Once clear of the Rock-shelter and its sleeping inmates, Pic cast about
him for the best route to complete his escape. The meadows lay before
him to the north and east—broad and free of all obstacles; therefore the
easiest way. He started toward them but as he emerged from the cliff
shadows and stood a conspicuous object in the brilliant moonlight, he
stopped.
“They will soon learn of my escape,” he thought. “I can be seen and
followed across the meadow.” No, the easiest route was not the best. He
glanced up at the cliff behind him. It could be scaled—by such as he. The
plateau with its rocks and underbrush was a labyrinth where he could hide
with little fear of being discovered. At the worst, his pursuers would be
obliged to separate into groups of two or three to ferret him out and he
could then deal with them separately. Even a dozen half-starved men would
find him no easy prey, armed as he was with the blade of Ach Eul.
He retraced his steps to the shadow of the rock-wall and glided along its
base to a point where the cliff arose almost straight upward and without
overhang. Here he climbed. At such work, Pic excelled. His flexible
hands and feet took advantage of every break in the limestone to anchor
him firmly while he pulled himself upwards with his muscular arms and
shoulders. He was a human fly crawling up an almost perpendicular wall. A
single slip of hand or feet, even a mis-shift of balance, would have sent
him crashing to the ground below. A stone dislodged and tumbling noisily
down would have betrayed him in an instant. But his head was clear, his
heart strong and his iron muscles stood him in good stead. With jaws
clenched on the haft of his ax, he forged steadily upward without a
mishap and reached the summit.
In a moment, he had scrambled to safety and was peering over the edge to
learn what might be going on in the camp below. No sound nor movement
there gave indication that his flight was known. He turned away and made
off through the underbrush until he was beyond sight or hearing of the
cliffs and therefore reasonably secure. His enemies might now awake and
follow, for all he cared. Merely to make certain, he continued his way
leisurely for some distance, then mounted a rock-pulpit which afforded
him a commanding view of the surrounding country. Here he lay down to
secure a few moments rest.
It seemed as though he had no more than closed his eyes and drifted into
dreamland when he awoke. A faint glow in the eastern sky showed that day
was breaking and that the night had reached its close. In the distance
from whence he had come, sounded a faint hum—a low, almost inaudible
droning as of angry bees. It might be the cries of wild beasts; but the
sound came from the direction of the Ferrassie shelter.
Pic yawned, stretched his limbs and chuckled softly to himself. Yes, the
Cave-men were wide awake now. They must know by this time that their
captive had made his escape. Little good would such knowledge do them. It
was amusing to consider that they were probably dashing over the meadows,
never dreaming that their prisoner had chosen so cleverly to throw them
off the scent.
He was safe. His enemies must find other means to break their fast.
There were other means, he suddenly remembered. His blood chilled at the
thought. The old hag had threatened and the time had come when she might
make her threat good. If the prisoner escaped, his jailer would be held
responsible and be compelled to take his place. Pic’s forehead wrinkled
in perplexity. Cave-men were not cannibals by nature but they must eat
the food nearest their hands or starve. A young woman’s flesh was far
preferable to that of a muscular man. The more Pic considered the
matter, the more dissatisfaction he felt with his own present security.
His enemies would waste little time pursuing him, as long as his hostage
remained in their power. The girl was theirs and would answer the purpose
even better than he. It was all very disconcerting, this turn of affairs,
just when he was congratulating himself that he had managed so well. He
paced up and down among the rocks like a caged lion, biting his lips and
beating his hands together.
The girl would be killed and eaten by her people, simply because she had
permitted him to escape and herself remain behind. She alone could take
his place in the morning’s festivities. This last notion was the one
which so disturbed his peace of mind; and yet he rebelled at the very
idea. Why should this girl cause him so much concern, simply because she
had prolonged his useless life at the expense of her own?
“Ugh,” he growled. “She must either starve or be eaten and have to die in
either case, so why not let her perish and save the others, just as she
has saved me.”
In spite of this apparently sound logic, Pic failed to convince himself
of its justice. Then, too, the girl had smiled upon him, he suddenly
remembered. It was but the faintest glimmer of a friendly greeting—but
she had smiled.
With a yell that could have been heard for miles, he leaped down from the
rock-pulpit and went bounding off through brake and thicket, over rock
and fallen tree, with the speed of the wind. The sharp rocks and thorns
tore his limbs, the vines and branches overhead bruised his head and
shoulders; but he heeded none of them. As he sped over the rock-strewn
plateau, the one thought in his mind was: would he reach the Ferrassie
shelter before it was too late? Dazed, bleeding and so exhausted he could
hardly stand, at last he burst into the open and halted on the edge of
the cliff overlooking the meadow and Mousterian camp below.
The Cave-folk were all gathered about the butcher-block. Kneeling before
it, with head bent low, was a slim figure, the sight of which together
with the dark form of a man standing over her with upraised ax, made
Pic’s blood run cold.
Putting hands to his mouth, he uttered a piercing cry that carried clear
and strong to the group below. All looked up quickly and saw him as he
stood outlined against the blue sky. A chorus of wild, unearthly yells
arose:
“The Ape Boy; there he stands! Death to him!” And high and shrill above
the tumult, rang out the screams of the old hag:
“After him, every one of you if you would live to see the next sunrise.
Seize and bring him to the block.”
The Cave-men answered with savage yells and raced to the cliff. In a
moment they were swarming upward like a pack of famine-maddened wolves.
They held their weapons between closed jaws, leaving their limbs free to
cling and climb. High above them, Pic leaned over the edge with arms held
out imploringly.
“Faster, faster, clumsy dolts,” he urged the panting men. “Will you lag
or must I throw down your next meal upon your heads?”
All paused amazed. They had expected him to turn and flee or at least
make some effort to defend himself. He surprised them by doing neither.
He had chosen his fate and was prepared to die as he had lived—with a
smile upon his lips; and then a strange thing happened.
While Pic was watching the Cave-men swarming up the cliff, he failed to
observe a figure approaching from behind him—a four-legged animal with
shaggy hide and short, curling horns. This creature was glaring at the
man. Its feet were pawing the ground. The shouts and cries infuriated it.
They sounded like a challenge to battle.
The animal was a wisent or bison, a lover of meadows and grassy plains.
For some reason and by some way unknown, it had strayed unwittingly
to the heights above the Ferrassie Rock-shelter. The Bison had become
nervous amid its unfamiliar surroundings. At sight of Pic this
nervousness increased to vexation. At sound of the other’s cries, its
wrath passed all bounds. With a loud snort, it dashed blindly forward in
a thunderous charge.
But for the warning snort, Pic would have been overwhelmed in an instant.
He glanced quickly behind him and had time only to spring nimbly to one
side. The great brute swept by so closely, its streaming locks brushed
his shoulder. Unconscious of peril and unable to check its momentum, the
doomed beast plunged to the brink of the precipice. Too late, it saw the
destruction awaiting it and reared high over the abyss in a last frantic
effort to escape death; then with a terrified bellow, down it fell. The
forelegs plunged into space and the huge body followed tumbling head over
heels in a mad death-whirl to the ground below.
The Cave-men had nearly reached the summit of the cliff when they saw
Pic suddenly step back. The next moment, a great hairy body came flying
over their heads. A loud crash; and as they gazed below, there lay a
full-grown bison quivering in the last agonies of death. All saw and
were dumbfounded. They turned to Pic who was leaning forward with arms
outstretched like one petrified as he peered down upon the brute whose
wrath he had so narrowly escaped. The evidence was clear; he had hurled
the bison down. Had he not urged them to hurry and partake of the feast?
For an instant, they stared in awe at the author of their good-fortune,
then with one accord, back they scrambled pell-mell the way they had
come. As Pic looked down he saw them leap upon the dead bison like a
pack of ravenous beasts. They howled, shrieked, screeched with joyful
anticipation as they cut and chopped the lifeless animal with their
flint-blades. In a jiffy, the hide was ripped and torn off in a dozen
gory fragments, permitting the Cave-men to set upon the carcass itself.
In the meantime, several of the women with some wits left, ran about
shouting to their companions to bring fuel and prepare the fire for the
coming feast. In a few moments the Rock-shelter was a hive of buzzing
activity. The women made ready the fire, stirring the embers and piling
on wood while the men carried great hunks of flesh and severed limbs
to the butcher-block, licking the dripping blood and meat-shreds to
momentarily ease their hunger until the feast could be prepared and
served.
Amid all this excitement and confusion, none thought of Pic. Food, food
was the one thing in their minds and naught else mattered. Here it was
and plenty of it, suddenly come between them and starvation.
The limbs and body were now dismembered; the head and offal alone
remained. The old hag dashed to the fire, waving the bison’s heart sucked
dry and bearing the imprints of her teeth. One of the men sprang to the
shaggy head and pried open the mouth.
“Stand back,” thundered a voice. “The tongue is mine,” and there stood
Pic with ax held threateningly across his shoulder. The man fell to his
knees and stretched out his arms.
“Killer of the Bison!” he shrieked in a frenzy of joy. “Tamer of Lions!”
his fellows added their exultant yells. “The tongue belongs to him. Out
with it. May the sun ever shine upon him who has this day saved us from
death.”
In a twinkle, Pic had become the man of the hour. By those who would have
rent him asunder, he now was acclaimed. The tongue was torn from the
bison head and presented to him, after which the mob hurried to the fire
to sear the meat as fast as it could be cut up and passed on from the
butcher-block.
Gradually the shouts and yells became hushed as the Cave-men huddled
about the now roaring blaze. While some dashed hither and thither like
mad things, hunting for wooden poles or spits, others wasted no time but
held the gory chunks over the flames in their bare hands. A few, less
fortunate in finding space for themselves about the fire and impatient
of delay, squatted on the outside of the group and ate their morsels raw.
The sombre gloom of the camp which had been so suddenly transformed into
a bedlam of joy, was again changed to a seething ferment of sizzling,
steaming, crackling flesh and slobbering jaws while the smell of blood
and seared meat filled the air and rose to heaven through an inferno of
black smoke and grease-fed flames.
While the Men of Ferrassie were thus enjoying themselves, gathered about
the fire, feasting and revelling, Pic sought her who had saved him and
who in her turn had so miraculously escaped death on the butcher-block.
While her people hacked and tore the dead bison, she stood aloof and took
no part. As they streamed to the great stone with their gory trophies,
she stepped back and watched the cutting and pounding with hungry eyes.
The last shreds were stripped from the carcass and the men were crowding
about the fire, leaving her unnoticed when suddenly a broad, thick-set
figure appeared at her side.
“The tongue; see; I have saved it for you. Take and eat, it is yours.”
It was Pic who spoke. He held the reeking morsel in his outstretched
hands. The girl eyed it longingly, then glanced towards the fire and
hesitated.
“I must wait,” she said timidly. “The men have not yet finished. You see
there is no place for me.”
Without a word, Pic turned and forced his way into the group, thrusting
the greedy feasters roughly aside to make room. A chorus of wild yells
greeted his arrival: “Killer of the Bison! Lion Tamer! Stand back and let
him roast his fare.”
Those nearest Pic made way while he held the great tongue over the flames
until it was well seared. This operation being completed, he left his
place by the fire and strode to the butcher-block. With the blade of his
ax, he chopped the tongue in two.
“Sit down,” he said. The girl came forward obediently and seated herself
upon the great stone. At a sign from Pic, she seized one of the severed
morsels and set upon it with her sharp teeth, all the time moaning softly
as she ate.
Pic sat down beside her and looked on. When her most pressing
hunger-pangs were satisfied, she stopped suddenly and peered up into his
face. “You do not eat. None will dispute your share. You threw the Bison
down,” and she smiled upon him.
Pic smiled in return. “But I am not hungry,” he replied. This was a fib,
for he had fasted since the previous midday and felt hollow to his toes.
The girl was not so easily deceived.
“There is plenty; we can both eat,” she said; whereupon he awaited no
second invitation but pitched in with a vim on that half of the tongue
which as yet remained untouched. From then on, the two were silent except
for the noises that cave-folk were wont to make when rending and chewing
their food. For lack of words and empty mouths to speak them, they
watched each other from the corners of their eyes.
And thus the last were served. Past winter horrors—cold, hunger and
disease—were one and all forgotten, for the Ape Boy had suddenly come
upon the Men of Ferrassie with food hurled from the sky. The Rock-shelter
was now become a horn of plenty where starving men might laugh at death
and gorge themselves to a surfeit after their long fast.