THE FIRE COUNTRY AGAIN.
The sun rose brightly the next morning and when Ab, armed and watchful,
rolled the big stone away and passed the smoldering fire and issued from
the cave into the open, the scene he looked upon was fair in every way.
Of what had been left of the great bear not a trace remained. Even the
bones had been dragged into the forest by the ravening creatures who had
fed there during the night. There were birds singing and there were no
enemies in sight. Ab called to Lightfoot and the two went forth together,
loving and brave, but no longer careless in that too interesting region.
And so began the home life of these two people. It was, in its way and
relatively, as sweet and delicious as the first home life of any loving
and appreciating man and woman of to-day. The two were very close, as the
conditions under which they lived demanded. They were the only human
beings within a radius of miles. The family of the cave man of the time
was serenely independent, each having its own territory, and depending
upon itself for its existence. And the two troubled themselves about
nothing. Who better than they could daily win the means of animal
subsistence?
Ab taught Lightfoot the art of cracking away the flakes of the flint
nodules and of the finer chipping and rasping which made perfect the
spear and arrowheads, and never was pupil swifter in the learning. He
taught her, too, the use of his new weapon, and in all his life he did no
wiser thing! It was not long before she became easily his superior with
the bow, so far as her strength would allow, and her strength was far
from insignificant. Her arrows flew with greater accuracy than his,
though the buzzing shaft had not as yet, and did not have for many
centuries later, the "gray goose" feather which made the doing of its
mission far more certain. Lightfoot brought to the cave the capercailzie
and willow grouse and other birds which were good things for the larder,
and Ab looked on admiringly. Even in their joint hunting, when there was
a half rivalry, he was happy in her. Somehow, the arrow sang more merrily
when it flew from Lightfoot's bow.
Better than Ab, too, could the young wife do rare climbing when in a nest
far out upon some branch were eggs good for roasting and which could be
reached only by a light-weight. And she learned the woods about them
well, and, though ever dreading when alone, found where were the trees
from which fell the greatest store of nuts and where, in the mud along
the river's side, her long and highly educated toes could reach the clams
which were excellent to feed upon.
But never did the hunter leave the cave without a fear. Ever, even in the
daytime, was there too much rustling among the leaves of the near forest.
Ever when day had gone was there the sound of padded feet on the sward
about the cave's blocked entrance. Ever, at night, looking out through
the narrow space between the heaped rocks, could the two inside the cave
see fierce and blazing eyes and there would come to them the sound of
snarls and growls as the beasts of different quality met one another. Yet
the two cared little for these fearful surroundings of the darkness. They
were safe enough. In the morning there were no signs of the lurking
beasts of prey. They were somewhere near, though, and waiting, and so Ab
and Lightfoot had the strain of constant watchfulness upon them.
It may be that because of this ever present peril the two grew closer
together. It could not well be otherwise with human beings thus bound and
isolated and facing and living upon the rest of nature, part of it
seeking always their own lives. They became a wonderfully loving couple,
as love went in that rude time. Despite the too wearing outlook imposed
upon them, because they were in so dangerous a locality, they were very
happy. Yet, one day, came a difference and a hurt.
Oak, apparently forgotten by others, was remembered by Ab, though never
spoken of. Sometimes the man had tossed upon his bed of leaves and had
muttered in his sleep, and the one word he had most often spoken in this
troubled dreaming was the name of Oak. Early in their married life
Lightfoot, to whom the memory of the dead man, so little had she known
him, was a far less haunting thing than to her husband, had suddenly
broken a silence, saying "Where is Oak?" There was no answer, but the
look of the man of whom she had asked the question was such that she was
glad to creep from his sight unharmed. Yet once again, months later, she
forgot herself and mocked Ab when he had been boastful over some exploit
of strength and courage and when he had seemed to say that he knew no
fear. She, but to tease him, sprang up with a face convulsed and
agonized, and with staring eyes and hands opening and shutting, had cried
out "Oak! Oak!" as she had seen Ab do at night. Her mimic terror was
changed on the moment into reality. With a shudder and then with a glare
in his eyes the man leaped toward her, snatching his great ax from his
belt and swinging it above her head. The woman shrieked and shrank to the
ground. The man whirled the weapon aloft and then, his face twitching
convulsively, checked its descent. He may, in that moment, have thought
of what followed the slaying of the other who had been close to him.
There was no death done, but, thenceforth, Lightfoot never uttered aloud
the name of Oak. She became more sedate and grave of bearing.
The episode was but a passing, though not a forgotten one in the lives of
the two. The months went by and there were tranquil hours in the cave as,
at night, the weapons were shaped, and Lightfoot boasted of the
arrowheads she had learned to make so well. Sometimes Old Mok would be
rowed up the river to them by the sturdy and venturesome Bark, who had
grown into a particularly fine youth and who now cared for nothing more
than his big brother's admiration. Between Old Mok and Lightfoot, to Ab's
great delight, grew up the warmest friendship. The old man taught the
woman more of the details of good arrow-making and all he knew of
woodcraft in all ways, and the lord of the place soon found his wife
giving opinions with an air of the utmost knowledge and authority.
Whatever came to him from her and Old Mok pleased him, and when she told
him of some of the finer points of arrow-making he stretched out his
brawny arms and laughed.
But there came, in time, a shade upon the face of the man. The incident
of the talk of Oak may have brought to his mind again more freshly and
keenly the memory of the Fire Country. There he had found safety and
great comfort. Why should not he and Lightfoot seize upon this home and
live there? It was a wonderful place and warm, and there were forests at
hand. He became so absorbed in his own thoughts on this great theme that
the woman who was his could not understand his mood, but, one day, he
told her of what he had been thinking and of what he had resolved upon.
"I am going to the Fire Country," he said.
Armed, this time with spear and ax and bow and arrow, and with food
abundant in the pouch of his skin garb, Ab left the cave in which
Lightfoot was now to stay most of the time, well barricaded, for that she
was to hunt afar alone in such a region was not even to be thought of.
What thoughts came to the man as he traversed again the forest paths
where he had so pondered as he once ran before can be but guessed at.
Certainly he had learned no more of Oak.
Lightfoot, left alone in the cave, became at once a most discreet and
careful personage, for one of her buoyant and daring temperament. She had
often taken risks since her marriage, but there was always the chance of
finding within the sound of her voice her big mate, Ab, should danger
overtake her. She remained close to the cave, and when early dusk came
she lugged the stone barriers into place and built a night-fire within
the entrance. The fierce and hungry beasts of the wood came, as usual,
lurking and sniffing harshly about the entrance, and when she ventured
there and peered outside she saw the wicked and leering eyes. Alone and a
little alarmed, she became more vengeful than she would have been with
the big, careless Ab beside her. She would have sport with her bow. The
advantage of the bow is that it requires no swing of space for its work
as is demanded of the flung spear. An arrow may be sent through a mere
loophole with no probable demerit as to what it will accomplish. So the
woman brought her strongest bow--and far beyond the rough bow of Ab's
first make was the bow they now possessed--and gathered together many of
the arrows she could make so well and use so well, and, thus equipped,
went again to the cave's entrance, and through the space between the
heaped rocks of the doorway sent toward the eyes of wolf, or cave hyena,
shafts to which they were unaccustomed, but which, somehow, pierced and
could find mid-body quite as well as the cave man's spear. There was a
certain comfort in the work, though it could not affect her condition in
one way or another. It was only something of a gain to drive the eyes
away.
And Ab reached the Fire Valley again. He found it as comfortable and
untenanted as when the leap through the ring of flame had saved his life.
He clambered up the creek and wandered along its banks, where the grass
was green because of the warmth about, and studied all the qualities of
the naturally defended valley. "I will make my home here," he said.
"Lightfoot shall come with me."
The man returned to his cave and his lonely mate again and told her of
the Fire Country. He said that in the Fire Valley they would be safer and
happier, and told her how he had found an opening underneath the cliff
which they could soon enlarge into a cave to meet all wants. Not that a
cave was really needed in a fire valley, but they might have one if they
cared. And Lightfoot was glad of the departure.
The pair gathered their belongings together and there was the long
journey over again which Ab had just accomplished. But it was far
different from either journey that he had made. There with him was his
wife, and he was all equipped and was to begin a new sort of life which
would, he felt, be good. Lightfoot, bearing her load gallantly, was not
less jubilant. As a matter of plain fact, though Lightfoot had been happy
in the cave in the forest, she had always recognized certain of its
disadvantages, as had, in the end, her fearless husband. It is, in a
general way, vexatious to live in a locality where, as soon as you leave
your hearthstone, you incur, at least, a chance of an exciting and
uncomfortable episode and then lodgment in the maw of some imposing
creature of the carnivora. Lightfoot was quite ready to seek with Ab the
Fire Valley of which he had so often told her. She was a plucky young
matron, but there were extremes.
There were no adventures on the journey worth relating. The Fire Valley
was reached at nightfall and the two struggled weariedly up the rugged
path beside the creek which issued from the valley's western end. As they
reached the level Ab threw down his burden, as did Lightfoot, and as the
woman's eyes roved over the bright scene, she gave a great gasp of
delight. "It is our home!" she cried.
They ate and slept in the light and warmth of surrounding flames, and
when the day came they began the work of enlarging what was to be their
cave. But, though they worked earnestly, they did not care so much for
the prospective shelter as they might have done. What a cave had given
was warmth and safety. Here they had both, out of doors and under the
clear sky. It was a new and glorious life. Sometimes, though happy, the
woman worked a little wearily, and, not long after the settlement of the
two in their new home, a child was born to them, a son, robust and
sturdy, who came afterward to be known as Little Mok.