It was a strange community, this valley of the Vézère; too peaceful to suit Gonch. The cave-men themselves rarely fought or killed each other. Naturally this put a premium on human flesh, another drawback from the Muskman’s point of view; and he blamed it all on the mad Mammoth[38] Man who should have attended strictly to his flint-working instead of imbuing the whole community with his crazy notions.
Gonch learned something more that surprised him and this concerned Kutnar. The latter spent most of his time with the men, an unusual proceeding, for boys were usually left with the women when the men went forth on hunting or other expeditions. Kutnar, however, seemed to enjoy special privileges. He was a strong, active lad, but a boy nevertheless and Gonch marvelled that men would tolerate his taking part in their affairs. It must be that as son of the master flint-worker, he was an extraordinarily privileged youth. Then, too, he went about unarmed; so it appeared, for he bore nothing but his pouch of pebbles and the rawhide thong wound about his waist. The hunters were walking across the meadow when a hare sprang up beneath their feet, bounded away several rods and then sat bolt upright. At a signal from the leader of the band, all stopped. The man beckoned to Kutnar. “Your turn now,” and then as the boy came forward, all stood at attention, apparently much interested in what was about to happen.
While Gonch looked curiously on, wondering what new and strange spectacle was to be presented, Kutnar unwound the thong from his waist and held it dangling with the two ends in his right hand. Taking a pebble from his pouch he set it in the rawhide’s hanging fold; then with a whispered “Stand clear” he whirled thong and pebble[39] several times about his shoulders and let fly. So swiftly sped the stone that no eye could follow it. Gonch could not observe that anything in particular had happened until one of the hunters ran forward and picked up the hare, no longer sitting upright but kicking its last upon the green meadow grass.
“A chance shot,” thought Gonch who by this time had arrived at some understanding of this new method of stone-throwing. Nevertheless the sling was a novelty and the lad had displayed much skill in its use. Gonch went closer to examine it. Stones were usually hurled from the hand or by a throwing-stick, never from a strip of hide.
“Fling-string,” he muttered scornfully. “It was a lucky cast. The stone might fly anywhere except to the mark meant for it.”
But Gonch was mistaken. What Kutnar had done, he could do again, not once but many times. Half a dozen more hares and several rabbits fell before his unerring aim and then the hunters returned homeward with their bag, for the game-laws applied to all animals, small as well as large and what they or rather Kutnar had killed was sufficient for their immediate needs. On the way back, Gonch’s opinion of Kutnar and his sling had undergone a profound change. It was a boy’s weapon but one which a grown man could respect. The youth’s skill with it was beyond the stretch of one’s imagination. “The lad is a marvel,” thought Gonch. “He has killed enough food for a[40] dozen men,” and he had a wholesome respect after that, not only for the fling-string as he called it, but the arm and eye that could send the pebble so straight and swiftly to its mark.
But the most amazing thing of all, he was to discover when he found how intimate Kutnar was with the friendly Mammoth and Rhinoceros. He heard Kutnar one day jabbering away to the two, apparently in response to their squeals and grunts.
“Why do you make those noises?” asked Gonch.
“Wulli and Hairi don’t know the man-language but I know theirs. My father taught it to me and we can understand each other perfectly,” explained the boy.
The two animals were quite at home in the valley, for the Mousterian hunters left them severely alone. It was evident that men and beasts had arrived at some understanding. They were a strange pair, were the two beasts, grand surviving relics of an ancient order of things. The Mammoth was a giant nearly ten feet tall from sole to shoulder hump. He wore a long-haired overcoat underlain by closely packed wool. The Rhinoceros was similarly clad. In the matter of clothing they much resembled each other, also both of them were arctic animals, sometimes called Tundr-folk because of their homes in the bleak unforested tundras of northern Russia and Siberia.
Pic the Weapon Maker was usually to be found squatting upon the cave-threshold, making tools and weapons from the flint his people brought to[41] him. They also brought food and other necessities and received finished flint weapons in exchange. Gonch looked upon this manner of trading as a remarkable arrangement. He could almost see Pic sitting apart from the other men, on the threshold of Castillo, making and handing out superb blades while lines of hunters ascended the mountain side, all laden with freshly-killed game. Totan did not figure in this day dream, for he had been disposed of and Gonch himself had taken his place. It was a beautifully drawn picture, all woven about the Mousterian flint-worker but it contained one jarring note, which dream as he would, the Muskman could not obliterate. Pic in repose was an angel; aroused, a demon. That terrible face and the iron grip upon his wrist were things that Gonch could not forget, try as he would. “We can tie him up when he has his crazy fits,” he thought and although this seemed a good way of remedying the difficulty, it did not drive away the dark cloud entirely.
Gonch saw much of Pic’s weapon-making, but spy as he would, he could not catch him working with that little tool he had partially observed when lying by the fire during the occasion of his first visit to Moustier. Whenever his guest appeared, Pic put away his tool and worked entirely with the hammerstone, changing to ones of smaller size and less weight during the progress of the work from the hewn blank to the semi-finished flake. His skill with the stone-maul was uncanny. Gonch marvelled at the deft strokes, forever varying in[42] force and direction but each one striking just right to remove each chip from its place and properly shape the blade. But none of the weapons he saw made, ever quite reached the completed stage. Pic jealously guarded the retouching tool from Gonch’s sight and scheme as the latter would, he could not catch a glimpse of it.
Gonch felt that he was losing rather than gaining ground with the Mammoth Man. He realized the importance of winning the latter’s confidence and of being in a position to offer inducements before he could hope to arrange the long journey to the southland. And so he flattered his host, joked with him and painted pictures of Castillo in glowing colors; to all of which Pic would say: “If these things are so, why do you, a southron, leave them and come here?” or else he would hold his peace and appear more interested in his flint-hammering than in what the Muskman was descanting; and finally when he scowled and glared at his guest, Gonch knew it was time to take himself off.
It was after one of these parleys when he had gone down into the valley, with bitterness in his heart against all the world in general and the Mammoth Man in particular, that he scaled the cliffs to the plateau above in order to be alone and scheme anew. When he reached the upper level, he snarled angrily for the plateau was as flat and smooth as a board. Several hundred yards distant, a huge boulder rested at the very edge of the cliff, so Gonch went to that and sat down with his back to[43] it, safe from spying and interruption. It trembled as he touched it; a huge stone of many tons weight and yet it moved with the mere touch of his shoulders. It had been long since any man dared to go near this eerie boulder which rocked with the wind. Some said that a giant flesh-eating beast had long been sealed within it and that it struggled to escape when the wind blew. So they gave it a wide berth but Gonch, having neither seen nor heard of it before, considered it a mere rock. Here was a good place to seclude himself and so he crouched with his back to it and to the valley below him. He tried to think and plan but with his slightest motion, the boulder teetered from side to side. It was most disconcerting; the stone seemed bewitched. He scrambled to his feet and walked around it wondering how a mere rock could have gotten itself into such a peculiar predicament.
Nothing but an ordinary stone; of that he soon assured himself. It was so evenly balanced that he might tip it over and send it crashing down the cliffs if he chose. He was about to resume his former seat behind it when he heard sounds in the valley below. He poked his head over the cliff coping, then as quickly withdrew it to avoid being seen.
Two animals were plodding along the foot of the cliffs. Soon they would pass directly beneath the man crouching above their heads; also they would pass beneath the Tilting Stone.
Gonch got upon his hands and knees growling[44] softly like a tiger awaiting its prey. He had recognized the two animals at a glance. They were the Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros. This was the chance of a lifetime. He a lone man might slay one or both beasts by the mere touch of his hand.
“There are none here to see,” something within him said. “Who will deny that the rock simply fell? Who can say what caused it to fall? Be a man and vent your spite on this mad flint-worker.” He growled softly once more, set his shoulders against the stone and waited.
The thumping of feet sounded almost beneath the Tilting Stone. Gonch listened intently, timing himself for the fateful moment. The beasts were walking fast as he could hear but it was not given him to know that the sounds took time travelling from the foot of the cliffs to where he crouched. The moment had arrived. He gave one mighty shove. The stone lost its balance—almost too slowly—then gathering momentum, went tumbling over the cliff. For an instant, Gonch stood outlined against the sky, then a shrill cry rang out below and he jumped back just as the boulder struck bottom with a tremendous crash. He heard squeals and bellows but he dared not look to see, for that voice—the cry of a human being, had terrified him. Away he bolted across the plateau and from the cliffs as fast as his legs would carry him.
[45]
The Fall of the Tilting Stone
[46]
Down in the valley, the boy Kutnar was running toward the fallen boulder, shouting “Hi—yo!” and waving his arms at the Mammoth and Rhinoceros who were galloping away in a great fright because of the falling stone that had crashed to the ground so closely behind them. They heard someone shouting and recognized Kutnar’s voice, so they slowed up and looked back. All was now quiet and finally by much arm-waving, the lad induced his two friends to return. This they did very slowly and carefully, not feeling entirely convinced that all danger had passed. Kutnar was perched astride of the great boulder that had so nearly destroyed them. He spoke in the strange tongue that Hairi and Wulli so well knew.
“I saw it falling,” he said as they came up. “I shouted to warn you.”
The snorts, squeals and grunts with which the two animals answered would have meant nothing to an ordinary man; but Kutnar had no trouble understanding them.
“A narrow escape,” sighed the Mammoth who was trembling from head to foot. “It is but a stone but it fell. What caused it to fall? It might have killed us.”
“It would certainly have killed us, had it dropped upon our backs,” said the Rhinoceros solemnly. “Never was I so startled. I nearly jumped over my nose-horn.”
“And I, over my tusks,” the Mammoth added.
Kutnar laughed. “Yes you both jumped like rabbits”; then he looked up at the cliffs and his face became serious. “The stone did not fall of itself,”[47] he said, half to himself. “Someone pushed it over. I saw——”
“Someone pushed it?” inquired the Mammoth. He looked thoughtfully at the great boulder and shivered. It had been a nerve-racking experience. He hoped he would never have another like it.
“Yes, someone pushed it,” Kutnar repeated.
“Who?”
“I do not know. I saw him but an instant; then he jumped back.”
“It must have been the Cave Lion,” the Mammoth suggested. “He hates us and only a strong animal could have moved such a big rock.”
“No, it was not the Cave Lion.” Kutnar became silent as he watched the Rhinoceros who was now sniffing the stone vigorously. Finally Wulli’s nose settled on one spot and here he made a most thorough investigation. When this was concluded to his satisfaction, he raised his head and gazed triumphantly, first at one then the other of his companions.
“I know,” he squealed. “I found where he touched it. My nose never lies. I know.”
“Who was it?” the Mammoth asked.
“A hyena.”
“A hyena?” the boy laughed. “No, Wulli; you are wrong for once. Smell again.”
The Rhinoceros took another long careful sniff. Once more he raised his head and maintained stubbornly: “My nose never lies, I tell you. I know[48] that smell of him who eats men and bad meat. I say it was a hyena.”
For an instant the boy eyed his companion in doubt. Heretofore Wulli’s nose had been infallible. It was his eyes versus the Rhino’s nose. Probably the eyes were mistaken. They had caught only a fleeting glimpse. He laughed again. A second laugh echoed overhead. The three friends looked hastily upward and saw a hideous face leering down upon them. Quick as lightning, Kutnar made ready his sling and hurled a pebble. A loud yelp and the face disappeared. “Hyena it was,” said the lad. “Wulli is right; his nose never lies, but had I not seen the beast a second time, I would have sworn that he who pushed the rock down upon us, was a man.”