Gonch was in high fettle. He no longer feared pursuit and figured that
already the race was as good as won. His enthusiasm was contagious.
Kutnar caught it, and what with his thought of journeying to an unknown
land, he was thrilled to his very soul. He was having a wonderful time;
so many adventures and new things to see and all because of his good
friend Gonch.
The two runaways swam across a stream south of the Dordogne River and
found the water so icy that when they reached the opposite side at first
they could not climb the bank. They danced and thrashed their arms about
to restore the blood circulation in their numbed bodies and were finally
able to move on. As for Gonch, now that he had no real troubles to
worry him, he was having a very enjoyable trip homeward. The boy was an
excellent companion. Never had Gonch so enjoyed himself.
Then came the fly in his ointment. The two were making their way across
the lowlands to the Midouze River. The Muskman occasionally glanced
behind, more from force of habit than as a measure of precaution, but
finally he saw something on the distant horizon that made his heart jump
almost into his mouth. It appeared no larger than a speck, but it was a
living thing, for Gonch saw it move and knew it to be a large animal by
comparison with the rocks and trees about it. Only one beast was of such
size.
Gonch had a most uncomfortable feeling that the Mammoth was pursuing him
because of that unfortunate episode by the slough. He would have given
much to erase that mad scrape and still possess the great beast’s good
will. But it was too late for wishing things that were not. The Mammoth,
once foiled, had set himself right somehow and was not far behind.
He and Kutnar were nearing a grove which bordered the Midouze. The
approaching cold season had entirely defoliated it, but the closely
growing timber and underwood offered chance of concealment. Before
plunging into the tangled mass of tree-trunks, brush and vines, Gonch
took another look behind him. The distant speck had grown much larger.
It presented a full-length view. Gonch could have sworn that it carried
something upon its back.
“Does the Mammoth ever wander about alone?” he asked of the boy.
“Never that I know of,” was the answer. “Wulli is always with him.”
“On the Mammoth’s back?” Gonch pretended to be joking.
“No, indeed,” Kutnar laughed. “None but my father ever sat astride him.
Hairi would never permit any other to do such a thing.”
“Your father? Ugh.” Gonch felt the humor all knocked out of him.
“Yes, he rides the Mammoth when he wishes to go far and fast. Hairi
appears slow and clumsy, but none but a swift-footed animal can keep up
with him. Why? What made you think of him?”
“Um, nothing,” replied Gonch, quickening his pace. His fun was now
thoroughly spoiled.
He now understood why the big elephant had been able to pick up the trail
once more. A man had helped him—a man familiar with human trickery.
Gonch’s position was rapidly becoming a desperate one. The Mammoth’s
speed, combined with his rider’s intelligence, would soon bring the chase
to an end.
Gonch and Kutnar hurried through the woods and arrived at the river bank.
The former waded into the water with the latter close behind him. The lad
was preparing to swim across when Gonch whispered, “Not that way,” and
waded upstream as fast as he could. The two had progressed fifty yards
or more when Gonch stopped at the sound of a violent commotion among the
trees. His pursuers were almost upon him. Beckoning Kutnar to follow,
he waded back to the bank, climbed up and dashed into the woods. Again
sounded the snapping of branches and brush trodden under foot. Man and
boy dropped flat to earth and lay still.
[Illustration: THE PURSUIT]
Peering above the grass and brush which concealed him, Gonch could see
dimly and afar between trees, the form of a great beast smashing its way
through the forest. His blood chilled at the sight and then became ice as
he caught a momentary glimpse of a man’s face high above the trunk and
tusks of a gigantic elephant. He turned to the lad beside him. Kutnar had
not yet seen, nor must he see. Crash! the flat blade of the Muskman’s
flint-ax descended upon the boy’s skull. Kutnar stiffened and lay as
still as a log.
The noise in the forest had by this time become a cyclonic fury of
breaking tree trunks and snapping branches. A voice which sounded in
Gonch’s ears like that of an avenging fiend, jabbered and shouted
hideously in a language he could not understand. He raised his head just
high enough to see as the hurricane swept past him, a huge elephant
tearing along with great swinging strides and using his head as a
battering-ram, while a man of herculean build sitting astride his neck
and clinging tightly to avoid being swept from his seat by the tossing
branches, urged the beast forward as with whip and spur. It was Pic and
the Mammoth. Gonch felt so terrified at sight of them that he burrowed
his face in the dirt and cowered there, wishing he had never been born.
As the Mammoth reached the river bank, he checked his onward rush so
abruptly that had not his rider been holding on tightly he would have
been pitched over the beast’s head. At a shout from Pic, Hairi ransacked
the ground carefully with his trunk-tip. Now that they were near the
water, some trickery was to be expected. However, the Mammoth found the
trail fresh and warm. It led straight to the river, and so he splashed in.
Gonch waited until he heard the beast settling into deep water; then
raised himself on his elbows and watched. The Mammoth climbed the
opposite bank and began a careful search for the trail. Pic, who had
been noting his steed’s every motion, pointed to the bank downstream.
Evidently he suspected that the Muskman was once more essaying the old
water trick. He shouted a command, the Mammoth wheeled, and the two of
them disappeared.
Gonch turned his attention to the boy, who lay as one dead. He raised
him by the shoulders and turned him over upon his back. The boy’s eyes
were closed. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth; but he still lived.
Gradually his breathing grew stronger and he opened his eyes. He saw his
good friend bending over him.
“Where am I?” he asked. “My head—the pain,” and the Muskman answered
softly. “With your good Gonch, who drove away the beast that tried to
kill you.”
“The beast?”
“Yes, a lion, the largest I have ever seen. He leaped through the trees
and struck you down. Would that I had received the blow instead of you;
but I did the best I could. The beast attacked me, and I drove it away.”
Kutnar was still indisposed, and so Gonch raised him in his arms and bore
him away. To do this, he was obliged to carry his ax in his jaws, holding
the handle between his clenched teeth. Not thinking of nor seeing the
boy’s ax, he left it lying where it had fallen. Still holding Kutnar in
his arms, he marched to the river and waded through the shallow water
for a long distance. Finally, he went ashore and entered the woods. Here
he laid down his burden and threw himself full length beside it, so
that each might feel the other’s warmth. In this manner they passed the
night undisturbed. Both rested well, and when morning came Kutnar felt
sufficiently recovered to be up and on his way once more.
Gonch was careful not to cross the river, following the right bank
instead until they were within sight of the seacoast. Then they crossed
the river and ascended the elevations marking the western end of the
Pyrenees. From there they deviated westward and entered upon the last
leg of their journey along the northern flank of the Cantabrian mountain
chain. This last leg was, however, not the least, for by this time
winter was in full blast, bringing ice and snow with it and bitter north
winds sweeping down upon the exposed country lying between the Pyrenees
mountains and the Cavern of Castillo.