Part 3

But Gonch was mistaken. What Kutnar had done, he could do again, not once but many times. Half a dozen more hares and several rabbits fell before his unerring aim and then the hunters returned homeward with their bag, for the game-laws applied to all animals, small as well as large and what they or rather Kutnar had killed was sufficient for their immediate needs. On the way back, Gonch’s opinion of Kutnar and his sling had undergone a profound change. It was a boy’s weapon but one which a grown man could respect. The youth’s skill with it was beyond the stretch of one’s imagination. “The lad is a marvel,” thought Gonch. “He has killed enough food for a dozen men,” and he had a wholesome respect after that, not only for the fling-string as he called it, but the arm and eye that could send the pebble so straight and swiftly to its mark.

But the most amazing thing of all, he was to discover when he found how intimate Kutnar was with the friendly Mammoth and Rhinoceros. He heard Kutnar one day jabbering away to the two, apparently in response to their squeals and grunts.

“Why do you make those noises?” asked Gonch.

“Wulli and Hairi don’t know the man-language but I know theirs. My father taught it to me and we can understand each other perfectly,” explained the boy.

The two animals were quite at home in the valley, for the Mousterian hunters left them severely alone. It was evident that men and beasts had arrived at some understanding. They were a strange pair, were the two beasts, grand surviving relics of an ancient order of things. The Mammoth was a giant nearly ten feet tall from sole to shoulder hump. He wore a long-haired overcoat underlain by closely packed wool. The Rhinoceros was similarly clad. In the matter of clothing they much resembled each other, also both of them were arctic animals, sometimes called Tundr-folk because of their homes in the bleak unforested tundras of northern Russia and Siberia.

Pic the Weapon Maker was usually to be found squatting upon the cave-threshold, making tools and weapons from the flint his people brought to him. They also brought food and other necessities and received finished flint weapons in exchange. Gonch looked upon this manner of trading as a remarkable arrangement. He could almost see Pic sitting apart from the other men, on the threshold of Castillo, making and handing out superb blades while lines of hunters ascended the mountain side, all laden with freshly-killed game. Totan did not figure in this day dream, for he had been disposed of and Gonch himself had taken his place. It was a beautifully drawn picture, all woven about the Mousterian flint-worker but it contained one jarring note, which dream as he would, the Muskman could not obliterate. Pic in repose was an angel; aroused, a demon. That terrible face and the iron grip upon his wrist were things that Gonch could not forget, try as he would. “We can tie him up when he has his crazy fits,” he thought and although this seemed a good way of remedying the difficulty, it did not drive away the dark cloud entirely.

Gonch saw much of Pic’s weapon-making, but spy as he would, he could not catch him working with that little tool he had partially observed when lying by the fire during the occasion of his first visit to Moustier. Whenever his guest appeared, Pic put away his tool and worked entirely with the hammerstone, changing to ones of smaller size and less weight during the progress of the work from the hewn blank to the semi-finished flake. His skill with the stone-maul was uncanny. Gonch marvelled at the deft strokes, forever varying in force and direction but each one striking just right to remove each chip from its place and properly shape the blade. But none of the weapons he saw made, ever quite reached the completed stage. Pic jealously guarded the retouching tool from Gonch’s sight and scheme as the latter would, he could not catch a glimpse of it.

Gonch felt that he was losing rather than gaining ground with the Mammoth Man. He realized the importance of winning the latter’s confidence and of being in a position to offer inducements before he could hope to arrange the long journey to the southland. And so he flattered his host, joked with him and painted pictures of Castillo in glowing colors; to all of which Pic would say: “If these things are so, why do you, a southron, leave them and come here?” or else he would hold his peace and appear more interested in his flint-hammering than in what the Muskman was descanting; and finally when he scowled and glared at his guest, Gonch knew it was time to take himself off.

It was after one of these parleys when he had gone down into the valley, with bitterness in his heart against all the world in general and the Mammoth Man in particular, that he scaled the cliffs to the plateau above in order to be alone and scheme anew. When he reached the upper level, he snarled angrily for the plateau was as flat and smooth as a board. Several hundred yards distant, a huge boulder rested at the very edge of the cliff, so Gonch went to that and sat down with his back to it, safe from spying and interruption. It trembled as he touched it; a huge stone of many tons weight and yet it moved with the mere touch of his shoulders. It had been long since any man dared to go near this eerie boulder which rocked with the wind. Some said that a giant flesh-eating beast had long been sealed within it and that it struggled to escape when the wind blew. So they gave it a wide berth but Gonch, having neither seen nor heard of it before, considered it a mere rock. Here was a good place to seclude himself and so he crouched with his back to it and to the valley below him. He tried to think and plan but with his slightest motion, the boulder teetered from side to side. It was most disconcerting; the stone seemed bewitched. He scrambled to his feet and walked around it wondering how a mere rock could have gotten itself into such a peculiar predicament.

Nothing but an ordinary stone; of that he soon assured himself. It was so evenly balanced that he might tip it over and send it crashing down the cliffs if he chose. He was about to resume his former seat behind it when he heard sounds in the valley below. He poked his head over the cliff coping, then as quickly withdrew it to avoid being seen.

Two animals were plodding along the foot of the cliffs. Soon they would pass directly beneath the man crouching above their heads; also they would pass beneath the Tilting Stone.

Gonch got upon his hands and knees growling softly like a tiger awaiting its prey. He had recognized the two animals at a glance. They were the Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros. This was the chance of a lifetime. He a lone man might slay one or both beasts by the mere touch of his hand.

“There are none here to see,” something within him said. “Who will deny that the rock simply fell? Who can say what caused it to fall? Be a man and vent your spite on this mad flint-worker.” He growled softly once more, set his shoulders against the stone and waited.

The thumping of feet sounded almost beneath the Tilting Stone. Gonch listened intently, timing himself for the fateful moment. The beasts were walking fast as he could hear but it was not given him to know that the sounds took time travelling from the foot of the cliffs to where he crouched. The moment had arrived. He gave one mighty shove. The stone lost its balance—almost too slowly—then gathering momentum, went tumbling over the cliff. For an instant, Gonch stood outlined against the sky, then a shrill cry rang out below and he jumped back just as the boulder struck bottom with a tremendous crash. He heard squeals and bellows but he dared not look to see, for that voice—the cry of a human being, had terrified him. Away he bolted across the plateau and from the cliffs as fast as his legs would carry him.

Down in the valley, the boy Kutnar was running toward the fallen boulder, shouting “Hi—yo!” and waving his arms at the Mammoth and Rhinoceros who were galloping away in a great fright because of the falling stone that had crashed to the ground so closely behind them. They heard someone shouting and recognized Kutnar’s voice, so they slowed up and looked back. All was now quiet and finally by much arm-waving, the lad induced his two friends to return. This they did very slowly and carefully, not feeling entirely convinced that all danger had passed. Kutnar was perched astride of the great boulder that had so nearly destroyed them. He spoke in the strange tongue that Hairi and Wulli so well knew.

“I saw it falling,” he said as they came up. “I shouted to warn you.”

The snorts, squeals and grunts with which the two animals answered would have meant nothing to an ordinary man; but Kutnar had no trouble understanding them.

“A narrow escape,” sighed the Mammoth who was trembling from head to foot. “It is but a stone but it fell. What caused it to fall? It might have killed us.”

“It would certainly have killed us, had it dropped upon our backs,” said the Rhinoceros solemnly. “Never was I so startled. I nearly jumped over my nose-horn.”

“And I, over my tusks,” the Mammoth added.

Kutnar laughed. “Yes you both jumped like rabbits”; then he looked up at the cliffs and his face became serious. “The stone did not fall of itself,” he said, half to himself. “Someone pushed it over. I saw——”

“Someone pushed it?” inquired the Mammoth. He looked thoughtfully at the great boulder and shivered. It had been a nerve-racking experience. He hoped he would never have another like it.

“Yes, someone pushed it,” Kutnar repeated.

“Who?”

“I do not know. I saw him but an instant; then he jumped back.”

“It must have been the Cave Lion,” the Mammoth suggested. “He hates us and only a strong animal could have moved such a big rock.”

“No, it was not the Cave Lion.” Kutnar became silent as he watched the Rhinoceros who was now sniffing the stone vigorously. Finally Wulli’s nose settled on one spot and here he made a most thorough investigation. When this was concluded to his satisfaction, he raised his head and gazed triumphantly, first at one then the other of his companions.

“I know,” he squealed. “I found where he touched it. My nose never lies. I know.”

“Who was it?” the Mammoth asked.

“A hyena.”

“A hyena?” the boy laughed. “No, Wulli; you are wrong for once. Smell again.”

The Rhinoceros took another long careful sniff. Once more he raised his head and maintained stubbornly: “My nose never lies, I tell you. I know that smell of him who eats men and bad meat. I say it was a hyena.”

For an instant the boy eyed his companion in doubt. Heretofore Wulli’s nose had been infallible. It was his eyes versus the Rhino’s nose. Probably the eyes were mistaken. They had caught only a fleeting glimpse. He laughed again. A second laugh echoed overhead. The three friends looked hastily upward and saw a hideous face leering down upon them. Quick as lightning, Kutnar made ready his sling and hurled a pebble. A loud yelp and the face disappeared. “Hyena it was,” said the lad. “Wulli is right; his nose never lies, but had I not seen the beast a second time, I would have sworn that he who pushed the rock down upon us, was a man.”

VII

Gonch fled across the plateau until he found a place where he could conceal himself and here he stayed until he judged that all danger of detection was past. Then he made a wide detour and proceeded to the Rock of Moustier, not from the valley side but across the heights, a route rarely or never taken by ones desiring to reach the grotto below.

As he halted at the cliff overlooking the cave-threshold, he caught sight of a man squatting far beneath him beside a fire. It was Pic engaged in weapon-making. His right arm did not rise and fall with each stroke of the hammerstone. He was devoting his efforts to the finer work, retouching flakes with the mysterious finishing tool. Gonch lay flat upon his chest and stomach and peered over the cliff. While so doing he was unconscious of the fact that he had dislodged several stone chips and caused them to fall.

Beneath him, the giant flint-worker still squatted motionless beside the fire but his ears were straining, his brain working rapidly as he sought the meaning of dust and limestone chips mysteriously descended upon him from above. The sun was warm. It was quite a natural gesture for him to turn his head askew and downward at the same time and wipe the perspiration from it with his arm; also it enabled him to catch a glimpse of a man’s head peering down upon him from the cliff.

Pic resumed his former position but now he was staring at his feet, his brows contracted in deep thought. For several minutes he maintained this attitude, then his brows lifted and he glanced at what he held in his hand. It was a ridiculously simple affair—a piece of bone not much larger than his forefinger, smooth, straight and notched at one end.

“Men have died for even less,” he soliloquized. “I roamed the world over to find this piece of bone—the Terrace Man’s finishing tool. Others may be doing the same. Yes that’s it; I am sure of it now,” and he scowled and gnashed his teeth in a way that would have horrified Gonch, had he been there to see.

For a time, Pic remained squatting motionless; finally he rose to his feet, piled more wood upon the fire and made other elaborate preparations as if for departure, shouldering his ax and gazing long and earnestly down the valley as though there were something there that required his attention. He gathered up his flint-flakes and took them to the cave and last of all, secreted the bone tool near the cliff wall beneath a flat stone. This latter maneuver was conducted mysteriously and with much deliberation. When all was arranged to his satisfaction, he swung his ax over his right shoulder and descended the causeway to the valley below.

The ledge was now deserted. Gonch could see the master weapon maker sauntering leisurely down the causeway. He had also seen his host conceal something beneath a flat stone near the foot of the cliffs. It must be something valuable judging from the elaborate precautions taken to hide it from view. It might be the flint-worker’s finishing tool. If so, this was an opportunity not to be missed.

The cliff-wall overlooking the ledge was too steep and smooth for a speedy descent, so Gonch sought the rougher and more sloping northeast side, the one opposite that which Pic was descending. This shut off his view of the latter and not until he reached the level of the cave-ledge, could he again obtain a glimpse of the causeway and anyone who might be near the cave. He saw no one. Pic had vanished and no doubt was making his way down the valley along the base of the Rock.

Feeling assured on this point and convinced that he was alone and safe from detection, Gonch crept towards the flat stone lying at the foot of the cliff wall, near the mouth of the cave.

His hand was now clutching the stone. Another second and the latter would have been raised disclosing what lay beneath, when a rustling sounded at the cave-mouth. Gonch turned quickly, then sank down upon the threshold in an agony of dread, for there stood Pic, filling the cave-mouth with his great bulk and gazing down upon the Muskman with a look of withering scorn.

“I lost something, I—” stammered Gonch but the other cut him short.

“You lie,” roared Pic, his face becoming rapidly convulsed with rage. “You lie and have lied ever since you came here. I know you now and why you came. To the muck with you and your filthy smell. Your whole body reeks with carrion. Your welcome is at an end, imposter. Begone.”

“But—you mistake,” protested the Muskman, summoning fresh courage on finding his life in no immediate danger. Pic’s ire only increased. His face became that of a demon.

“You are alive now,” he thundered. “Soon you Will not be. Go at once. If you are found in the valley after the next sunrise, your friends the hyenas will be cracking your bones”; and Pic spat upon the cringing Muskman as he would have spat upon a snake.

Gonch crawled away along the ledge and down the causeway like a beaten hound, terrified but thankful enough that the giant’s teeth and hands were not now tearing his throat. The farther he got away, however, the more comfortable he felt in body and mind, and by the time he reached the valley his courage had in a great measure returned.

He was safe—for the present—and having no immediate concern on that point, he began to consider and reflect bitterly upon the sudden miscarriage of his plans. Now he could no more think of persuading the master flint-worker to return with him than he could of compelling him to do so by force. The very thought of using force on Pic made him squirm. He might more easily overcome a lion.

As he walked down the valley, his thoughts turned to Totan and the men of Castillo. What would they say when he returned discredited and empty-handed? The big hetman was not one who dealt gently with vain boasters. Gonch could almost feel the hetman’s club crashing down upon his pate. Pic here, Totan there; whether he stayed or went, it was all the same—a giant waiting to crush the life out of him. Gonch felt himself between the devil and the deep, blue sea.

Pic was a friend of animals and a lover of peace, but the prosperity and power that he had brought upon the cave-men of the Vézère was not to be denied. They were the strongest men, the most successful hunters in all the world, and all because of Pic, the genius that ruled over them. No one had said that the master flint-worker was hetman of the Mousterians, but Gonch knew it now, and he knew it without being told. He had failed miserably. Pic the Lion had snared Gonch the Fox with scarce an effort. To all appearances the former was but a flint-worker, skilled beyond belief and a physical giant to boot, but with the disposition of a child, peacefully inclined towards man and beast. A fool? hardly; even though Gonch hated him for not being one. His arm ruled over the Vézère like the paw of a gigantic lion, its claws drawn into their sheath-pads, its powerful muscles hidden beneath their covering of heavy fur.

It was all just as had first been told to him in the southland. Gonch bit his lips until the blood came. Now he saw the truth of what he did not then believe from the lips of the man he himself had slain near the northern Cantabrian slopes. The Mousterian domain was the most powerful in all the world, and the arm that ruled over it, the mind that guided its destinies, were those of a simple flint-worker and weapon maker—Pic, the Mammoth Man.

VIII

With Pic’s warning and fear of the giant weapon maker to spur him on, Gonch made haste to escape from the Mousterian country. He was hurrying to the southwest along the right bank of the Vézère River when suddenly a shrill scream sounded in the distance ahead of him. It was the cry of some animal in distress. A second and third cry rang out, closely following the first; then came piercing trumpet calls and loud bellows. Gonch sank upon his hands and knees and crawled through the grass in the direction of the cries. Soon he came upon him who made them and learned their cause. The Mammoth was bogged in a slough.

The huge beast had unwittingly trod upon the soft ground and was caught fast. This was one enemy that sapped his courage of its last drop, and now it held him in its death-grip. Maddened by his vain struggles, he had worked himself into a frenzy of terror; squealing, bellowing and thrashing his trunk about like a great flail.

The Muskman grinned with fiendish pleasure. He advanced to the quagmire and squatted comfortably at its edge. He felt perfectly safe and was only anxious lest he might miss any portion of the grand and glorious scene. It was a small slough, and the terrified Mammoth stood so near firm ground that only a few steps were needed to bring him safely clear. He seemed to realize this, for he strained and tugged mightily to escape the mire that sucked him down, directing his efforts toward the pit-edge nearest him. One after another he pulled his feet from the slime, but only one at a time, and as fast as one was free the others sank deeper. The more he struggled, the more securely was he trapped. This was the way with all mired animals. Cave-men often used these made-to-order traps as aids in the capture of large game. Gonch had seen many a horse, bison or ox in a similar predicament, but never had it been his good fortune to come upon an elephant so caught.

“Pic’s friend; so much the better,” he sneered. At the sound of his voice the Mammoth became quiet. In his terror he had not before perceived the man squatting beside him. He squealed plaintively as much as to say: “Friends should ever help each other,” and stood waiting, trembling and expectant. Gonch never moved, but grinned fiendishly at the great beast begging for assistance. He gathered a handful of dirt and threw it in the Mammoth’s face.

The latter recoiled in surprise, then his ears flapped wildly and he bellowed loudly with rage. This change of sentiment helped him as nothing else could. He heaved and pulled, using his trunk as a lever on the pit-edge, forgetting all fear in his eagerness to reach and chastise the man.

Gonch arose and retreated several steps to where several detached limestone blocks lay embedded in the soil. He secured one, the biggest he could lift, and returned to the Mammoth.

The latter must have known what was in store for him, for as Gonch hurled the stone at the base of his trunk the Mammoth suddenly ducked and received the blow upon his head-peak, a bony prominence reinforced within by air-cells and protected from without by a thick mop of shaggy hair. A painful bruise, but no real damage done. Gonch procured another stone and made ready to try again.

And then something swept down upon him with the weight and fury of an avalanche and sent him sprawling in the grass. As he lay helpless, wondering what had happened, he saw a rotund, short-legged animal bringing itself up short upon its haunches. Gonch trembled as the beast turned as though to make a second charge. However, to his great relief, the Rhinoceros paid no further attention to him, but devoted himself entirely to the Mammoth, walking along the margin of the morass and studying the situation his friend was in, with the utmost deliberation.

Gonch crawled away to hide himself behind a stone and watch.

It took the Woolly Rhinoceros several minutes to realize his friend’s plight and to devise ways and means for effecting a rescue. Having determined his course, he anchored his forefeet firmly and as close to the pit as he dared, then extended his head toward the Mammoth. The latter responded by raising his trunk and curling its flexible tip about the other’s nose-horn, a formidable affair about two feet long, as smooth and glossy as polished steel. When assured that his partner had secured a firm grip, the Woolly Rhinoceros settled back his full weight, at the same time pushing hard with his legs.

The Mammoth’s trunk tautened until it seemed about to break. His feet drew clear of the mire one by one, slowly but surely; and now that the Rhinoceros was relieving him of so much of his dead weight, he clung to that nose-horn with the persistence of one drowning. Even when his right forefoot touched solid ground, he did not release this hold. “Friends should ever help each other” might not be considered a slogan applicable to beasts, but Gonch saw it being applied now and in most marvelous fashion.