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.
While his followers were thus engaged, the burly Mousterian chieftain
withdrew to the neighboring stream to cool his heated brow and rest
himself. The chase had been a hard one but he was in rare humor
nevertheless. His dart had been the first to reach its mark; and after
the long chase, his ax had dealt the finishing stroke. As he sat upon the
bank gazing at the water below him, his thoughts were rudely disturbed
by a loud “Hi-yo!” coming from across the stream. He looked up and saw a
man standing on the opposite bank. The stranger shouted again and waved
an arm. The hunters now came running up to obtain a better view of the
newcomer.
“Who is it?” asked one.
“If I had not with my own eyes seen him fall a victim to the Mammoth and
Rhinoceros, I would say it was the Ape Boy,” said another.
The burly chief glared fiercely at the one who had just spoken.
“Ape Boy? Bah! Let no man speak that name again if he values his own
beast-hide. He is Pic, Killer of the Bison. Remember it well.”
“Killer of the Mammoth and Rhinoceros too,” added the man thus chided.
“How else could he return to us alive?”
Meanwhile the stranger was wading and swimming across the stream. The
hunters gazed at him in awe as he drew nearer and nearer. He emerged at
last, climbed the bank and shook the dripping water from his body.
“Do the dead live again?” asked the amazed chieftain. “Or do I see before
me, one greater than the mighty Mammoth?”
Pic merely grinned. “The Mammoth? Agh; no matter. I drove him and the
other beast away. But enough of them. Tell your men to step back. I have
something which you alone should see.”
The chieftain shouted a command and in a moment his followers were
hustling back to their business about the dead buck.
Pic squatted upon his haunches and took a deep breath. He held a packet
of rabbit-skin in his hand.
“Since leaving you, my days were spent alone upon the Rock,” he began.
“Alone? Why?” the chieftain demanded.
“I was—um-m—sick.” Pic suddenly remembered the half-healed wound in his
thigh. He did look a bit thin and haggard. Hard work and light eating had
left their marks.
“Bah!” The chieftain was again gazing dreamily at the water. His brows
were contracted in deep thought. He seemed to have forgotten the other’s
presence.
“While I was—um—sick,” Pic began, “I spent my time making something for
you to see.” He glanced at the Cave-men who were now engaged in skinning
the dead buck, then held out the packet of rabbit fur. The chieftain took
a quick sidelong glance, then looked away.
“Ugh,” was all he said.
Pic rolled back a fold of the packet, meanwhile watching the other
closely from the corners of his eyes. A large flint blade was disclosed—a
skinning knife. In form and finish, it was a gem.
The chieftain lost his far-away look. He began to fidget. His mouth
watered as he observed that which lay so temptingly within his reach. He
made a supreme effort to conceal his true feelings; but flesh and blood
could not—would not—stand the strain. He gasped, turned quickly and
pointed to the skinning-blade.
“That flint you hold—Agh! Let me see it.”
Pic’s blood surged through his veins like molten steel. With difficulty,
he stilled the exultation raging within him and preserved his appearance
of outward calm. Without a word, he handed the flint to his companion who
seized it eagerly and ran his thumb along one edge.
“It is indeed a treasure,” he exclaimed. “Never have I seen the like.
Would you part with it?”
To conceal his bubbling joy, Pic now drew a long face.
“Part with it?” he exclaimed in tones of well-feigned astonishment. “Then
I would have nothing—unless you chose to give me something in return.”
The chieftain chuckled inwardly at this shrewd suggestion. “My share of
the buck, how would that suit you? I would give even that for such a
flint as this. What say you? A haunch of venison? You have been ill. The
meat will make you strong.”
But Pic merely shook his head.
“A hide; one, two, three,” the Mousterian leader held up one finger after
another but without increasing the other’s interest a single whit. “Here
is an odd fellow,” he thought to himself. “Nothing appears to please
him. He is our best warrior and may well give me the worst of it if I
fight him for the flint.” He wrinkled his brows, much perplexed. He could
make one more offer, such as it was and if that failed, a combat was
unavoidable, for he was determined to keep the blade now that it was in
his possession.
“The flint I must have,” he growled. “I will offer you something else—a
woman.”
The youth’s manner changed in a flash. He raised his head and squared
his shoulders. “Agreed; the flint is yours. I take the girl—she who so
narrowly escaped death on the butcher block.”
The Mousterian leader was astounded. He had not expected such quick and
ready response. He now recalled Pic’s interest in the young woman and
already repented his offer. “Oho,” he thought; “What a calf I was;” and
his face assumed such a cunning expression, Pic saw in a moment that he
had overplayed his hand.
“Ugh! Not so fast,” he remonstrated; “The girl is my daughter and the
daughter of a chief cannot be had for nothing. One flint is not enough.”
Pic’s eyes opened wide; then scowled angrily. He unfolded the packet
once more. The chieftain’s face brightened. He was gazing upon a second
superb flint—a tool for scraping and dressing hides. Although differing
in design, it was as fine in form and finish as the first. It was on his
lips to say “Agreed,” and close the deal at once but he checked himself
just in time. The packet—as he observed—was not yet empty.
“No; not even the two are enough,” he growled. Pic unrolled the packet
the third time, then held the rabbit-skin dangling from his fingers to
show that his limit was reached. The last flint—an ax-blade with edges
hewn straight and keen—was a marvellous creation. As in a dream, the
chieftain stared and wondered, while Pic strove to drive home his bargain.
“The knife, scraper, ax; all are yours,” he said determinedly. “I take
the girl. Quick, your answer. If they are not enough, I will make them so
and with my bare hands”; and he squared back with his arms outstretched
as though prepared to fly at the other’s throat.
A great commotion ensued among those gathered about the dead buck. The
Cave-men dropped their work and came crowding around the pair. A contest
between two such skilled warriors would be worth going far to see.
The chieftain hesitated. His eyes flashed fire but the rage within his
heart was ebbing fast. Through his mind, ran thoughts of advantages to
be gained by an alliance with this young warrior, hunter and maker of
wonderful flints. He observed his followers closing in about them. “I did
but wish to try his mettle,” he cried loudly, then lowered his weapon.
Growls of disapproval greeted this peaceful termination of what promised
to be a combat well worth the watching. The Mousterian leader silenced
them with a fierce look.
“The bargain is made,” he roared; “There shall be no blood-letting
between us. Let him who objects, stand forth.”
The sight of his burly figure and savage looks was sufficient to repress
further argument. None stood forth; nobody objected.
“What bargain?” shouted a voice.
The chieftain’s fierce mien suddenly changed. He produced his three
flints and held them in his hand so that all could see. A chorus of
astonished grunts arose as the Cave-men crowded forward and examined the
wonderful blades.
“Who owns them? From where did they come?” one of the men asked.
“I own them,” the chief answered proudly. “They are the price that he who
killed the Bison, chooses to pay for the girl, my daughter.”
Every pair of eyes turned inquiringly—some compassionately—upon him
who could thus squander his wealth so recklessly. Pic felt overwhelmed
with embarrassment by the publicity so suddenly thrust upon him. He saw
nothing but a sea of eyes and leering faces.
“Who made them?” demanded one of the Cave-men. “Would that all of us had
flints like these.”
Pic glowed with pleasure as he heard these words. They gave him courage
to unburden his heart and speak of what was in his mind. “I made them,”
he said and then as all stared in wonder and held their peace, he went on:
“For many days have I sought the lost art of retouching hammered flints.
We men have grown careless with our flint-working. We have become
sluggish. We sit back to rot in caves or starve, simply for the lack of
fitting tools and weapons to kill and dress our food. I know now how they
may be made. Those”—he pointed to the three pieces in the chieftain’s
hands—“are my first—the new patterns chipped straight and keen—on both
sides.”
Pic’s hearers were now rapidly recovering from their first astonishment.
By this time, they were ready to believe anything of this remarkable
youth. Had he produced a pair of wings and flown away, they would have
been surprised no doubt; but one and all would have accepted it as a
matter of course.
“If you made these, you can make more,” suggested one of the Cave-men.
“Arrah; he can thus serve us even better than by taking his part in the
hunt!” said another.
Pic fairly beamed. His first efforts to revive the lost art were tested
and adjudged an unqualified success. A thought of the future flashed
through his mind.
“To make blades like these, I will need many flint lumps,” he said. “If
you gather them I will have more time for my work.”
The burly chieftain nodded approval.
“My men will supply them,” he generously agreed. “The stone will be
forthcoming if you make the tools.”
Pic shut one eye and grinned in the other’s face. His future career as a
business man was rapidly shaping itself.
“I will need food and hides as well,” he shrewdly suggested. “Perhaps
your men will supply them too.”
The Mousterian leader cocked his head thoughtfully on one side. He began
to see that neither he nor his followers were to be furnished new tools
and weapons unless they gave something in return. Far from resenting
Pic’s shrewdness, he congratulated himself on having established close
relations between himself and this remarkable youth. Raw flint was
plentiful enough. Sharper, finer weapons, meant more meat and hides—more
fruitful hunting. He and his followers could meet Pic on his own terms.
“Agreed,” he said. All nodded assent; and Bargain Number Two was closed.
The hide and severed portions of the slain buck were now raised on half
a dozen pairs of brawny shoulders; and with Pic in their midst, bearing
himself like a returning conqueror, the Cave-men of Ferrassie returned
across the meadows to the overhanging cliffs.