When Gonch arose next morning, he found Kutnar piling fresh wood upon
the cave-hearth fire. The boy had been awake all night, nevertheless
he appeared in good spirits. For some reason or other this angered the
Muskman and he curtly ordered Kutnar to make ready for the morning hunt.
This in itself was a flagrant violation of the Castillan code. Night
fire-tenders were always permitted a rest after their labors while
others attended to the next morning’s food-gathering. But this was an
exceptional case. Gonch found the hetman’s brow-beating too much to bear
and so he passed the burden with his spite added, on to the boy.
And still Kutnar did not complain but made ready as he was told. It would
appear that he had resigned himself to the position of menial and camp
drudge and would perform any work allotted him. So it seemed, judging by
his actions; but Gonch was keen enough to see that the boy’s manner was
not quite the same. He appeared to have changed over night. The change
was in the look of his eyes. Gonch recalled that same look in the eyes of
a wounded wolf he had once cornered. The beast had sprung upon him and
bitten him severely as he approached to club it to death. The comparison
might be a product of his imagination, but Gonch deemed it wise to take
no chances. He would watch the boy and be on his guard, for there was no
knowing what Kutnar might do if he once made up his mind to do it. The
main thing to guard against was the sling. If the boy ever took a notion
in his head to attack anyone with it, no doubt he would prove a dangerous
customer. “A deadly toy,” was Gonch’s opinion of it. “I will keep an eye
on the lad and see that he does not get a chance to use it.”
Kutnar took his place as usual in the morning hunt and Gonch accompanied
him. No matter where they tramped; through snowdrifts and over hill and
dale, whenever the boy looked behind him, there was the Muskman standing
close at his elbow.
It was past mid-day when the party returned to Castillo. Kutnar had no
sooner thrown himself down by the fire to rest than the Muskman curtly
informed him it was time to descend to the bank of the River Pas and
search for flint-lumps. Without a word, the boy rose obediently to his
feet. Gonch again observed the strange hunted look of those eyes; also
the jaws were set tightly together. It was on his mind to take several
of the cave-men along too, for there was greater safety in numbers, but
he put this notion scornfully aside. “What a fool I am to fear him and
his fling-string,” he reflected. “A mere lad who knows better than to pit
himself against a man”; but he was careful just the same and kept his ax
in readiness to strike down the lad if he made a move to use the sling
girt about his loins.
In this manner they descended to the river bank. Then began the search
for flint-lumps, but in spite of their diligence, they had no success.
With the passing of time, Gonch grew more and more desperate as he
thought of the trip back to Castillo where he must face the hetman
empty-handed. “Look closer, boy,” he snarled. “If you fail, there will be
neither food nor rest for you to-night when we return.”
Kutnar looked furtively about him, not toward the ground but at the
distant mountain of Castillo, the snow-covered lowlands and up and down
the ice-bound stream. His hands fumbled with the rawhide thong tied about
his waist. In an instant the Muskman’s ax flashed threateningly above his
head.
“And so the little boy would play with his fling-string,” sounded Gonch’s
taunting voice followed by a fierce command: “Quick, give it to me or I
will kill you.” Kutnar’s nostrils swelled and his face reddened but there
seemed no help for him. He loosened the sling from his body and cast it
at the Muskman’s feet. At sight of the youth now completely disarmed and
at his mercy, Gonch laughed a loud brutal laugh charged with cruelty
and malice. “You hate me,” he hissed; “but your hatred is a mere pebble
beside yonder mountain compared with what I feel toward you. Do you know
why?”
Kutnar made no answer; merely glared at his tormentor with hunted eyes.
“Because you are the whelp of the Mammoth Man,” snarled Gonch. “He, your
father, I hate even worse than I hate you. You do not know why.”
Again no answer; Kutnar only glared.
“Because he has the heart of a woman in his great lion body,” Gonch raved
on vindictively. “Because he is a friend of beasts and would withhold
them from the paunches of hungry men; because he would make weaklings of
hunters and warriors; and because of the strength in his lion body which
prevented my bringing him here a slave.”
Kutnar’s chest rose and fell with his hard breathing. He bit his lips
until the blood came; but still he said nothing.
“I was but a wolf running amuck in his flock,” the Muskman sneered. “A
rock fell from the cliff and nearly destroyed the Mammoth and Rhinoceros.
Who pushed it down? I. A man set upon the Mammoth caught fast in the
mire and would have destroyed him, had it not been for the meddling
Rhinoceros. Who was that man? I. Who stole the Lion Man’s cub when all
chance of securing the Lion Man himself was gone? I. Do you hear me,
whelp? It was I.”
The boy’s eyes were now blazing like coals of fire. His face had become
livid. Gonch noted the effect of his cruel mockery and he gloated over
it even as he gloried in the boy’s helplessness.
“We were such dear good friends,” he scoffed. “I loved you, my comrade,
as a hyena loves a bone. We fled to the southland together; you and
I. Your father pursued us. He rode upon the Mammoth and soon we were
overtaken. I thought it unwise for you to know who was pursuing us, for
your father was angry and would have spoiled all. We lay hidden in the
bushes. Another moment and you would have learned the truth, had not
someone struck you from behind. Who struck that blow? A lion? No. It
was——”
“You!” screamed Kutnar, and like a flash, he launched himself at his
tormentor’s throat.
So sudden and unexpected was the attack that Gonch’s weapon was stricken
from his hand. Now he too was unarmed. Over and over they rolled in the
snow; first the man, then the boy uppermost, clawing and biting like
wildcats and without apparent advantage to either. Gonch was howling
with fury but Kutnar fought silently like a weasel and his hands ever
worked for a weasel hold on his foeman’s throat. Rough and tumble, kick,
strike, gouge; they struggled with all the strength and fury of madmen.
For an instant they separated and each stood upon his feet. Gonch sprang
to recover his ax but Kutnar frustrated this attempt with a quick leap
that bore his detested enemy to the ground. The Muskman’s guard was open
and Kutnar found the opportunity which he had long sought. Both hands
clutched the Castillan’s throat and clung there like death.
Over and over they rolled again. Gonch’s cries were now screams of pain
and rapidly losing force, even as his struggles to free his neck from
that tearing, strangling clutch, became feebler and feebler. Kutnar
felt his foe weakening; he gripped the tighter. Gonch’s body jerked
convulsively, the blood trickled from his nostrils, then he relaxed and
lay still. Kutnar released his hold and stood erect. The Muskman never
moved. “Men will soon know of this,” the boy muttered; but there was no
need of their knowing it too soon, so he seized the body by the shoulders
and dragged it out of sight among some neighboring bushes. This done, he
recovered his sling, also not forgetting to appropriate the Muskman’s
fine flint-ax for his own use; then he was ready to proceed.
The die was cast and now there could be no turning back. Sooner or later,
the man-pack would be after him. “To be caught is to be killed and to be
killed is to be eaten,” he thought and so he made ready to escape with
all speed. Which way? There was the broad highway eastward across the
windswept snow-plain. It was the shortest route back to home and friends.
He gazed longingly in that direction then shook his head. An endless
journey in the dead of winter; the attempt would be madness. He could do
it after the first spring thaw but not now. There was no help for it;
the path pointing to the east meant cold, sickness and death. He turned
to the south. There lay the mountains full of hiding places and caves no
doubt where he might live protected from the elements. Food? His sling
had killed for many; now it could surely kill for one. Yes, he would flee
southward and take refuge among the mountains until such time as the
return of mild weather would permit the long journey home.
He was making off along the line of the Pas when he thought of the
Muskman. Something prompted him to look once more upon the body of his
enemy and for the last time. He retraced his steps and entered the
bushes. Gonch lay there upon his back. As Kutnar gazed down at him, he
said in a melancholy voice: “The rogue has met his just deserts; and
yet—it is hard to forget that I once looked upon him as a friend.”
He kneeled over the body and laid one ear against the chest. “Can it be
that he is still alive?” he asked himself. “The heart still beats; the
flesh is warm.” The thought disturbed him. He raised his ax. One blow and
all doubts would be removed; then for some reason he hesitated. “He will
die anyway,” the boy reasoned. “It would be but striking a corpse.”
“That may strike back if you do not,” something within warned him and
he raised his ax once more, only to lose heart when it came to actually
dealing the finishing stroke. “He will surely perish of cold if nothing
else,” he said finally. “The night will soon come and none can find him
before morning.”
That settled it. By morning, Kutnar would be well on his way and among
the mountains; then he need worry no more about the Muskman, be he dead
or alive.
He left his fallen enemy lying among the bushes, took one more longing
look at the broad eastern path and then fled rapidly in the southern
direction along the line of the River Pas.