Kutnar, Son of Pic. George Langford
“Yes, I know,” said another—the boy who wiped the face of the stricken man. “Who is he?”
“He came from the sky,” spoke up a third. “I saw him flying through the air. A stranger and yet his ax-blade is the same as ours.”
The stranger was by this time sufficiently recovered to sit up. The cave-men crowded about him.
“Who are you? From where did you come?” asked one.
“He smells like a cave-beast,” said another. “Perhaps he came here to hunt.”
“To hunt panthers,” the boy laughed. “A queer odor but what of that? He saved me from death.”
He was a sturdy lad of about sixteen years, clean-cut and well-muscled. He wore a strip of rawhide wound several times about his waist. A skin-pouch filled with large pebbles hung from his shoulder.
“My name is Gonch,” said the man rubbing his sore head. “The cave-beasts are my enemies. I have not yet washed from my body the taint of their killing. One panther more; what does it matter?”
Those about him lifted their eyebrows and stared at him who made so light of his prowess.
“Killer of flesh-eating beasts? That is good,” said a man, “but he has not yet told us why he comes here.”
“Who are you to question a chief?” retorted Gonch scornfully. “I will answer to only one; him I have come to see.”
“Who is that?” asked the man abashed by the stranger’s authoritative tone.
“The Mammoth Man.” Gonch gazed from one huntsman to another, to see the effect of this. All faces were now turned toward the boy.
“I can take you to him,” said the latter. “When you are able to walk, we will go.”
“Where?” asked Gonch.
The lad pointed up the bank to where a line of cliffs extended far into the valley. “He lives there; I live there too. We can go together.”
“Who are you?”
“Kutnar,” replied the boy. His face expanded in a broad grin. “I can show you where you wish to go as well as anybody, for I am the son of the Mammoth Man.”
IV
The Rock of Moustier, a truncated pyramid of buff limestone, was but a portion of the distant plateau jutting far into the valley to the right bank of the Vézère River. On one side of the Rock, a steep causeway of broken stone led to a broad deep ledge midway between base and summit. This ledge served as the threshold of a grotto which opened into the wall back of the ledge.
Three men all carrying heavy burdens were ascending the causeway to the cave-threshold, while above, stood a fourth, waiting as though to receive them. He was a large man of mighty chest and shoulders and yet neither overfleshed nor muscle-bound but fibred and corded from neck to heel like a fight-trained lion. The newcomers were big strong men but he who stood upon the ledge seemed a giant beside them. They greeted him with a certain deference that marked the larger man as a person of more than ordinary importance. One by one they cast down their burdens upon the rock-platform and squatted beside them. These consisted of several bison hides, bundles of faggots, a leg of venison and several large stones about the size of a man’s head.
“Three Men Were Ascending to the Cave-Threshold”
After a hasty survey of the various articles, the giant’s interest centered upon the stones. He selected one of them and held it in the palm of his left hand. This was done seemingly without effort and but for his swelling biceps, one might have thought the stone a trifling weight. Using a large pebble as a maul, he struck the stone a resounding blow, separating it in two halves as cleanly as though cut with a knife. The newly fractured surfaces were wax-like in appearance and of a lustrous grey color. The giant smiled broadly and nodded to the three men. He seemed much pleased with the stones and well he might be, for they were the finest of beeswax flint. All about him were strewn chips of similar material; small piles of blanks and partly finished flakes. Near the cave-entrance lay many much used mauls and hammerstones of various shapes and sizes; the tools of the flint artisan.
One of the three men coughed noisily. Having delivered their goods, the trio were growing impatient. They wanted their pay.
The giant set aside the flint lump and hammerstone and brought out from the grotto a small hide full of finished flints, all nicely shaped, edged and pointed. They were of various shapes and sizes, each one designed for a special purpose; small tools for scraping hides, knife-blades, dart-heads and axes. The three men bent over them expressing by word and gesture their appreciation of every piece. One of them gathered up the four corners of the hide and swung it over his shoulder; then the trio descended the causeway to the valley below.
The giant weapon-maker was preparing to turn again to the flint-lumps when he caught sight of two figures making their way up the causeway toward him. The giant smiled upon one of them—a boy—then gazed inquiringly at the other. The pair reached the ledge. As the unknown stepped upon the rock-platform, he bent low and laid down his ax with much ceremony, then stood erect with both hands raised high above his head. Strangers with good intentions always behaved themselves in this manner—presenting themselves unarmed and at the mercy of them they visited. The boy came quickly forward and for several minutes spoke in low tones to the giant, glancing from time to time at his companion. The flint-worker’s face fairly beamed as he listened.
The youth explained the circumstances of his meeting with the stranger, enlarging upon his own narrow escape from the panther and how his benefactor had so nearly paid the penalty of death for the part he had chosen to play.
“Good,” said the giant when the boy had finished. “Friends should ever help each other.” With that, he picked up the stranger’s ax and presented it to him, then led his guest to a fire which burned near by.
The Muskman’s brain was in a whirl. He had accomplished wonders in a single day. So long had he known naught but hostility from man and beast that this peaceful reaction from danger and privation, to say nothing of his recent mauling, nigh overwhelmed him. He passed one hand across his forehead where the blood had not yet dried.
“The boy tells me that you leaped upon the panther from the sky,” the giant now said. “Men do not leap from the sky however. How and why did you come here?”
Gonch felt the other’s piercing gaze directed full upon him. The deep-set eyes seemed to be searching his inmost soul.
“Mine is a restless spirit,” he replied. “It has led me through many lands to see strange and wonderful things. I have been told of the Mammoth Man, maker of the finest flint-blades the world has ever seen. Are you he?”
“I am called many names,” said the stalwart flint-worker with a twinkle of his deep-set eyes.
“To some, I am known as Pic, the Weapon Maker; to others—but no matter. One name is as good as another. Yes, I am the Mammoth Man.” He folded his arms across his broad chest and even as he looked kindly upon his visitor, his eyes as much as said: “Can it be possible that mere curiosity has brought you here—to see me?”
Gonch did not notice the look of those eyes; he was watching the man himself. Such evidence of physical health and strength, he had never before observed in a human being. “I can see now why they call him the Mammoth Man,” he thought to himself. “He is a giant among men as is the Hairy Elephant among beasts.” But all he said was:
“I helped your boy. Perhaps for that you can look upon me as a friend.”
Pic’s