wise; observe them and all will be well. Enough; we now understand each other.” With that he turned away and busied himself with the fire. So completely had his former tranquillity returned, that when the boy Kutnar who had been dozing all this time, awakened, his father and guest appeared on such good terms, he had not the slightest suspicion of anything unusual having happened while he slept.

V

Pic had become engrossed in his flint-lumps, so Gonch stretched himself out by the fire and gazed dreamily at the smoke-wreaths. Gradually his eyes closed, his head pillowed itself upon his arm and he passed away into dreamland.

Gonch was sound asleep; but a hot coal fallen uncomfortably close to his foot, awakened him. As he opened his eyes, the first thing they met was the broad back of his host squatting by the fire. Kutnar had disappeared.

Pic scarcely moved. He sat with back slightly turned so that Gonch could see most of his left arm but not his right. Several large flint-flakes lay on the rock at his feet. Now he paused in his work to examine that which he held in his left hand, raising it so that Gonch could see. It was a flint-flake similar to those lying upon the rock. He wondered what Pic held in his other hand.

Click, click; Gonch heard the impact of something on flint. “The new method of weapon-making,” dawned full upon him. “It would be well for me to know it.” He raised himself upon one elbow and craned his neck to secure a better view. At the almost imperceptible sound he made, Pic turned his head, whereupon Gonch settled back quickly and closed his eyes. Pic looked at him sharply for an instant, then resumed his work and again Gonch was straining to catch a glimpse of what his host was doing.

The big flint-worker held a small tool in his right hand. With this he was peeking at the flake held in his left. His arms were rigid; his hands barely moved; but the tiny flint chips flew like flakes of snow beneath the pressure of the retouching tool. Still supporting himself by one elbow, Gonch dragged himself closer. He was intent upon catching a glimpse of that which Pic held in his right hand, otherwise he would have noticed the flint-worker’s left eye, now directed at the man who had changed his position by the fire and was playing the part of a spy. Pic coughed audibly and made much ado about rising to his feet whereupon the eavesdropper settled back quickly to his former recumbent position and breathed noisily like one sound asleep.

The giant flint-worker turned and stood over the sleeping man. His right hand was tightly clenched, concealing what might be within it. Gonch neither moved nor opened his eyes. Had he been—or rather appeared—wide awake, doubtless Pic would have greeted him with a smile. Mere curiosity is not an evil trait nor does it arouse mistrust. But this curiosity which dissembled, aroused Pic’s misgivings. “Why—why did this man come here?” he asked himself as he gazed down upon him whose sleep he knew was but a sham. His nostrils twitched as they caught a strange scent, the scent of the man-eater. His eyes stared at the recumbent figure. Nose and eyes gave answer: “Why did he come? Who knows? But we mistrust this trickster who so reeks with carrion. He will bear watching.”

Pic turned away, whereupon Gonch yawned loudly, stretched his limbs and sat up, chuckling at his own cleverness. He was about to engage his host in renewed conversation when there sounded the scuffling of feet and the boy Kutnar came running up the causeway to the ledge. “Look below; they are coming,” he shouted gleefully. He seized his father’s hand and both hurried to the northern side of the Rock.

Far beneath them, scattered groups of animals were moving down the valley from the northeast. At sight of them, man and boy became greatly excited. They behaved like two children on circus day, watching the procession and commenting on the various animals as they filed slowly past.

“The Moose; he is early,” muttered Pic. “That means a long cold winter. The Lynx; Agh, my good Stag and Roebuck, you must look to your fawns from now on.”

A group of long-horned oxen, then a herd of bison followed with a pack of wolves skulking after them. A herd of horses passed and several hundred yards behind them, strode a gigantic deer, holding his head proudly erect beneath a ten-foot spread of palmated antlers. It was the Irish Elk.

“A noble beast, the Skelg,” said Pic. “Would that the valley had more like him. He must be spared by our hunters and encouraged to winter here. I will see to it.”

More animals paraded by, many of them grazing as they went. A herd of reindeer appeared, walking briskly and tossing their scraggly antlers. At sight of them, the excitement of the two observers increased. Kutnar nudged his father and whispered, “See! the first of the Tundr-folk. The others will soon be here.”

Pic made no answer; but his whole body trembled and his eyes were straining for a better view of two far-off moving specks. Gradually these latter resolved themselves into two animals, coming rapidly down the valley. No longer could father and son restrain themselves. They leaped and danced about the ledge like two lunatics, laughing and shouting: “Here they come; here they come!” clapping their hands and yelling themselves hoarse.

While all this commotion was going on, Gonch sat an amazed spectator, too bewildered to move. Father and son had forgotten him entirely. Gonch was glad of that, for two madmen were more than he cared to manage. He was collecting his wits together and preparing for a hasty retreat down the causeway when he saw Pic put both hands to his mouth like a funnel and heard him call at the top of his lungs: “Hairi! Wulli!”

Gonch sprang to his feet and peered down into the valley. He saw two animals standing there with heads raised towards the two men high above them upon the ledge. The larger beast, an elephant, raised its trunk. A shrill trumpet squeal floated faintly to the Muskman’s ears. Then followed another squeal of a different sort, probably uttered by the second and smaller animal, a rhinoceros.

At the sounds, Pic and Kutnar scrambled downward and disappeared. Gonch ran across the ledge and looked over. The two human figures were rapidly descending the cliffs, lowering their bodies from rock to rock by the combined use of their supple hands and feet. Kutnar was as agile and sure-footed as a chamois and Pic was not far behind him. So swift was their descent, that it seemed only a moment before they had reached the bottom and were dashing up the valley.

Gonch suddenly uttered an astonished yell. He rubbed the moisture from his eyes to make sure he saw what he thought he saw. Man and boy were charging upon the beasts at top speed. The latter sprang forward in their turn and bore down upon their unarmed assailants. This was indeed madness. In a moment, man and boy would be annihilated.

Gonch strained his eyes that they might miss nothing of the climax. Such madness was astounding but he meant to enjoy the sound of dying shrieks and the sight of crushed bodies while he had the chance.

“Agh-h!” he croaked delightedly as the four figures united in one mass. He heard squeals, bellows and much shouting, which from where he stood, sounded like the noise of battle. Finally the mass disintegrated into two parts; man and Mammoth composed one, boy and rhinoceros the other and each couple was standing peaceably side by side.

No blood; no dying shrieks; “Agh,” muttered Gonch a second time but in a far different tone. “The beasts are indeed his friends,” and he sank down weakly upon his haunches, wondering where man’s folly would end and what the whole world was coming to.

VI

Gonch acquired more experience of the Mammoth Man’s peculiar whims, other than his friendship for the Hairy Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros. He gained this when he and Kutnar went down into the valley together and mingled with the Mousterian cave-men. The game laws or ban on needless slaughter of which Pic had spoken, Gonch had hitherto considered as the fancy of a disordered mind. Now to his astonishment, he found them not only a reality but scrupulously observed by one and all, although he saw no sign of the authority that enforced them. The Mousterians killed no more than sufficient for their wants and what they did kill was used to the best advantage. Nothing was wasted. The flesh served as food and the hides were set aside to be used as clothing during the cold season. Even the limb bones were split open for the juicy marrow they contained.

It was a strange community, this valley of the Vézère; too peaceful to suit Gonch. The cave-men themselves rarely fought or killed each other. Naturally this put a premium on human flesh, another drawback from the Muskman’s point of view; and he blamed it all on the mad Mammoth Man who should have attended strictly to his flint-working instead of imbuing the whole community with his crazy notions.

Gonch learned something more that surprised him and this concerned Kutnar. The latter spent most of his time with the men, an unusual proceeding, for boys were usually left with the women when the men went forth on hunting or other expeditions. Kutnar, however, seemed to enjoy special privileges. He was a strong, active lad, but a boy nevertheless and Gonch marvelled that men would tolerate his taking part in their affairs. It must be that as son of the master flint-worker, he was an extraordinarily privileged youth. Then, too, he went about unarmed; so it appeared, for he bore nothing but his pouch of pebbles and the rawhide thong wound about his waist. The hunters were walking across the meadow when a hare sprang up beneath their feet, bounded away several rods and then sat bolt upright. At a signal from the leader of the band, all stopped. The man beckoned to Kutnar. “Your turn now,” and then as the boy came forward, all stood at attention, apparently much interested in what was about to happen.

While Gonch looked curiously on, wondering what new and strange spectacle was to be presented, Kutnar unwound the thong from his waist and held it dangling with the two ends in his right hand. Taking a pebble from his pouch he set it in the rawhide’s hanging fold; then with a whispered “Stand clear” he whirled thong and pebble several times about his shoulders and let fly. So swiftly sped the stone that no eye could follow it. Gonch could not observe that anything in particular had happened until one of the hunters ran forward and picked up the hare, no longer sitting upright but kicking its last upon the green meadow grass.

“A chance shot,” thought Gonch who by this time had arrived at some understanding of this new method of stone-throwing. Nevertheless the sling was a novelty and the lad had displayed much skill in its use. Gonch went closer to examine it. Stones were usually hurled from the hand or by a throwing-stick, never from a strip of hide.

“Fling-string,” he muttered scornfully. “It was a lucky cast. The stone might fly anywhere except to the mark meant for it.”