The Rock of Moustier, a truncated pyramid of buff limestone, was but a
portion of the distant plateau jutting far into the valley to the right
bank of the Vézère River. On one side of the Rock, a steep causeway of
broken stone led to a broad deep ledge midway between base and summit.
This ledge served as the threshold of a grotto which opened into the wall
back of the ledge.
Three men all carrying heavy burdens were ascending the causeway to the
cave-threshold, while above, stood a fourth, waiting as though to receive
them. He was a large man of mighty chest and shoulders and yet neither
overfleshed nor muscle-bound but fibred and corded from neck to heel
like a fight-trained lion. The newcomers were big strong men but he who
stood upon the ledge seemed a giant beside them. They greeted him with
a certain deference that marked the larger man as a person of more than
ordinary importance. One by one they cast down their burdens upon the
rock-platform and squatted beside them. These consisted of several bison
hides, bundles of faggots, a leg of venison and several large stones
about the size of a man’s head.
[Illustration: “THREE MEN WERE ASCENDING TO THE CAVE-THRESHOLD”]
After a hasty survey of the various articles, the giant’s interest
centered upon the stones. He selected one of them and held it in the palm
of his left hand. This was done seemingly without effort and but for his
swelling biceps, one might have thought the stone a trifling weight.
Using a large pebble as a maul, he struck the stone a resounding blow,
separating it in two halves as cleanly as though cut with a knife. The
newly fractured surfaces were wax-like in appearance and of a lustrous
grey color. The giant smiled broadly and nodded to the three men. He
seemed much pleased with the stones and well he might be, for they were
the finest of beeswax flint. All about him were strewn chips of similar
material; small piles of blanks and partly finished flakes. Near the
cave-entrance lay many much used mauls and hammerstones of various shapes
and sizes; the tools of the flint artisan.
One of the three men coughed noisily. Having delivered their goods, the
trio were growing impatient. They wanted their pay.
The giant set aside the flint lump and hammerstone and brought out from
the grotto a small hide full of finished flints, all nicely shaped, edged
and pointed. They were of various shapes and sizes, each one designed
for a special purpose; small tools for scraping hides, knife-blades,
dart-heads and axes. The three men bent over them expressing by word and
gesture their appreciation of every piece. One of them gathered up the
four corners of the hide and swung it over his shoulder; then the trio
descended the causeway to the valley below.
The giant weapon-maker was preparing to turn again to the flint-lumps
when he caught sight of two figures making their way up the causeway
toward him. The giant smiled upon one of them—a boy—then gazed
inquiringly at the other. The pair reached the ledge. As the unknown
stepped upon the rock-platform, he bent low and laid down his ax with
much ceremony, then stood erect with both hands raised high above his
head. Strangers with good intentions always behaved themselves in this
manner—presenting themselves unarmed and at the mercy of them they
visited. The boy came quickly forward and for several minutes spoke in
low tones to the giant, glancing from time to time at his companion. The
flint-worker’s face fairly beamed as he listened.
The youth explained the circumstances of his meeting with the stranger,
enlarging upon his own narrow escape from the panther and how his
benefactor had so nearly paid the penalty of death for the part he had
chosen to play.
“Good,” said the giant when the boy had finished. “Friends should ever
help each other.” With that, he picked up the stranger’s ax and presented
it to him, then led his guest to a fire which burned near by.
The Muskman’s brain was in a whirl. He had accomplished wonders in a
single day. So long had he known naught but hostility from man and beast
that this peaceful reaction from danger and privation, to say nothing of
his recent mauling, nigh overwhelmed him. He passed one hand across his
forehead where the blood had not yet dried.
“The boy tells me that you leaped upon the panther from the sky,” the
giant now said. “Men do not leap from the sky however. How and why did
you come here?”
Gonch felt the other’s piercing gaze directed full upon him. The deep-set
eyes seemed to be searching his inmost soul.
“Mine is a restless spirit,” he replied. “It has led me through many
lands to see strange and wonderful things. I have been told of the
Mammoth Man, maker of the finest flint-blades the world has ever seen.
Are you he?”
“I am called many names,” said the stalwart flint-worker with a twinkle
of his deep-set eyes.
“To some, I am known as Pic, the Weapon Maker; to others—but no matter.
One name is as good as another. Yes, I am the Mammoth Man.” He folded
his arms across his broad chest and even as he looked kindly upon
his visitor, his eyes as much as said: “Can it be possible that mere
curiosity has brought you here—to see me?”
Gonch did not notice the look of those eyes; he was watching the man
himself. Such evidence of physical health and strength, he had never
before observed in a human being. “I can see now why they call him the
Mammoth Man,” he thought to himself. “He is a giant among men as is the
Hairy Elephant among beasts.” But all he said was:
“I helped your boy. Perhaps for that you can look upon me as a friend.”
Pic’s eyes softened. He looked down at the ground and replied sadly:
“Yes, you have done me a great service. Since his mother died, he is all
I have.”
“Why not get another?” the Muskman suggested. “Women are plentiful
enough. A man like you could have any or all of them.”
Pic scowled and raised his hand in protest. “She is gone,” he muttered
hoarsely. “None can take her place; and of this you need say no more.”
Gonch was taken aback by this peculiar display of sentiment. “One woman?”
he sniffed: “Ridiculous. The man is a giant but a simpleton for all that.
All giants are simpletons.” But now that Pic had declared himself upon
the subject of women, Gonch prated of the southland; its fine climate,
abundance of game and the strong men who lived there; painting the
picture in such brilliant colors that he almost believed in it himself.
But in spite of his eloquence, Pic remained unmoved. Whether he believed
or not, he showed no more than ordinary interest. There was a note of
sarcasm in the flint-worker’s voice as he made brief comment: “If this is
so, why do you come here?” to which in spite of his eloquence Gonch could
find no ready answer.
The latter took another tack. “Men say that you are a mighty hunter,”
he began; “and that you scorn such small game as the ox and bison,
reserving your great strength for the Lion and Hairy Elephant.”
Pic’s nostrils swelled. There was a sinister glitter in his eyes as he
directed them full upon his guest. “Who says that?” he growled. Then
without waiting for a reply, he added: “Men who are wise, do not speak to
me of the Lion and Mammoth in the same breath.”
“Agh, I forgot,” muttered Gonch completely abashed. “It was of another
they spoke. You are a flint-worker who neither hunts nor fights.”
Pic scowled at this impudence and was on the point of replying angrily,
when he checked himself as a thought suddenly occurred to him.
“Hunt? fight?” he said sternly: “It is well that you reminded me. You are
a stranger here and should know our rules. Listen to them and heed them
well for it is quite necessary that they be most carefully observed.”
“Rules?” Gonch awaited curious. His host now spoke in a tone of authority
and yet he had mentioned “ours.” A chieftain would have said “my rules.”
“There are three of these rules,” said Pic in his most impressive manner,
holding up three fingers by way of illustration. “The first concerns our
young men. It is not permitted for them to do any unnecessary quarrelling
among themselves. If they should quarrel, it must be a fair fight and for
some good reason.”
“He must be joking,” thought Gonch. “No fighting? Whoever heard of such a
thing?”
“Our second rule is equally simple,” Pic went on. “Also equally
important. There must be no waste of game. The valley abounds with
animals of every kind and they are easily caught. We wish these
conditions to continue. Without beef or venison, we would starve and so
these animals should neither be alarmed nor driven away. Promiscuous
slaughter is therefore forbidden. Men must not kill more than they need.”
Gonch gasped as the true meaning of this astounding utterance forced
itself upon him. The motive that inspired it and its sound logic were
too lofty for his understanding or appreciation. Had Gonch not been born
hungry and hungered all his life, he might have understood, for his wits
were as keen as those of a fox. But killing was his primary instinct. His
every thought and act sprang from his unquenchable blood-lust. “Simple
rules indeed and a simpleton who says them,” he sneered under his breath.
“This Pic has gone crazy with his flint-working. No wonder his people put
him here by himself where he can do no harm.”
But outwardly, Gonch appeared only an attentive listener. “Good,” he
said, “I understand. These are your hetman’s orders.”
“Yes, our hetman’s orders.”
“And this hetman, who is he?” asked Gonch.
“You will know him in good time,” was the reply. “You will also learn
that he is a man not to be trifled with. And now for our third rule, an
important one which you must be sure to remember. Of all animals, the
Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros are absolutely immune. No man shall hunt,
harm or annoy them in any way. The penalty is death.”
This was too much. The Muskman laughed like a hyena in Pic’s face.
“Death no doubt,” he sneered. “Those two animals can take good care of
themselves. But you have forgotten one; there is a third.”
“What?” demanded Pic, his eyes blazing.
“The Cave Lion. No fool would——” and then Gonch wished he could have
swallowed his words before he said them, for the giant flint-worker’s
face fairly flamed with terrible rage. He thrust his great head forward
and bared his teeth in the Muskman’s face. He extended his right arm.
Gonch felt the huge hand closing like a vise upon his wrist. An ounce
more pressure would have meant crushed and broken bones. He cowered sick
with terror as the threatening jaws opened wide as though to tear his
throat.
“Meddler!” roared Pic. “Kill the Cave Lion if you can or let him kill
you; either way, it would be good riddance; but the other two beasts are
my friends—friends, do you hear? If you dare disobey my commands and harm
one of them, I will tear you to pieces with my teeth and hands.”
He released his grip upon the Muskman as he said this. His face relapsed
into its former calmness and the storm-wrath rolled away as quickly as
it had come.
“You saved my boy,” he said in a voice so gentle that Gonch stared at
him amazed at the sudden change. “I am not ungrateful and will treat
you as a friend, provided you do not break our rules. Be wise; observe
them and all will be well. Enough; we now understand each other.” With
that he turned away and busied himself with the fire. So completely had
his former tranquillity returned, that when the boy Kutnar who had been
dozing all this time, awakened, his father and guest appeared on such
good terms, he had not the slightest suspicion of anything unusual having
happened while he slept.
V
Pic had become engrossed in his flint-lumps, so Gonch stretched himself
out by the fire and gazed dreamily at the smoke-wreaths. Gradually his
eyes closed, his head pillowed itself upon his arm and he passed away
into dreamland.
Gonch was sound asleep; but a hot coal fallen uncomfortably close to his
foot, awakened him. As he opened his eyes, the first thing they met was
the broad back of his host squatting by the fire. Kutnar had disappeared.
Pic scarcely moved. He sat with back slightly turned so that Gonch could
see most of his left arm but not his right. Several large flint-flakes
lay on the rock at his feet. Now he paused in his work to examine that
which he held in his left hand, raising it so that Gonch could see. It
was a flint-flake similar to those lying upon the rock. He wondered what
Pic held in his other hand.
Click, click; Gonch heard the impact of something on flint. “The new
method of weapon-making,” dawned full upon him. “It would be well for
me to know it.” He raised himself upon one elbow and craned his neck to
secure a better view. At the almost imperceptible sound he made, Pic
turned his head, whereupon Gonch settled back quickly and closed his
eyes. Pic looked at him sharply for an instant, then resumed his work and
again Gonch was straining to catch a glimpse of what his host was doing.
The big flint-worker held a small tool in his right hand. With this he
was peeking at the flake held in his left. His arms were rigid; his
hands barely moved; but the tiny flint chips flew like flakes of snow
beneath the pressure of the retouching tool. Still supporting himself
by one elbow, Gonch dragged himself closer. He was intent upon catching
a glimpse of that which Pic held in his right hand, otherwise he would
have noticed the flint-worker’s left eye, now directed at the man who had
changed his position by the fire and was playing the part of a spy. Pic
coughed audibly and made much ado about rising to his feet whereupon the
eavesdropper settled back quickly to his former recumbent position and
breathed noisily like one sound asleep.
The giant flint-worker turned and stood over the sleeping man. His right
hand was tightly clenched, concealing what might be within it. Gonch
neither moved nor opened his eyes. Had he been—or rather appeared—wide
awake, doubtless Pic would have greeted him with a smile. Mere curiosity
is not an evil trait nor does it arouse mistrust. But this curiosity
which dissembled, aroused Pic’s misgivings. “Why—why did this man come
here?” he asked himself as he gazed down upon him whose sleep he knew
was but a sham. His nostrils twitched as they caught a strange scent, the
scent of the man-eater. His eyes stared at the recumbent figure. Nose
and eyes gave answer: “Why did he come? Who knows? But we mistrust this
trickster who so reeks with carrion. He will bear watching.”
Pic turned away, whereupon Gonch yawned loudly, stretched his limbs and
sat up, chuckling at his own cleverness. He was about to engage his host
in renewed conversation when there sounded the scuffling of feet and the
boy Kutnar came running up the causeway to the ledge. “Look below; they
are coming,” he shouted gleefully. He seized his father’s hand and both
hurried to the northern side of the Rock.
Far beneath them, scattered groups of animals were moving down the valley
from the northeast. At sight of them, man and boy became greatly excited.
They behaved like two children on circus day, watching the procession and
commenting on the various animals as they filed slowly past.
“The Moose; he is early,” muttered Pic. “That means a long cold winter.
The Lynx; Agh, my good Stag and Roebuck, you must look to your fawns from
now on.”
A group of long-horned oxen, then a herd of bison followed with a pack of
wolves skulking after them. A herd of horses passed and several hundred
yards behind them, strode a gigantic deer, holding his head proudly erect
beneath a ten-foot spread of palmated antlers. It was the Irish Elk.
“A noble beast, the Skelg,” said Pic. “Would that the valley had more
like him. He must be spared by our hunters and encouraged to winter here.
I will see to it.”
More animals paraded by, many of them grazing as they went. A herd of
reindeer appeared, walking briskly and tossing their scraggly antlers.
At sight of them, the excitement of the two observers increased. Kutnar
nudged his father and whispered, “See! the first of the Tundr-folk. The
others will soon be here.”
Pic made no answer; but his whole body trembled and his eyes were
straining for a better view of two far-off moving specks. Gradually these
latter resolved themselves into two animals, coming rapidly down the
valley. No longer could father and son restrain themselves. They leaped
and danced about the ledge like two lunatics, laughing and shouting:
“Here they come; here they come!” clapping their hands and yelling
themselves hoarse.
While all this commotion was going on, Gonch sat an amazed spectator, too
bewildered to move. Father and son had forgotten him entirely. Gonch was
glad of that, for two madmen were more than he cared to manage. He was
collecting his wits together and preparing for a hasty retreat down the
causeway when he saw Pic put both hands to his mouth like a funnel and
heard him call at the top of his lungs: “Hairi! Wulli!”
Gonch sprang to his feet and peered down into the valley. He saw two
animals standing there with heads raised towards the two men high above
them upon the ledge. The larger beast, an elephant, raised its trunk.
A shrill trumpet squeal floated faintly to the Muskman’s ears. Then
followed another squeal of a different sort, probably uttered by the
second and smaller animal, a rhinoceros.
At the sounds, Pic and Kutnar scrambled downward and disappeared. Gonch
ran across the ledge and looked over. The two human figures were rapidly
descending the cliffs, lowering their bodies from rock to rock by the
combined use of their supple hands and feet. Kutnar was as agile and
sure-footed as a chamois and Pic was not far behind him. So swift was
their descent, that it seemed only a moment before they had reached the
bottom and were dashing up the valley.
Gonch suddenly uttered an astonished yell. He rubbed the moisture from
his eyes to make sure he saw what he thought he saw. Man and boy were
charging upon the beasts at top speed. The latter sprang forward in
their turn and bore down upon their unarmed assailants. This was indeed
madness. In a moment, man and boy would be annihilated.
Gonch strained his eyes that they might miss nothing of the climax. Such
madness was astounding but he meant to enjoy the sound of dying shrieks
and the sight of crushed bodies while he had the chance.
[Illustration: “MAN AND BOY WERE CHARGING UPON THE BEASTS AT TOP SPEED”]
“Agh-h!” he croaked delightedly as the four figures united in one mass.
He heard squeals, bellows and much shouting, which from where he stood,
sounded like the noise of battle. Finally the mass disintegrated into two
parts; man and Mammoth composed one, boy and rhinoceros the other and
each couple was standing peaceably side by side.
No blood; no dying shrieks; “Agh,” muttered Gonch a second time but in a
far different tone. “The beasts are indeed his friends,” and he sank down
weakly upon his haunches, wondering where man’s folly would end and what
the whole world was coming to.