The sky might have fallen in just then; anything might have happened and
Pic would not have noticed it. He had no thought of aught but the one
happiness that filled his heart to bursting—Kutnar was found. The pursuit
through southwestern France, the long journey across the Pyrenees,
the terrible cold; all were set aside and forgotten for this supreme
moment—one of the most blissful he had ever known. For a time, nothing
was said. Father and son sat in the cave-entrance, holding each other
tightly as though they would never let go. Kutnar wept silent tears. He
had played the part of a man well, but once more under the protection of
his powerful sire, the reaction was overwhelming and he was but a baby
boy, tired and homesick and so glad to be again with the one he loved
best.
When the first joy of meeting was over, Pic drifted back to earth. “What
were you doing in that hole?” he asked.
Kutnar told of his escape from Castillo and the various events leading
to it. Everything bespoke the Muskman’s perfidy and cruelty. Pic’s face
became adamant as the tale of Gonch’s duplicity gradually unfolded
itself. Driven to desperation, the boy had turned upon the traitor, who
must have by this time breathed his last.
“I could tell you more,” said Pic, “but what you already know is enough.
However, it would seem that what my boy has suffered has made him bear
himself as well or better than a man. And this Gonch; are you quite sure
he is dead?”
To this Kutnar replied: “No, I do not feel at all sure. When I left him
lying in the bushes he still breathed. Something warned me to make an end
of the ruffian, but I could not summon courage to deal the death-stroke.”
Pic fidgeted uneasily. “It would have been wiser had you shown him no
mercy,” he said; “but you did well and I am proud of you. Now I am going
to treat you to a pleasant surprise. You see, I did not come alone. The
Mammoth and Rhinoceros are near at hand and waiting for us to meet them.”
While saying this, he was on his feet striding to the edge of the
cave-threshold with Kutnar by his side. Suddenly he uttered an
imprecation and withdrew hastily into the grotto, dragging the boy with
him. “Your enemies! I had forgotten them,” he said. “Agh; let us hope
they have not seen us.”
Vain hope; he had jumped back quickly, but too late. Several groups of
men stood apart from each other at the foot of the eastern and southern
declivities. They were waving their clubs and pointing upward to the
cave. As Pic endeavored to conceal himself, a chorus of howls floated to
his ears and he saw human figures scrambling up the steep ascent. For
an instant he stood irresolute. If fight he must, he could not choose a
better position than the one he now held. He was but one against many;
how many? He gazed down at his enemies; here, there and everywhere. They
seemed to be coming in swarms. He was a giant, past master with the
flint-ax, but there were limits as to what one man could do. A sudden
change came over him. His eyes blazed death. He bared his teeth and his
features became those of a gorilla, tracked to his lair by the hunters
and brought to bay. He beat his great chest with one clenched hand, while
with the other he shook his ax at the men below him. He howled furiously.
Four-score throats gave answer. The several groups of men had by this
time spread out and joined each other in a long, thin line. Single
figures were hastening toward the western slope to extend that line. They
moved fast. The path westward was still open; soon it would be closed.
There at the far end of it awaited the Mammoth and Rhinoceros. Pic was
but one man pitting himself against a host. Even in his fury, he saw the
better part of wisdom.
“Quick, run!” he cried, pointing to the west. “Once with our friends, we
can laugh at any number of these wretches.” So away they scurried along
the mountain side, while their pursuers, observing them, hastened around
in the same direction to cut them off.
Hairi and Wulli were standing motionless on the western side of the
mountain and to the north. They heard shouts and cries and saw two men
running toward them along the heights. While they were wondering why
there should be two instead of one, more men appeared, a crowd of them,
also coming head on, but from farther down. What did it all mean? It
would seem that the two were being set upon by many. If so, one of the
fugitives must be Pic. Although uneasy and not knowing just what to
expect, they kept close watch and waited until the time came to take some
action.
So engrossed were they in the two men and their pursuers, they had no
eyes for something far above their heads. The mountain at whose base
they stood, ascended gradually to the Scarp—a precipitous rock-wall
whose craggy pinnacles were lost above the morning brume. Apparently
none but birds or the Chamois and Ibex among beasts could have found a
footing upon its glabrous surface. But there crouched a man. None knew
of his presence except himself. In the grey dawn he had crawled part
way down the wall to hide where none dared come; none but one unusually
sure-footed and possessed of a clear head. The man was Gonch.
He had journeyed by the early morning light from the northern side of
the mountain where lived the cave-men of Castillo. A night’s rest and
realization that he was still alive, had given him renewed strength and
courage. He had been so bold as to creep half-way down the Scarp, where
even on the smooth rock, occasional rugged projections and crevices
gave him a chance to hold tightly on. He had paused to rest temporarily
before descending further to where the wall leaned outward, forming a
canopy or shelter over a ledge at the base of the Scarp. While resting
and wondering what the day had in store for him, suddenly he espied two
large animals standing motionless far down the mountain slope beneath
him. He recognized them as the Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros. His face
blanched. “How did they come there?” he muttered, gazing far and wide
over the country below him. At that moment he heard distant cries and two
human figures hove in sight. They were running swiftly toward him from
the south and along the mountain side. More figures followed, many of
them coming from farther down the slopes.
As the two figures drew nearer he recognized one of them, who led by
several yards. The other who followed was a much larger man—a giant of
herculean build. Gonch grasped the whole situation—at least he thought
he did. Kutnar had been overtaken and was now being hotly pursued by the
Castillan horde. The larger of the two men—presumably Totan—was on the
verge of capturing the youth. Gonch looked on, growing more and more
impatient as the latter drew nearer to his animal-friends. What ailed
the hetman? Why did he not seize or strike down his quarry. “Agh, clumsy
dunce,” he muttered. “Soon you will be too late. Strike, strike while
you have the chance.” But the supposed Totan kept on as before, following
Kutnar closely, but making no effort to kill or capture him. “Pig,
lubber,” thought the Muskman. “Your folly will spoil everything. It is
time for me to take a hand and make an end of it.”
He looked about him. There were several partly detached stone-blocks
within his reach. He chose the largest and pulled it loose. The rock
went bounding down the face of the Scarp. He found another and another
and tore them from the wall. They in their descent dislodged other
blocks and the stream of them crashed and bounded down upon the Mammoth
and Rhinoceros. The latter heard and saw the oncoming avalanche and
immediately flew into a panic. Squealing and bellowing with fear, they
turned tail and dashed away, with the storm of rocks sweeping close
behind them.
Gonch laughed wolfishly as he saw them go. He had meant to destroy them,
and although this plan failed, there was some satisfaction in knowing
that the next best thing was accomplished. Kutnar now need expect no
assistance from his friends. The man and boy slowed up as the storm of
rocks swept down the mountain side. They saw the two beasts gallop madly
away. On the heights lay Pic’s only chance for fighting off the man-pack.
It was then that he caught sight of the ledge and its protecting canopy
at the base of the Scarp.
“To the rock,” he panted, and Kutnar turned to the right, with Pic
after him. Gonch could now see the boy’s features; mouth open and
nostrils dilated with excitement and fatigue. It was then that he also
got a clear view of the man; the supposed Totan. It was but a fleeting
glimpse, for the man and boy had already passed from his sight beneath
the shelter, but in those few moments he learned his first mistake. It
was not Totan but the giant Mousterian weapon maker, the man whom Gonch
feared more than anything on earth. Cold sweat exuded from every pore of
the Muskman’s body. His knees shook and he clutched the rocks to save
himself from falling. Then came the reaction, as he saw the Castillan
horde coming rapidly toward him. Gonch wiped the cold dew from his brow
and laughed hideously. He was safe from Pic’s wrath and soon he would be
forever rid of his most dreaded enemy. He descended the rock-wall until
he stood over the ledge where he could hear, although not see, all of the
tragedy about to be enacted. From this elevated position he watched the
men of Castillo complete their enveloping movement. All chance of the
fugitives’ escape was now gone. The cave-men came swarming up the slope
in a wide semi-circle, baying like hounds. Gradually the wings of the
line converged as those on the two extreme ends rushed toward each other.
Those in the center drew closer together and moved forward to meet the
wings. Thus the human net slowly contracted upon its prey—Kutnar the boy,
and Pic, hetman and weapon maker of the Mousterians.