Grun Waugh the Cave Lion reclined comfortably upon his side, beneath
the lofty rock-shelter of Mawdlin—an overhanging cliff close to the
right bank of the Vézère River. A few paces distant sat Scrag, his
half-grown son. The latter was in the midst of his morning paw-scrub, a
self-inflicted process indulged in by all members of the cat family and
vulgarly known as “spit-wash.”
Scrag had spent the night in some wild orgy and had but recently returned
home in the gray morning hours to where his parent awaited him. Judging
from his appearance, he had experienced a lively time of it. His right
eye was bunged and gashed so that he was obliged to depend entirely upon
his left. One ear was torn and bleeding; it seemed to have been chewed.
Father and son were conversing in low growls. At the moment Scrag had the
floor and was recounting the details of his night’s adventures.
“I was hiding in the grass; lying low, chest and stomach to the ground,
just as you have always told me to do. I cannot account for it, but he
must have seen me.”
“How about your tail?” his sire remarked gruffly. “No doubt, that was
waving in the air so that even a mole could see it.”
“Possibly,” Scrag admitted, slightly elevating the brows crowning his one
good eye. “I may have been a trifle careless as to tail. I never thought
about it. Well, anyhow, just as he passed me, I jumped.”
“And missed, I presume,” the Cave Lion grumbled with an
I-suppose-I’ll-have-to-pay-the-bill air.
“Not exactly,” chuckled the other, applying himself diligently to his
toilet. “True, I missed what I jumped at”—souse, souse—“but I did”—swish,
swish—“hit something.”
“What?” Grun Waugh snorted impatiently.
“A rock,” snickered Scrag, all set and ready to run. “I struck it head-on
and bumped my eye. For an instant I was half-stunned; but luckily for me
I had senses enough left to remember something else you used to tell me.”
“What?” roared Grun Waugh.
“That I had four good legs and knew how to use them. Did I use them? I
most certainly did. You would have been proud of your little Scraggy had
you been there to see.”
“Whelp!” thundered the Cave Lion. “Never will I hear the last of this.
You, son of the grandest and boldest among flesh-eaters, fled from——”
“The Woolly Rhinoceros,” leered Scrag, screwing up his face. He stroked
his chin bristles with his forepaw and looked thoughtfully at Grun Waugh
as he added mischievously: “Now, who was it taught me to do that?”
The Cave Lion said nothing, but he was choking with suppressed rage,
and his tail squirmed like a snake on a hot griddle. There were but two
animals in the world that he had been known to run from, and the Woolly
Rhinoceros was one of them.
He was brooding angrily over the matter and endeavoring to formulate some
plausible excuse, when a burly figure suddenly thrust itself between him
and the light. He looked up quickly and saw standing before him Crocut,
his henchman and giant leader of the Hyena Pack.
Crocut settled down upon his haunches and grinned, first at Grun Waugh,
then at Scrag. He always grinned and meant nothing in particular by
it, for his face was simply built that way. It may be that, as head
undertaker of the Vézère valley, it was his place to appear cheerful at
all times, and because of that he either grinned or laughed. His grin was
a death-mask and his laugh a voice from the grave.
Grun Waugh and Crocut had formed a partnership and were engaged in the
meat business—wholesale and retail. Crocut selected the live-stock and
Grun Waugh did the killing or dangerous work. He received the freshest
and choicest cuts as his share, after which Crocut cleared away the
remains and disposed of the by-products. The giant Hyena employed members
of his own family as scavengers for this latter purpose. It was also one
of his important duties to develop new business, and so he wandered
about continually, searching for occasional horse, ox, bison or other
animal that might have strayed from its herd and could be attacked to
advantage. It then remained for him to convey such information to his
royal master the Cave Lion. Crocut had scruples and conscientiously
refrained from intruding upon the executive or killing end of the
business. This was Grun Waugh’s prerogative. The two got along finely by
thus working in perfect harmony.
The leader of the Hyena Pack brought news, otherwise he would not have
come. “I have much to tell you,” he began. “First, I will speak of the
Woolly Rhinoceros.”
Grun Waugh scowled and wrinkled his muzzle. Again that name; but,
although at first greatly vexed, he listened attentively as Crocut told
of a man who had pushed a big rock over the cliff. This rock had barely
missed crushing the Rhinoceros, also the Mammoth, who was with him.
Crocut had seen this with his own eyes.
“Escaped; always escaped,” growled the Cave Lion. “Had either the
Rhinoceros or Mammoth been killed, it would have been different; but as
it is, the tale annoys me.”
“I, too, have suffered in order that my lord might learn all,” whined the
Hyena. “The Trog-boy was with the two animals. He threw a stone at me and
bruised my jaw. It is so sore that for several days I have been unable to
crack even the smallest bone.”
Crocut grit his teeth, then winced with the pain which even this slight
pressure caused him; then discovering that he was arousing no sympathy,
he resumed: “Irritating, indeed; but please remember that it was a man
who so nearly slew the Mammoth and Rhinoceros. Heretofore, none of the
Trog-folk have dared attack the two animals.”
“Hagh!” Grun Waugh pricked up his ears. The tale now presented features
of interest. “Not bad,” he said to Scrag, but the latter was already past
hearing. He had curled himself up into a ball and was sound asleep.
“I have taken much interest in this man,” Crocut went on. “He has the
odor of a hyena, and yet he appears to be a man. Possibly he is a
relative; surely a friend. In addition to the first episode, he a second
time attacked the Mammoth.”
Grun Waugh was now sitting up, his features expressing rapt attention.
The moment of silence was broken by only Scrag’s resonant snores. Crocut
described the scene at the slough and the Mammoth’s narrow escape. It was
exasperating to think that the huge elephant had gotten off scot-free,
and yet the narrative had its brighter side—the man’s share in it. He
had done his part well, and the failure was no fault of his. Grun Waugh
was beginning to feel kindly toward this Hyena Man. He purred softly and
stretched his claws. Scrag snored peacefully on.
[Illustration: THE LEADER OF THE CAVE HYENAS BRINGS NEWS]
“I have not yet told all,” the giant bone-breaker resumed. “The Hyena
Man—our friend, if I may be so bold to say it—is now doing even better.
Already he has set upon the Ape Man.”
Grun Waugh licked his flewed lips as though anticipating a feast. His
purring became a gargle. He gave an attentive ear to the balance of
Crocut’s thrilling account to the accompaniment of Scrag’s nose-racking
snores. The Ape Man meant Pic. All flesh-eaters called him that and hated
him most cordially into the bargain. Grun Waugh hated him worst of all,
for it was whispered among beasts that this Ape Man, when a boy, had
dethroned their royal monarch, the Lion. None dared speak such words
aloud, but it was no secret that the puny Trog-boy had once driven Grun
Waugh from the Grotto of Moustier and, having taken possession, had
successfully resisted repeated attempts to dislodge him. It was only fair
to explain that this same Trog-boy had not acted in an entirely honorable
manner. He had employed fire as his chief means of defense, and, of
course, fire was a thing that no beast, however brave and strong, could
contend with.
Crocut explained that the stranger had not attacked the Ape Man directly,
but it would seem that he had done even better. He had robbed him of his
whelp and was now fleeing southward. The whole valley was in an uproar
over the matter. Already the Ape Man had hurried off in pursuit, riding
upon his friend the Mammoth. If they caught the Hyena Man, it would go
hard with him. It was unfortunate and Crocut wished that the fugitive
might in some way elude his pursuers, but the Mammoth was swift of foot,
and there was no telling what might happen.
Grun Waugh leaped to his feet and gave vent to a thunderous roar. “And so
the Mammoth and Ape Man are pursuing the Hyena Man,” he said fiercely.
“Meddlers! We will follow and chastise them for interfering.”
Crocut wilted. He hung his head and looked about him as though seeking
an avenue of escape. It began to look as though there might be some
fighting, and, of course, he wanted to keep clear of that. “In your
absence, I——” he began, and then held his peace, for Grun Waugh’s cold
green eyes were directed full upon him.
“You will go with us, of course,” said the Cave Lion, biting his
moustache and thereby displaying his huge canine teeth. “You began this,
and now you must see it through. Come, Scrag.”
The prodigal son yawned and stretched his limbs; then with a wry face
stood erect and wiped the sleep from his one good eye. Crocut groaned
inwardly. Although a bone-breaker of the first order, he aimed at all
times to be numbered among the spectators whenever there was fighting to
be done. However, the Cave Lion had spoken, and there seemed no way out
of it. And so, under his guidance, the three hurried down the river bank
to the Dordogne, where they picked up the Mammoth’s trail and followed it
across the stream to the southland beyond.