The hunt was ended. The roe-buck had breathed his last and lay where he had fallen with glazed eyes staring at the sky. The Cave-men were gathered about the body, preparing to remove the skin and quarter the carcass for transport across the meadows.

While his followers were thus engaged, the burly Mousterian chieftain withdrew to the neighboring stream to cool his heated brow and rest himself. The chase had been a hard one but he was in rare humor nevertheless. His dart had been the first to reach its mark; and after the long chase, his ax had dealt the finishing stroke. As he sat upon the bank gazing at the water below him, his thoughts were rudely disturbed by a loud “Hi-yo!” coming from across the stream. He looked up and saw a man standing on the opposite bank. The stranger shouted again and waved an arm. The hunters now came running up to obtain a better view of the newcomer.

“Who is it?” asked one.

“If I had not with my own eyes seen him fall a victim to the Mammoth and Rhinoceros, I would say it was the Ape Boy,” said another.

[249]

The burly chief glared fiercely at the one who had just spoken.

“Ape Boy? Bah! Let no man speak that name again if he values his own beast-hide. He is Pic, Killer of the Bison. Remember it well.”

“Killer of the Mammoth and Rhinoceros too,” added the man thus chided. “How else could he return to us alive?”

Meanwhile the stranger was wading and swimming across the stream. The hunters gazed at him in awe as he drew nearer and nearer. He emerged at last, climbed the bank and shook the dripping water from his body.

“Do the dead live again?” asked the amazed chieftain. “Or do I see before me, one greater than the mighty Mammoth?”

Pic merely grinned. “The Mammoth? Agh; no matter. I drove him and the other beast away. But enough of them. Tell your men to step back. I have something which you alone should see.”

The chieftain shouted a command and in a moment his followers were hustling back to their business about the dead buck.

Pic squatted upon his haunches and took a deep breath. He held a packet of rabbit-skin in his hand.

“Since leaving you, my days were spent alone upon the Rock,” he began.

“Alone? Why?” the chieftain demanded.

[250]

“I was—um-m—sick.” Pic suddenly remembered the half-healed wound in his thigh. He did look a bit thin and haggard. Hard work and light eating had left their marks.

“Bah!” The chieftain was again gazing dreamily at the water. His brows were contracted in deep thought. He seemed to have forgotten the other’s presence.

“While I was—um—sick,” Pic began, “I spent my time making something for you to see.” He glanced at the Cave-men who were now engaged in skinning the dead buck, then held out the packet of rabbit fur. The chieftain took a quick sidelong glance, then looked away.

“Ugh,” was all he said.

Pic rolled back a fold of the packet, meanwhile watching the other closely from the corners of his eyes. A large flint blade was disclosed—a skinning knife. In form and finish, it was a gem.

The chieftain lost his far-away look. He began to fidget. His mouth watered as he observed that which lay so temptingly within his reach. He made a supreme effort to conceal his true feelings; but flesh and blood could not—would not—stand the strain. He gasped, turned quickly and pointed to the skinning-blade.

“That flint you hold—Agh! Let me see it.”

Pic’s blood surged through his veins like molten steel. With difficulty, he stilled the exultation[251] raging within him and preserved his appearance of outward calm. Without a word, he handed the flint to his companion who seized it eagerly and ran his thumb along one edge.

“It is indeed a treasure,” he exclaimed. “Never have I seen the like. Would you part with it?”

To conceal his bubbling joy, Pic now drew a long face.

“Part with it?” he exclaimed in tones of well-feigned astonishment. “Then I would have nothing—unless you chose to give me something in return.”

The chieftain chuckled inwardly at this shrewd suggestion. “My share of the buck, how would that suit you? I would give even that for such a flint as this. What say you? A haunch of venison? You have been ill. The meat will make you strong.”

But Pic merely shook his head.

“A hide; one, two, three,” the Mousterian leader held up one finger after another but without increasing the other’s interest a single whit. “Here is an odd fellow,” he thought to himself. “Nothing appears to please him. He is our best warrior and may well give me the worst of it if I fight him for the flint.” He wrinkled his brows, much perplexed. He could make one more offer, such as it was and if that failed, a combat was unavoidable, for he was determined to keep the blade now that it was in his possession.

[252]

“The flint I must have,” he growled. “I will offer you something else—a woman.”

The youth’s manner changed in a flash. He raised his head and squared his shoulders. “Agreed; the flint is yours. I take the girl—she who so narrowly escaped death on the butcher block.”

The Mousterian leader was astounded. He had not expected such quick and ready response. He now recalled Pic’s interest in the young woman and already repented his offer. “Oho,” he thought; “What a calf I was;” and his face assumed such a cunning expression, Pic saw in a moment that he had overplayed his hand.

“Ugh! Not so fast,” he remonstrated; “The girl is my daughter and the daughter of a chi............