XX

After allowing Wulli ample time to decoy the hyenas a safe distance from

their stronghold, Pic left the Mammoth to his own devices and set about

to carry out his portion of the programme.

He reached the foot of the slope, ascended part way and paused. No dark

forms appeared to mock him with their hideous laughter; so he went on

until he reached the cave. No sound issued from within; only foul odors

which in themselves were enough to repel any less determined invader than

he. The hyenas were gone and now he had the place all to himself. So far,

so good; he stepped inside.

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.