It had been a hard, wearisome charge up the steep mountain slope.
Hairi and Wulli wondered how they ever summoned courage to do it. They
had never done such a thing before. But the present conditions were
extraordinary. Pic, their dearest friend, was being set upon by the
man-pack and there was no other way to help him. They had returned after
their first fright, and hearing the voice of battle about them, had
hurried to the rescue. To their horror, they found the ledge a shambles
reeking with blood and death. Pic was not there. They feared they had
come too late. Then both jumped back in surprise, for Kutnar was looking
down upon them. They recognized him at once.
“You here?” Wulli gasped. “I am so glad. We have found you at last.”
“I, too, am glad,” said the Mammoth. “We have come far to find you. But
why should these men destroy each other? I do not see Pic and am so
afraid. Where is he?”
Kutnar stared at the huge beast like one not in his right mind. He
pointed to the body over which he kneeled and replied in a hollow voice:
“Here he lies and yet it is not he. The best of him is gone. He tried to
save me from these savage men. For that he died;” and the boy rocked back
and forth over his father’s body, moaning as though his heart would break.
The Mammoth bowed his head, overwhelmed, crushed as the terrible truth
drove itself home. “Dead?” he groaned dismally. “I too will stay. I will
not leave him.”
“Nor I,” said the Rhinoceros solemnly.
All three remained with heads bent low, paying their last tribute to
the Mousterian chief. The Mammoth was the first to recover himself. He
stamped his feet and flapped his ears. His eyes reddened like hot coals.
“Who killed him?” he screamed. “If one of these men did it, I will
trample the life out of every one of them, even though I have to climb
over the top of this mountain to do it.”
Kutnar was on his feet in an instant. “Who killed him? I do not know.
But there is one who caused all this, my traitor-friend the Hyena Man.
I heard his voice above us. He must die.” He darted across the ledge
and picked up his sling and pebble-pouch which had fallen there during
the melee, then leaped down the slope and looked above him. A man was
ascending the Scarp. Kutnar ran to one side of the rock-shelter and began
climbing up.
High above his head, Gonch was ascending leisurely, feeling comfortable
in the thought that Totan and Pic were no more. He had seen Totan’s body
and would have relished a glimpse of Pic’s but the Mammoth and Rhinoceros
stood on guard below and he dared not descend. However Pic was as dead
as Totan, he felt reasonably certain and now that his enemies were out
of the way, he planned to return to Castillo and seize the reins of
authority. Some day, Fate permitting, he might even venture into the
Mousterian country and take Pic’s place. The possibilities of his future
were unlimited. He might become the foremost potentate in all the world.
He was looking behind him now and then from force of habit. There were
none left to pursue him but he had not seen Pic’s body and therefore
could not feel absolutely sure. As he snatched one of his hurried
glances, to his horror, he saw a figure scaling the cliff below him. For
an instant he thought that the Mousterian chief must have risen from the
grave to destroy him, then he breathed a sigh of relief. It was not Pic
but a much smaller man. One of his own people perhaps. He halted until
the other came near enough to be recognized. Gonch stared at him in
amazement then snarled hatefully, “Kutnar! What brings the boy here?”
As if in reply, Kutnar shook his fist at the Muskman and cried out,
“Traitor, you shall not escape me this time,” and climbed up as fast as
he could.
Gonch laughed a loud bitter laugh. The boy carried no ax and he was at a
disadvantage, attacking from below. The Muskman seized a stone from the
wall behind him and raised it above his head in both hands. There he
stood howling derision at his pursuer.
Kutnar heard but he only climbed the faster. His was a lithe active
body. In his brain lurked the inborn gift of clear-headedness and
sure-footedness working in perfect harmony. But never had his climbing
powers been subjected to so severe a test. In places the wall, for rods
at a time appeared so smooth and unbroken that it seemed impossible for a
human being to adhere to it; but Kutnar not only did adhere but continued
upward at an astonishing rate. His toes and fingers found every minute
wrinkle and crevice. His legs were the sustaining members, his shoulders
the windlass, his arms the tackle of a self-propelling derrick lifting
itself in mid-air. Kutnar was expending his energy at a lavish rate. He
might have rested temporarily on the occasional rock-shelves that marked
his route. His enemy was resting and he could have done likewise. In a
saner moment he would have so chosen but now he was insane; a maniac
bearing a death message to the man whose perfidy had destroyed the one he
loved best. The human derrick was strained almost to the breaking point
and still it continued to propel itself skyward. Not until Kutnar reached
an unusually deep shelf which gave him more than standing room, did he
pause even for a moment; then he halted and looked up. The Muskman stood
waiting above him. Kutnar could see his open red mouth and white teeth.
Gonch’s face wore an expression of cruel eagerness such as a panther
wears when about to spring from the tree branches upon a fawn passing
beneath. His back was set against the wall, both hands raised high above
his head. He was preparing to hurl the stone.
Kutnar braced his legs, secured a firm foothold and whirled his sling.
Gonch trembled. He could almost feel the pebble striking his skull with
deadly precision. He faltered, tossed the stone wildly and fled in a
panic up the wall behind him. The boy dodged the stone as it fell but
now the Muskman was beyond effective throwing range and so Kutnar ceased
whirling his sling and followed after. “The traitor must die,” repeated
itself over and over in his mind and drove out all thought of himself, a
stripling pitted against a full-grown man. His breath came in gasps, for
what with the struggle below and his exhausting climb, the limit of his
endurance was nearly reached. There came over him the fear that Gonch
might escape after all and so he strove desperately, forcing his shaking
legs to carry him on.
Gonch was comparatively fresh and perhaps it was just as well for the
boy that he had abandoned all thought of fight. The Muskman had become
obsessed with fear of the magic sling whose deadly accuracy he had become
familiar with through long experience. Kutnar’s legs would no longer aid
him in that heart-breaking ascent. The sling launched its bolt but in his
anxiety, he missed his aim. Gonch was struggling up the slippery rock
when he heard the stone whizz close by his head and click against the
wall. The sounds spurred him on but in his over-eagerness he slipped and
dropped back several feet. This slip terrified him.
Kutnar felt in his pouch and drew forth another pebble—the last. He had
but one chance left. He reloaded his weapon but he neither whirled nor
threw at his enemy now moving slowly but surely to safety. He was waiting
until his heart would ease its pounding and his muscles could be brought
under control for the final cast.
Gonch had recovered himself and was making progress. No second missile
had followed the first to shake his nerves. Desperation gave him courage
for the supreme effort required. His hands were raised to within a few
yards of the crowning pinnacles of the Scarp. Once ahold of them he could
drag himself to the top—and safety.
Kutnar saw. His heart had ceased palpitating. He no longer trembled. His
body was as cold as ice. “That man must die,” he said for the last time.
The thong hissed. Every ounce of strength in the guiding muscles followed
the stone in its flight and sent it whizzing to the mark.
Gonch doubled up. His feet jerked convulsively as the death-messenger
crashed into his ribs. His hands had already found anchorage. He might
have pulled himself to the top, had not the sling-stone bid him halt.
His lower limbs half-paralyzed, dabbed feebly against the smooth wall in
a vain effort to relieve the weight of his body, thrown suddenly upon
his arms. Once, twice, thrice, his feet sought support, then his muscles
relaxed, his body straightened out and he hung suspended in mid-air.
Beneath him, his destroyer watched and waited, cold and implacable as
an avenging Fate. The Muskman yet clung to the coping fluttering like a
wounded bird. Slowly his head fell back and turned so that he could see
over his right shoulder. His face blanched, his eyes started from their
sockets at sight of the vast emptiness beneath him. Gradually his grip
relaxed. He made a last effort for one more moment of sweet life, then
with a despairing screech, down he fell. His body shot along the face of
the Scarp until it encountered a rugged projection which sent it bounding
clear of the rock-wall. Down, down it fell, whirling in space, finally
crashing to its last resting place at the base of the Scarp. The traitor
had come into his own at last and his body lay amid those of his comrades
who now shared their lot with the true author of their destruction.
[Illustration: “DOWN HE FELL”]