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Authors: David Drake, Jim Kjelgaard
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had killed a mammoth.
Kar closed his eyes and continued to run until he collapsed, sobbing with exhaustion.
In the morning the Chief Fire-Maker lit a fire on the edge of the forest. The smoke column called the remainder of the tribe to him. Most of them limped from thorn cuts or the shock of falls they had taken while running through the darkness.
Wolf’s left forearm was bloody and swollen. He had wrapped it roughly with grass during the night. Elm tut-tutte d about the coarse bandage. When she removed it to wash the area and replace the bandage with one of her own, the puckered holes and slashes left by a dire wolf’s teeth stood out against the Chief Hunter’s swarthy skin.
Wolf’s spearhead was black to the bindings with predator’s blood. Only four other hunters still had their spears.
The battered humans looked around at one another. Four women and three of the children were missing. Nobody suggested going back onto the plain to look for them.
Chinless was the only adult male who had not survived. The men had their weapons, and they had sprinted away from the camp more quickly than most of the women and children could follow.
“We need more spears,” Wolf said heavily. “We have no spear-maker now.”
“I can make spears,” said Boartooth. “My spears will be better than those of Hawk. His spears brought us bad luck.”
Kar had built his fire against an outcrop of gray-brown chert. It was not as hard or as uniform in quality as flint, but the rock was glassy enough to chip into serviceable points if the maker was careful.
Boartooth began worrying a block of chert out of the soft shale in which it was held. The Chief Fire-Maker wondered if the young man had gotten the tusk loose before the tigers drove him away from the mammoth. Ivory was the least of the tribe’s worries now. . . .
“We have fed well,” Wolf said in a forceful voice which compelled his listeners to believe him. “We will make more spears, and we will hunt much more food. Our luck will be very good from now on.”
“We must appease the spirit of the bison,” Elm muttered. “We will have no luck until the spirit of the bison forgives us.”
But she spoke under her breath, and nobody wanted to listen to the old woman anyway.
SABER-TOOTH
Hawk knelt, examining the new sight. A large tree had blown down, and when its imbedded roots had been torn out of their resting place they had carried a great quantity of dirt with them. It still clung to the upraised roots, forming a roof of mingled earth and small stones. Beneath it, crouched as close to the back wall as they could get, the furry puppies slunk close together for comfort and safety.
They were too old to be sucklings, and beaten trails proved that they had already made short hunting expeditions of their own into nearby thickets and bramble patches. One was dun-colored, the other silvery gray. They snarled their defiance of the intruder.
As Hawk peered into the den, he realized that these were probably pups of the two dogs slain in attacking his camp. Deprived of their parents’ protection, only miraculous luck had kept them from falling prey to some predator. If left alone, they would certainly be killed before long because they were too small to defend themselves. Hawk considered.
He should not leave them here, and thus let something else rob him of what, by right of discovery, was his proper food. But there was meat in plenty at the camp and now he had the little antelope buck as well. In hot weather meat spoiled quickly, and if he killed these puppies now the chances were good they would rot before he and Willow could eat them.
A happy thought occurred to him.
He needn’t kill the puppies at all. They were small, and could be captured easily. If he caught them alive, and carried them back to the fire, they could be tied and held prisoners. They needn’t be killed until he and Willow needed meat.
Hawk stood for a full minute interpreting the various sights,
Kar closed his eyes and continued to run until he collapsed, sobbing with exhaustion.
In the morning the Chief Fire-Maker lit a fire on the edge of the forest. The smoke column called the remainder of the tribe to him. Most of them limped from thorn cuts or the shock of falls they had taken while running through the darkness.
Wolf’s left forearm was bloody and swollen. He had wrapped it roughly with grass during the night. Elm tut-tutte d about the coarse bandage. When she removed it to wash the area and replace the bandage with one of her own, the puckered holes and slashes left by a dire wolf’s teeth stood out against the Chief Hunter’s swarthy skin.
Wolf’s spearhead was black to the bindings with predator’s blood. Only four other hunters still had their spears.
The battered humans looked around at one another. Four women and three of the children were missing. Nobody suggested going back onto the plain to look for them.
Chinless was the only adult male who had not survived. The men had their weapons, and they had sprinted away from the camp more quickly than most of the women and children could follow.
“We need more spears,” Wolf said heavily. “We have no spear-maker now.”
“I can make spears,” said Boartooth. “My spears will be better than those of Hawk. His spears brought us bad luck.”
Kar had built his fire against an outcrop of gray-brown chert. It was not as hard or as uniform in quality as flint, but the rock was glassy enough to chip into serviceable points if the maker was careful.
Boartooth began worrying a block of chert out of the soft shale in which it was held. The Chief Fire-Maker wondered if the young man had gotten the tusk loose before the tigers drove him away from the mammoth. Ivory was the least of the tribe’s worries now. . . .
“We have fed well,” Wolf said in a forceful voice which compelled his listeners to believe him. “We will make more spears, and we will hunt much more food. Our luck will be very good from now on.”
“We must appease the spirit of the bison,” Elm muttered. “We will have no luck until the spirit of the bison forgives us.”
But she spoke under her breath, and nobody wanted to listen to the old woman anyway.
SABER-TOOTH
Hawk knelt, examining the new sight. A large tree had blown down, and when its imbedded roots had been torn out of their resting place they had carried a great quantity of dirt with them. It still clung to the upraised roots, forming a roof of mingled earth and small stones. Beneath it, crouched as close to the back wall as they could get, the furry puppies slunk close together for comfort and safety.
They were too old to be sucklings, and beaten trails proved that they had already made short hunting expeditions of their own into nearby thickets and bramble patches. One was dun-colored, the other silvery gray. They snarled their defiance of the intruder.
As Hawk peered into the den, he realized that these were probably pups of the two dogs slain in attacking his camp. Deprived of their parents’ protection, only miraculous luck had kept them from falling prey to some predator. If left alone, they would certainly be killed before long because they were too small to defend themselves. Hawk considered.
He should not leave them here, and thus let something else rob him of what, by right of discovery, was his proper food. But there was meat in plenty at the camp and now he had the little antelope buck as well. In hot weather meat spoiled quickly, and if he killed these puppies now the chances were good they would rot before he and Willow could eat them.
A happy thought occurred to him.
He needn’t kill the puppies at all. They were small, and could be captured easily. If he caught them alive, and carried them back to the fire, they could be tied and held prisoners. They needn’t be killed until he and Willow needed meat.
Hawk stood for a full minute interpreting the various sights,
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