It was not many days before Gonch found himself subjected to increased
pressure. The grim hetman fretted and chafed incessantly simply because
the Lion Man failed to appear. With all his sharpness, Gonch had merely
relieved one bad situation by creating another. He was congratulating
himself for his shrewdness in diverting Totan’s channel of wrath to
someone other than himself, but now that the Lion Man had become rooted
in the hetman’s mind, Gonch found himself worse off than ever. Pic did
not appear. There were no others worth while to soothe Totan’s pugnacious
spirit, so he centered the burden of his rancor upon Gonch.
“Time passes and still your Lion Man does not come,” he fumed. “I believe
you lie when you say he will.”
“And I still say so,” replied the Muskman although in a less cocksure
manner than formerly, for he was beginning to feel grave doubts. “But the
lad; does he not please you? Never have we fared so well as since he came
here.”
[Illustration: THE HETMAN LOSES PATIENCE]
Totan gave his henchman a sour look. “Lad? Ugh; he does better than all
the rest of you put together. But bah! why speak of him? I want none but
his father the Lion Man, Weapon Maker or whatever else you choose to call
him. I hunger to crush his bones.”
Gonch sensed the approaching storm. He grasped desperately at a straw.
“Weapon Maker?” he whispered looking carefully around him as though he
were about to impart some deep-dyed mystery. “You ask for him who makes
the fine blades? Pst! he is here.”
“The Lion Man?” roared Totan, leaping to his feet and snatching at his
club. “Where?”
“Son of the Lion Man, you mean,” corrected Gonch. “It is my little
secret. He makes the fine weapons even better than his father. What a
prize; a hunter and flint-worker, all in one.”
“Agh! the boy again,” howled the hetman in a great rage and then his
curiosity got the better of him as Gonch hoped and half expected it
would. “The boy a flint-worker?” he sneered. “This is another of your
lies; but you have said it and I will know the truth, even if I have to
eat it out of you.”
“Try him,” said the Muskman much relieved that he had so neatly turned
the trend of conversation. “I said and proved that he was the equal of
our best hunters. I say and will prove that he is a skilled flint-worker.
To-morrow he will begin making the fine blades.”
“And a sorry day it will be for you if he fails,” snarled the giant
enraged at being so easily diverted from the main idea and yet not having
wit enough to stick to it.
And so the storm-clouds lifted temporarily, giving Gonch a chance to keep
his hide on him and him in it. He sought Kutnar and said, “Those who do
nothing, shall eat nothing. You idle too much. Now is the time for you to
hammer and finish the fine flint weapons. You know how the work is done.
We must have blades. Make them.”
And so more was required of him. Kutnar’s eyes glittered as he answered,
“But there is no flint here. Blades cannot be made from nothing. Find me
flint-lumps if you must have the tools.”
“Find them yourself,” snapped the Muskman irritated by the boy’s reply.
“If you fail, I will see that you get no food.”
So Kutnar did as he was bidden or tried to at least. It was past mid-day
and he would have welcomed a rest after his morning’s hunting trip. The
blood was surging to his temples but the boy-mind still ruled and so
he went down to the river bank to search the gravels for material on
which to work. But he found only disappointment, for the waters were
ice-bound, and even if flint-lumps were there, he could not reach them.
He returned to Castillo just before nightfall, and of course he returned
empty-handed. Gonch scolded him soundly, even as he trembled for his own
safety at thought of what the morrow might bring when Totan learned of
his failure. He jerked the boar-hide loose that Kutnar wore about his
body and hissed, “No food nor warmth either for him who does nothing. You
shall pay by taking a turn at fire-watching to-night. To-morrow will be
your last chance. The blades we will and must have.” He would have said
more but as he looked about him, he saw the giant hetman watching and
beckoning him to come that way. Gonch went reluctantly, for he had a fair
idea of what was in the chieftain’s mind.
“The boy pays small attention to your orders,” Totan said grimly when
the two were together. “I believe that you have grown careless. He is a
flint-worker but he works no flints. No doubt you lie when you say he
does.”
“Blades cannot be made from nothing,” was the answer. “The lad cannot
find the flint on which to work.”
This was in part, repeating Kutnar’s own words and the hetman’s reply was
curiously enough word for word the same as Gonch had given the boy.
“Find them yourself,” was his gruff response. “I will have no excuses.
The blades must be made or no one knows whom we will be eating next.”
He leered so affectionately at Gonch that the latter felt cold chills
creeping up his spine. He determined for his own health he would
accompany Kutnar on the morrow and help him find the flint-lumps. He
could not hold Totan off forever, for the latter was already nearing the
limit of his patience. “If Pic would only come, my troubles would be
ended,” he thought. “These two giants would destroy each other, leaving
me master beyond dispute.”
But Pic had not yet arrived and there seemed small chance of his doing
so in time to improve the situation. “To-morrow I will help the boy find
the flint-lumps,” he assured his chief. “He dare not fail me this time. I
will not let him out of my sight until he secures the material and begins
to make the blades.”
Before curling up in his hide-wrapping, he gave Kutnar his parting
instructions: “Watch the fire to-night. In the morning, you will join the
hunters in search of game. This done, we will go forth together and find
the flint-lumps. Before sunset you must be at work making blades. Then,
if you have done well, another shall have a turn at fire-watching and you
may rest.” With that, he went his way.
Kutnar listened but said nothing. When he could sit alone and gaze into
the firelight, it was the nascent man-mind that now whispered to him:
“Drudgery and death will be yours if you stay here. Why serve them you
despise and him you loathe? Up, boy, and prove yourself a worthy son
of the Mammoth Man. Your friends are rushing to your aid. Far in the
distance behind the screening haze, I see the form of a huge beast with
long, gleaming tusks, ploughing toward you through the drifts. A mighty
man sits astride his neck and a stout shaggy animal trots by his side.
Awake and bite back at these yapping wolves or remain a slave and see no
more of father and people and your friends the Hairy Elephant and Woolly
Rhinoceros.”