Kutnar, Son of Pic. George Langford
not get another?” the Muskman suggested. “Women are plentiful enough. A man like you could have any or all of them.”
Pic scowled and raised his hand in protest. “She is gone,” he muttered hoarsely. “None can take her place; and of this you need say no more.”
Gonch was taken aback by this peculiar display of sentiment. “One woman?” he sniffed: “Ridiculous. The man is a giant but a simpleton for all that. All giants are simpletons.” But now that Pic had declared himself upon the subject of women, Gonch prated of the southland; its fine climate, abundance of game and the strong men who lived there; painting the picture in such brilliant colors that he almost believed in it himself. But in spite of his eloquence, Pic remained unmoved. Whether he believed or not, he showed no more than ordinary interest. There was a note of sarcasm in the flint-worker’s voice as he made brief comment: “If this is so, why do you come here?” to which in spite of his eloquence Gonch could find no ready answer.
The latter took another tack. “Men say that you are a mighty hunter,” he began; “and that you scorn such small game as the ox and bison, reserving your great strength for the Lion and Hairy Elephant.”
Pic’s nostrils swelled. There was a sinister glitter in his eyes as he directed them full upon his guest. “Who says that?” he growled. Then without waiting for a reply, he added: “Men who are wise, do not speak to me of the Lion and Mammoth in the same breath.”
“Agh, I forgot,” muttered Gonch completely abashed. “It was of another they spoke. You are a flint-worker who neither hunts nor fights.”
Pic scowled at this impudence and was on the point of replying angrily, when he checked himself as a thought suddenly occurred to him.
“Hunt? fight?” he said sternly: “It is well that you reminded me. You are a stranger here and should know our rules. Listen to them and heed them well for it is quite necessary that they be most carefully observed.”
“Rules?” Gonch awaited curious. His host now spoke in a tone of authority and yet he had mentioned “ours.” A chieftain would have said “my rules.”
“There are three of these rules,” said Pic in his most impressive manner, holding up three fingers by way of illustration. “The first concerns our young men. It is not permitted for them to do any unnecessary quarrelling among themselves. If they should quarrel, it must be a fair fight and for some good reason.”
“He must be joking,” thought Gonch. “No fighting? Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“Our second rule is equally simple,” Pic went on. “Also equally important. There must be no waste of game. The valley abounds with animals of every kind and they are easily caught. We wish these conditions to continue. Without beef or venison, we would starve and so these animals should neither be alarmed nor driven away. Promiscuous slaughter is therefore forbidden. Men must not kill more than they need.”
Gonch gasped as the true meaning of this astounding utterance forced itself upon him. The motive that inspired it and its sound logic were too lofty for his understanding or appreciation. Had Gonch not been born hungry and hungered all his life, he might have understood, for his wits were as keen as those of a fox. But killing was his primary instinct. His every thought and act sprang from his unquenchable blood-lust. “Simple rules indeed and a simpleton who says them,” he sneered under his breath. “This Pic has gone crazy with his flint-working. No wonder his people put him here by himself where he can do no harm.”
But outwardly, Gonch appeared only an attentive listener. “Good,” he said, “I understand. These are your hetman’s orders.”
“Yes, our hetman’s orders.”
“And this hetman, who is he?” asked Gonch.
“You will know him in good time,” was the reply. “You will also learn that he is a man not to be trifled with. And now for our third rule, an important one which you must be sure to remember. Of all animals, the Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros are absolutely immune. No man shall hunt, harm or annoy them in any way. The penalty is death.”
This was too much. The Muskman laughed like a hyena in Pic’s face. “Death no doubt,” he sneered. “Those two animals can take good care of themselves. But you have forgotten one; there is a third.”
“What?” demanded Pic, his eyes blazing.
“The Cave Lion. No fool would——” and then Gonch wished he could have swallowed his words before he said them, for the giant flint-worker’s face fairly flamed with terrible rage. He thrust his great head forward and bared his teeth in the Muskman’s face. He extended his right arm. Gonch felt the huge hand closing like a vise upon his wrist. An ounce more pressure would have meant crushed and broken bones. He cowered sick with terror as the threatening jaws opened wide as though to tear his throat.
“Meddler!” roared Pic. “Kill the Cave Lion if you can or let him kill you; either way, it would be good riddance; but the other two beasts are my friends—friends, do you hear? If you dare disobey my commands and harm one of them, I will tear you to pieces with my teeth and hands.”
He released his grip upon the Muskman as he said this. His face relapsed into its former calmness and the storm-wrath rolled away as quickly as it had come.
“You saved my boy,” he said in a voice so gentle that Gonch stared at him amazed at the sudden change. “I am not ungrateful and will treat you as a friend, provided you do not break our rules. Be wise; observe them and all will be well. Enough; we now understand each other.” With that he turned away and busied himself with the fire. So completely had his former tranquillity returned, that when the boy Kutnar who had been dozing all this time, awakened, his father and guest appeared on such good terms, he had not the slightest suspicion of anything unusual having happened while he slept.
V
Pic had become engrossed in his flint-lumps, so Gonch stretched himself out by the fire and gazed dreamily at the smoke-wreaths. Gradually his eyes closed, his head pillowed itself upon his arm and he passed away into dreamland.
Gonch was sound asleep; but a hot coal fallen uncomfortably close to his foot, awakened him. As he opened his eyes, the first thing they met was the broad back of his host squatting by the fire. Kutnar had disappeared.
Pic scarcely moved. He sat with back slightly turned so that Gonch could see most of his left arm but not his right. Several large flint-flakes lay on the rock at his feet. Now he paused in his work to examine that which he held in his left hand, raising it so that Gonch could see. It was a flint-flake similar to those lying upon the rock. He wondered what Pic held in his other hand.
Click, click; Gonch heard the impact of something on flint. “The new method of weapon-making,” dawned full upon him. “It would be well for me to know it.” He raised himself upon one elbow and craned his neck to secure a better view. At the almost imperceptible sound he made, Pic turned his head, whereupon Gonch settled back quickly and closed his eyes. Pic looked at him sharply for an instant, then resumed his work and again Gonch was straining to catch a glimpse of what his host was doing.
The big flint-worker held a small tool in his right hand. With this he was peeking at the flake held in his left. His arms were rigid; his hands barely moved; but the tiny flint chips flew like flakes of snow beneath the pressure of the retouching tool. Still supporting himself by one elbow, Gonch dragged himself closer. He was intent upon catching a glimpse of that which Pic held in his right hand, otherwise he would have noticed the flint-worker’s left eye, now directed at the man who had changed his position by the fire and was playing the part of a spy. Pic coughed audibly and made much ado about rising to his feet whereupon the eavesdropper settled back quickly to his former recumbent position and breathed noisily like one sound asleep.
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