Part 7

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

“Obi!” squealed the Woolly Rhinoceros.

“Wulli!” piped the midget in response.

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

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

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

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

“I saw him.”

“Where?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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