Part 12

The darkness was almost impenetrable so he was obliged to depend upon his sense of touch, groping about the floor with his hands and feet. Bones, bones, everywhere; but no stone. He searched about the entrance, then along the side-walls and finally the rear of the cave, carefully covering every inch of space; but without success. He repeated this performance; going over the ground a second time with the utmost care. Failure again; the stone was nowhere to be found nor the treasure which must be lying beneath it.

Pic’s patience was ebbing fast. He had begun this adventure in high spirits but as his quest yet remained barren of results, he grew fearful that it must soon end in total failure.

“My father would not have lied to me,” he strove to reassure himself. “Perhaps the stone has been accidentally removed. The treasure if it lies buried here, must be somewhere near the entrance.”

This last thought aroused his fading hopes and he resumed his search along new lines, chopping the dirt floor with his ax until not a spot near the cave-mouth remained untouched. His efforts were of no avail. Neither stone nor treasure came to light. This was the wrong cave.

Nothing remained to be done but leave and rejoin the Mammoth and Rhinoceros. It suddenly occurred to him that it was high time he was so doing. Night was drawing to a close and the hyenas would soon return. He stepped to the cave-mouth, then as quickly stepped back again at sight of some animals coming up the valley. His foot encountered an obstacle. His ax flew from his hand and he fell heavily upon its upturned edge.

A sharp pain shot through the rear of his thigh where the keen flint had inflicted a deep gash. He was up again in a moment, clutching the wound with one hand to stop the flow of blood. His injury although painful was not disabling. The hyenas were returning and it was necessary—for his own safety—that he be not caught intruding in their den.

He descended the slope with all possible haste, leaving a trail of blood-stains on the rocks behind him. He arrived at the foot of the slope none too soon. The hyenas were but a few paces distant. They came on growling and sniffing the air. Pic raised his ax and prepared to defend himself; whereupon they held back and showed no intention of proceeding further.

Pic retreated a step; the hyenas followed. He took several more steps and the foul beasts kept pace with him; halting when he halted; advancing as he retreated, threatening but ever hesitating to close in. None of them showed any interest in the cave. Not one climbed up the slope. It might be time to go home; but they were hungry. They smelled blood in the air and on the ground. Pic’s wound was not a dangerous one, but it gave promise; the odor of blood was alluring and so the hyenas followed. The Rhinoceros had proven a grievous disappointment; but now the scent of an injured man filled them with renewed hope.

Pic’s position was becoming decidedly unpleasant. He was being hounded by a pack of ferocious brutes who dared not attack him openly but who were prepared to take advantage of any opportunity offered them. He made off up the valley and the hyenas trailed behind at a respectful distance.

Their uncanny attention and particularly their persistence filled him with growing alarm. He was beginning to feel weary and faint; but to lie down; to lose his senses even for a few moments, meant death. His enemies were now gradually closing in; behind and on both sides. If they kept on, he would soon be completely surrounded. He must seek refuge among the rocks, in a cave or some place where he could defend himself without danger of attack from the rear. He scanned the cliffs—and there before him loomed a great rock which thrust its rugged flanks far into the valley. His heart quickened with renewed hope. It was the Rock of Moustier.

“Once I reach the grotto, I can make a stand against these beasts,” he encouraged himself; “unless”—and his spirits fell again like lead—“the Lion is there.”

However he must take his chance on that score. Things could not long continue as they were. A night of fruitless tramping up and down the valley was rapidly driving his enemies to desperation. Hyenas might be patient but even their patience could not forever endure the protests of empty stomachs. They quickened their pace and pressed on more closely. Some of them grew bold enough to walk ahead of him on either side.

The party drew up before the base of Moustier. Pic took a deep breath, grit his teeth and began the ascent. The hyenas hesitated, then followed after him. As he neared the middle terrace and came within sight of the grotto, he paused. For him, this was the turning-point—a situation fraught with fearful consequence. If the Lion were at home, he was lost—caught between two fires and hopelessly overmatched; but if the cave were unoccupied, he could make his stand in the entrance and fight off those who trailed behind him. All depended upon whether the grotto was or was not now occupied by its fierce tenant.

While he hesitated, one of his trackers, a huge beast with a ghoul-grinning face, lunged forward and snapped at his wounded limb, so closely that Pic felt the brute’s hot fetid breath. He turned like a flash just as the hyena sprang upon him a second time. A quick swing-back; and the blade of Ach Eul descended in a wide arc with all the power of arm and shoulder behind it. A terrible howl and the brute fell crashing down the slope with half of the flint buried in his skull. The other half and handle yet remained in Pic’s grasp; but the blade of Ach Eul was lost forever—shattered, destroyed by the violence of the blow.

Its owner gazed at the broken ax in dismay. He stood defenceless—armed only with a flimsy stick. Discarding his now useless weapon, he seized a jagged rock and raised it above his head, just as the other hyenas turned tail and scrambled down the steep slope after their stricken comrade. In a few moments, Pic heard them growling and snarling horribly as they fought and struggled over the dead body. Then sounded the ripping and tearing of flesh, followed by a more subdued clatter as of snapping and slopping jaws.

Pic was left alone. Below him, his enemies were devouring the one of their number he had slain. Now for the Cave Lion. With the rock still raised above his head, he took a last step upward and stood upon the platform fronting the grotto. No response came from within—no low growls nor angry snarls. He could see beyond the entrance and make out the interior, free of dark form and fiery eyes. The Lion was not inside. Pic glanced fearfully about him, then glided to the cave-mouth. It exuded no foul odor common to dens habitated by beasts of prey. The place was untenanted; and from all appearances it had been so for a considerable time.

Pic breathed more freely. Nothing was to be feared at the moment from the Lion. After assuring himself on that point, he stole across the rock-platform and peered down at the hideous group below. Already the dead hyena was but a framework of white bones and his fellows were straggling away down the valley. He returned to the cave and stepped boldly within.

Apparently the Lion had abandoned his winter quarters at the approach of Spring. His nest remained as he left it—a broad, shallow depression scooped from the floor. The brute had clawed out the dirt to the bare rock leaving the debris piled around the sides, thus forming a crater or enclosed receptacle shaped to his curled form. Its sides were covered with spiders’ webs and fungus growth. A single mushroom sprouted from the bottom—from the rock laid bare by the Lion’s claws. Pic looked curiously at this mushroom which could sprout from the hard limestone. He sank to his knees and bent low to examine it.

The stone from which it grew was not limestone but granite—a material foreign to the surrounding rock—of substance unlike that composing the cave-walls and roof; furthermore, the mushroom grew not from the stone but from a crack extended around it. The crack was filled with dirt and the mushroom sprang from the dirt.

Pic gazed thoughtfully at the mushroom, the dirt-filled crack and the granite stone. How did these three come there? Answer: because of the stone itself and no other reason; because of a stone in the floor—near the entrance—of a cave—on a mountain.

Pic trembled as this chain of circumstances ran through his mind. He reached down with shaking hand and scraped out the dirt which filled the encircling crack.

In a short time he had deepened it sufficiently to insert his fingers. One mighty heave—the stone yielded and came free. He raised it from the depression and tossed it to one side.

The hollow in which the stone had lain embedded, was filled with dirt. Pic set about to remove this by loosening and scraping it out with his fingers. While so doing, his knuckles encountered something hard and sharp. He pried the dirt from around the object, plucked it forth and held it to the light.

The object was a large flint-blade, flaked and chipped with edges so straight and keen, Pic could only stare and marvel. His experienced eye noted not the large flaking but the fine marginal chipping which gave the flint its finely-finished lines. It was a counterpart—a duplicate of his own ax so recently destroyed—the blade of Ach Eul.

Pic’s breath came loud and fast. The hot blood mounted to his temples. He set the flint carefully down beside him and turned once more to the hollow from whence it came. The dirt was soft and easily removed with his fingers. The ground beneath where the stone had lain, was a cavity filled with loose earth—and other objects as he discovered when once the loose material was removed.

The objects were flints—similar in form and finish to the first. The cavity was filled with them. He brought them forth one by one until he had secured more than could be counted upon the fingers of his two hands. Further search disclosed the cavity’s hard bottom but no more flints; nothing but a piece of bone.

“Part of the Cave Lion’s fare,” thought Pic. “It shows his tooth-marks and where he has licked it clean and smooth.” He was about to cast it aside, then checked the impulse and set it on the rock beside him where it soon passed from his thoughts. He turned again to the flints. The treasure of Moustier was now in his possession.

And it was indeed a treasure which had long lain buried in the floor of the grotto. Pic made a grimace as he thought of how many times he had stood, squatted, reclined over the very spot where it lay concealed. The stone—the guiding mark—had become buried in some unaccountable manner, thereby throwing him off the scent. It was but natural, he reflected, that Moustier—his father’s former home—should have been the cave which concealed the treasure; but who would have thought that the stone itself as well as the treasure might be hidden from sight?

Pic chuckled softly as he meditated over the element of chance that had brought about his good-fortune. But for the Cave Lion, he might have vainly hunted the world over until his dying day. He could thank Grun Waugh for this one thing, if nothing else. The treasure had been laid bare—or rather the stone which covered it—by a scratch of his big paw.

Pic gathered up the flints and carried them to the ledge outside. Here he squatted to feast his eyes on a dozen or more of the finest blades ever seen by mortal man—great almond-shaped flints, the size and form of his own hand—a sight to make the hunter and warrior’s heart beat fast with wonder at their great size and beautiful finish. The treasure of Moustier was priceless and beyond compare.

His first excitement having passed, Pic devoted himself to a more detailed inspection of the flints. They were all very much alike—great hand-axes; pointed and edged on one end; blunt on the other to accommodate the grip of the hand. They differed little from each other, in size, form, manner of chipping and even the material from which they were made. All bore the same evidence of retouch—the tiny chipping which made the margins so straight and keen. In them was none of the rude flaking and that, only on one side as characterized the wavy, irregular edges of Mousterian blades.

Wonderful indeed! Nothing could be more wonderful; but strange to say Pic turned from them and gazed wistfully at the sky. He sighed. The treasure of Moustier was incomparable with anything in all the world; but its owner now found himself a victim of baffled hope and bitter disappointment.

Why? Simply because they taught him nothing. A knowledge of the art itself and not the finished product was what he sought.

“How were they made?” had been and yet was the question uppermost in his mind; but on this point, the cold lustrous flints remained pitilessly silent. Pic was undisputed master of the treasure; but as far as the manner of its making was concerned, he knew no more now than he did before.

XXI

Pic continued gazing wistfully at the sky. He was thinking of former days; of his search for the Terrace Man which had availed him nothing; of the treasure which after repeated failure, he had now so unexpectedly discovered. The latter pertained to that which he sought above all things—a knowledge of the art whereby men formerly retouched their hammered flakes. But the flints themselves taught him nothing. The knowledge which had seemed almost within his grasp, had now slipped as it were, through his fingers, leaving him as far from his goal as ever. He picked up one of the blades with his left hand.

“This work was not done entirely with the hammer-stone” he reflected bitterly. “Some other means was used to strike off these tiny chips. What it was, I would give my life to know.”

He was about to lay the flint down with its fellows when his eyes fell upon the piece of bone lying upon the rock where he had placed it. Strange, that such a trifling object should intrude itself upon him at this moment. He picked it up and examined it.

The bone was polished and notched on one end. It was strangely hard and heavy. The notched end in particular seemed most peculiar. Pic regarded it curiously.

“That mark was not made by a lion’s tooth,” he reasoned. “The bone has been neither roughly scratched nor chewed, nor would the brute’s tongue have smoothed it down so nicely.”

His thoughts were now centered upon the bone fragment. He had forgotten the flints entirely.

The bone was in his right hand; the blade which he had been examining, still remained in his left. More by accident than design, he set the notched end of the bone against one edge of the flint and pressed strongly downward. A tiny chip flew off. More astounding things may have happened in the world but not to the Ape Boy of Moustier. A look of bewilderment spread over his face. He pressed again with the same result.

A dim ray rapidly growing broader and brighter, diffused its light through the Ape Boy’s brain. The significance of his discovery cannot be overestimated, simple though it seems. The secret of the Terrace Men was revealed—the art of retouching hammered flints. Pic had reached his goal at last simply because of a piece of bone found buried with the treasure. The treasure was in reality the bone itself—the finishing tool of the Terrace flint-worker wherewith the final chipping operation was accomplished. With it, he pressed—not hammered—off the smaller chips and finished the edges straight and keen. No danger of fracturing even the longest and thinnest blade by this method. The tiny flakes flew as readily under pressure of the bone tool as did the larger ones beneath the blows of the hammer-stone.

It was simple enough when one knew how to do it. Pic wondered why he had not thought of it before. The bone tool was the key to the whole art. His cup of joy so nearly empty, was now filled to overflowing. He beamed; he smiled until his mouth threatened to split from ear to ear. Never was a man or woman’s happiness more complete. In his ecstasy, the hard rock beneath him felt like a seat among the clouds.

And now with his discovery of the lost art, came a desire to put that art to a practical test. Knowledge meant power if used to good purpose. Pic determined to adapt the much he had learned to his own ends.

His first need was raw material on which to work. This meant a trip to the valley in search of flint. Before venturing forth, he gathered up the treasure and replaced it within the cavity where he had found it—all but the bone tool and a single blade. He then set the stone back in place and covered it with loose dirt so that it was effectually concealed. The one flint he retained, was intended to replace the blade of Ach Eul so recently broken over the hyena’s head. He recovered his discarded ax-haft and in a jiffy, it was fitted with a new head as large and keen as the one it had originally borne.

Thus re-armed, he descended into the valley and sought the river gravels for raw flint-lumps—essentials in implement manufacture. After securing all that he could conveniently carry, he crossed the meadows and chose a secluded spot among the loose boulders which lay thickly strewn along the base of the towering cliff-walls. Here, without danger of being interrupted he devoted himself to the practical application of his newly discovered flint-working art.

First he broke up the lumps he had gathered with a hammer-stone in the usual way. This in itself was an operation which called for a considerable degree of skill. When struck in the right place and with just the proper force, the wax-like sheets or blanks were detached from the flint-mass with remarkable smoothness and precision. In the performance of this operation, Pic displayed an adeptness born of long experience. Once the blanks were hewn, then came the second step in flint-making when the blanks were roughed out to the desired shapes and partly edged. This work was accomplished by light taps of the hammer-stone. Up to this point the work was done according to the ordinary method of the skilled Mousterian artisan.

Pic drew a long deep breath. All was ready for the third and final stage—retouching—such as no Mousterian had ever attempted. His fingers trembled as he put aside his hammer-stone and essayed his first trial of the new art.

The bone tool now came into play. With it, Pic pressed off the last tiny chips along the point and edges of the flint-flake. By this time he had become so engrossed in his work that he was entirely oblivious to everything else. A clammy snake-like object suddenly glided over his left shoulder and as he sprang to his feet and faced about with an astonished yell, there stood the Mammoth and Rhinoceros so close that either one could have trod upon him with a single forward step.

“Ugh!” he muttered weakly as he recognized his friends. “Why did you so startle me? You should have given warning.”

To this, the Mammoth paid scant attention. “What were you doing there?” he asked. “Not the rock-cracking part but that which you do with the little stick. I never saw you do the like before.”

“Stick? Agh, you mean the bone tool.” Pic held it up so that both could see. “This is the Terrace Man’s secret, his method of retouching hammered flakes. I found it high upon a mountain, in a cave, beneath a stone in the floor——”

“The treasure!” echoed both animals.

“Aye, the treasure. I found it only this morning in my cave upon the Rock.”

The Mammoth who was with difficulty restraining his rising excitement at this unexpected news, looked quickly this way and that. “What? Where?” he eagerly demanded.

“Here right in front of your nose,” said Pic. “This piece of bone. There were flints too; but this bone is the treasure.”

Hairi seized it between the two lips of his trunk-tip and held it before his eyes for examination. “A bone?” he repeated in tones of overwhelming disappointment. His jaw dropped. His ears hung limp.

“I said it was probably a bone,” the Rhinoceros now broke in with an I-told-you-so air. “Did it have any meat on it?”

“No it was just as you see it,” Pic replied. “Remarkable is it not?”

Hairi regarded it with a look of intense disgust. Even Wulli began to share his lack of enthusiasm.

“Treasure, indeed,” the Mammoth sniffed.

“It might as well have been a piece of rotten wood,” the Rhinoceros added.

“You do not understand,” said Pic. “This bone is a tool. A man buried it. He used it to retouch his flints. See; he pressed off the tiny chips instead of hammering them.” He illustrated his remarks by applying one end of the bone to a flake; a most interesting explanation to all present except his two friends. Wulli stared with his blankest expression while the Mammoth stretched his neck and yawned:

“Warm day, this. Soon we will all have to be off for the cool country.”

But Pic made no reply, for by this time, he was back, squatting among his flint-flakes and again absorbed in his work. For a time his two friends looked wonderingly on; then becoming impatient, they fidgeted and stamped and grumbled and made all sorts of disagreeable remarks, none of which did Pic have eyes or ears for. Finally they went off in a huff leaving Pic squatting alone and unmindful of their departure.

All day he toiled and it was only when the shades of night began to settle over him that he rose to his feet and kicked the knots out of his cramped limbs. His night was spent in the grotto of Moustier but with the first morning light, he was up and ready to resume his work. The Mammoth and Rhinoceros and the Cave-men of Ferrassie were temporarily set aside.

“Flints first; my friends second,” he determined for the moment and therewith sought a secluded nook among the loftiest and most inaccessible crags where he could perform his self-allotted task without interference from friend or foe.

It was not long before his efforts began to produce results. Although at first, his use of the bone tool was slow and laborious, he was patient and eager to learn and his technique quickly improved. He spoiled some pieces and only half-succeeded with others but practice makes perfect and gradually he attained proficiency in the master craft, perhaps even excelled the Terrace flint-worker in one particular at least—diversity of form. He did not confine his efforts to producing ax-blades alone but made each flake into whatever tool its shape suggested. Thin elongate pieces he fashioned into points for darts; irregular flakes of no particular form with curved edges, made excellent tools for scraping and dressing hides; large fragments with one long keen edge served for skinning-blades, and so on.

For a week or more, he pursued his vocation in total solitude until at last it seemed to him that the time was near at hand to prove the value of his discovery in the eyes of men and at the same time determine the measure of his success in putting it to a practical test.

“The men of the Rock-shelter shall judge its merits,” he determined. “Unless their eyes are opened, I will renounce the new art of flint-making forever.”

And so one morning, he selected three of his newly made flints—his best and no two alike—and wrapped them in a packet of rabbit skin. This done, he concealed his remaining flints together with the bone finishing tool, swept away all traces of his work and was soon on his way down the valley towards the Rock-shelter of Ferrassie.

XXII

The hunt was ended. The roe-buck had breathed his last and lay where he had fallen with glazed eyes staring at the sky. The Cave-men were gathered about the body, preparing to remove the skin and quarter the carcass for transport across the meadows.