Caves That Time Forgot

by Gilbert L. Morris

  He had made a leather quiver, and the four arrows he and Beno had fashioned were in it. He carried the six-foot bow, unstrung, and indeed it looked feeble enough.

  Clag led the party. They traveled steadily for three hours, and by the time they got to a place that satisfied the chief, Dave was almost winded. I wish, he thought, I could run as far as these guys do. They’d sure make good marathon runners back home.

  The chief raised his arm and pointed toward a thicket, then to the ground. “See. Game inside bush!” He looked at the flimsy bow in Dave’s hand and said, “We drive. You kill.”

  Dave caught his meaning. Clag sent four hunters out wide, and Dave knew whatever was in the thicket would be driven toward him soon.

  Quickly he attached the vine string to the bow. Then, reaching back, he pulled out an arrow, almost three feet long. He put the notch on the string, allowed it to fall upon the top of his fist, and gave a tentative pull. He had made the bow much thicker than normal, knowing that whatever he shot at would be tough.

  He turned sideways, pulled it back to full draw, his right hand underneath his right ear, and sighted down the arrow. “Ought to do it,” he said, “if they don’t drive a t-rex out of there.”

  He carefully eased off on the string and began to advance toward the thicket. He heard Clag cautioning the others to stay back, and he heard Lom’s snort of disbelief. Cautiously Dave moved forward.

  Now the hunters Clag had sent out were yelling and beating the bushes.

  When Dave was thirty feet from the thicket, he stopped and planted his feet. “Ought to be about right,” he said rather nervously. “I just hope they don’t drive anything too mean out of there.”

  Then he heard a thrashing. The bushes moved, and an animal charged through the thicket. Dave raised the bow and held it steady. It seemed not to be a large animal —at least not one as dangerous as a t-Rex—but at first he couldn’t see what it was for the shrubs. And then it exploded into the clear. A razorback pig! The biggest one I ever saw!

  The boar was fully four feet tall at the shoulder. It had a pair of red, piggish eyes and huge, sharp tusks like knives going up from each side of its snout. It was heavy in the shoulders and narrow in the flanks—and it spotted Dave at once. With a wild, brutish snort, the pig threw itself forward.

  Dave almost panicked. If I miss, he’ll rip me open with those tusks! I can’t miss!

  As the boar headed straight for him, Dave took a deep breath and pulled the bow back to his ear. He strained with the effort. Got to wait! he thought. I’ll only get one chance.

  Dave let the pig take two more steps—then, sighting down the arrow, he breathed a quick cry for help to Goél and released the string.

  Twang!

  He had no chance to flee, and his heart was in his throat. Then he saw the arrow strike the boar squarely in the chest. The enraged pig still almost got to him before it weakened. Dave leaped aside, and the boar made one sweep with its jaws, catching him on the leg. Dave’s calf felt as if it had been touched with a hot iron, and he rolled to the ground thinking, He’s got me!

  But the boar gave a series of snorts, then collapsed. Its feet kicked wildly, and then they fell still.

  A wild yell came from the hunters.

  Then Dave felt strong hands pulling him to his feet. Clag was holding him by the shoulders, his eyes wild with excitement. “You great hunter!” he exclaimed. He picked up the bow and held it as if it were magic. His eyes were reverent. “This good!”

  Dave breathed a sigh of relief.

  He noticed, however, that Lom hung back. Lom did not join the crowd of eager hunters that came to admire the bow and the dead pig. Dave thought, Wait till I tell the story tonight. Then we’ll see.

  Back at the cave the Sleepers were glad to see Dave. But Sarah saw his bloody leg at once. “Your leg! You’ve been hurt!”

  “Oh, that’s nothing.” Dave shrugged. “Just a scratch.”

  “No, I’d better put some antiseptic on it. You’re not as tough as these folks.”

  She dressed his leg, and the others gathered around as Dave told his story. His eyes were alive with excitement. “You should have seen Clag’s face. I’ll tell you, he was amazed!”

  Later that night, after the boar had been roasted and eaten, every stomach was full, and there was a good air about the crowd, Clag said, “Today you tell.”

  Dave got up, looked over at Lom, then smiled. He began to tell the story of the hunt and threw himself into it. The warriors accompanied him with yells when he told how the boar had gone down.

  As soon as he finished, he sat down beside Reb, who looked at him with an odd light in his eye.

  “I thought you said yesterday that Lom was bragging too much. You didn’t sound like any shrinking violet to me.”

  Dave shifted uncomfortably. He knew he had been boastful—and wished he hadn’t been quite so much like the young hunter. But it was too late now.

  Then the chief came over. Dave stood, and Clag began to make a long-winded speech about how brave this young man was and how wonderful things were going to be. “This bow, you call it. You make more?”

  “Oh, yes.” Dave did have one gracious moment. He went over and put his hand on Beno’s shoulder. “It wouldn’t have been possible without Beno, Chief. Arrows must have arrowheads.” He patted Beno benevolently. “This is the man that makes it all work.”

  As Dave said this, he happened to glance at Eena. He saw her eyes go to the young craftsman. He saw her thoughtful look.

  But Clag was going on with his speech. “You and Beno make many bow. Many arrow.” He held up one.

  “Yes, we can do that.”

  Then Clag said, “Good. When we have many bow and arrow, we go kill Mord’s men. Take their women!”

  A wild yell went up from the hunters, and Dave looked aghast.

  Josh came over. “I think we’re in trouble, Dave. We’ve got a war on our hands now. I don’t think this is exactly what Goél sent us here to do!”

  10

  The Captive

  It’s a good thing Beno can’t turn out arrowheads like a factory,” Josh said to Sarah. They were walking along the river.

  “You mean a war is going to start as soon as Clag gets enough bows and arrows to arm the tribe?” She looked out over the water thoughtfully, watching a huge log float along as she spoke.

  “That’s right. We’ve got to do something, Sarah! We can’t let the tribe kill other people with those arrows!”

  “But what can we do? Clag won’t listen to any talk of peace. We’ve already tried that.”

  For several days they had met with the chief, who had listened impatiently as various members of the Sleepers tried to tell him that it would be better not to kill Mord’s tribe.

  “We no kill them, they kill us!” he argued.

  Dave had been quiet ever since his scheme backfired. He suggested once to Beno that perhaps he shouldn’t make more arrowheads. But Clag knew that Beno was able to make them, and that settled it.

  Reb had been engaged in the pursuits he enjoyed, making lariats out of vines and teaching some of the tribesmen to lasso things. He had little success however, for they were clumsy.

  “Good night!” he said. “Back where I come from, even the babies in the cradle know how to rope.”

  He made a loop and began to spin it. It grew larger and larger. He stepped inside it like a circus performer, a grin on his face. “Now, that’s the way you’re supposed to make it work.” Then he suddenly made the loop fly up and over toward Grak, the witch doctor, who was standing a few feet away. The loop fell across his shoulders, and Reb yanked it tight.

  Grak let out a wild yell and tried to run, but he was held fast.

  The watching hunters immediately fell silent, but Reb laughed. He walked over and released the medicine man. “Just a little fun,” he said.

  But Grak’s small black eyes glittered. His lips worked, and he uttered a string of meaningless syllables.

  At once the
hunters broke and ran as if a dinosaur had suddenly appeared.

  “Well, what got into them?” Reb scratched his head.

  “I think,” Jake said, “the old man just put a curse on you.”

  “A curse? I don’t believe in that stuff!” Reb shrugged carelessly.

  “I don’t either,” Jake said, “but they do. Watch out for that old buzzard. He looked like he’d like to slip a knife in your ribs.”

  Later that afternoon Reb went to the chief. “Jake and I are going out on our own hunt. Gonna bring something back alive.”

  Clag was interested in any kind of hunt and wanted to go along. He nodded to Lom and four other men, indicating that they should join the hunting party.

  An hour later, Jake was puffing for breath. “I don’t like this. Anything could happen out here. It’s like living in a zoo, only inside the cages. All we need is one sabertoothed tiger to end everything!”

  Reb gave him a look. “You’re the most pessimistic human I ever saw, Jake. Let’s look at the good side of it. Maybe we won’t get et by a tiger. Think about that.”

  Reb had been scouting out the land and knew what he was looking for. He held up his hand.

  The chief’s eyes were bright. “What you do?” he demanded.

  “There’s some kind of ox critter over there. I aim to get him, and then we’ll see. You let me have first shot, all right?”

  “What is ‘shot’?”

  Reb shook his head. “I sure wish you’d talk Southern,” he said mournfully. “Let me do the hunting this time, all right?”

  “What is ‘all right’?”

  “It means—oh, never mind! Stay here. Send your men out and drive that critter toward me.”

  Clag looked doubtful. “Big horns. Once many hunters be kill with horns from that kind.”

  “He won’t kill me. You just drive him my way.”

  The hunters fanned out and, in their accomplished fashion, soon began yelling to drive the game out of the brush.

  Jake said, “I hope they don’t drive nothing too big out of there. Are you sure this is going to work?”

  “Shore it’ll work! My mama didn’t sponsor no failures. Look out—here it comes!”

  Not one but a half-dozen wild oxen came crashing out of the thicket toward them.

  Jake let out a yelp and made for a tree. He scrambled up it like a monkey.

  The hunters, including the chief, took cover as well.

  But Reb held his ground. He had his Stetson pulled down firmly over his forehead, and his light blue eyes gleamed with excitement. As the small herd thundered toward him, Reb spotted what he wanted—two yearlings, big enough for trouble but not monstrous like the fullgrown animals.

  The four adults charged past. Reb sidestepped neatly and let them go, but he kept his eye on the two younger animals. When they were even with him, he swung the vine rope over his head, and when the larger of the two flashed by, he let fly with his lariat.

  The loop spread wide. It opened up in front of the animal’s legs.

  Reb knew there would be a hard jolt, so when the loop closed, he dug in his heels. If he’d gotten the animal around the neck, he would have been dragged along, but the noose closed on the yearling’s front legs. Although it jerked Reb to the ground, the animal fell, uttering a series of piercing snorts.

  Reb was pulled along several feet, but he let out a wild, “Yippee, I got him!” and scrambled to his feet.

  He ran to the ox, which was struggling to get up, and sat on its head. “You just set there, young feller,” he said. “I got plans for you.”

  Clag and the rest scurried down from the trees and came over, babbling.

  “That was pretty good roping,” Jake said. “If there was a Madison Square Garden here I guess you’d win first prize at the rodeo.”

  “Wasn’t too bad.” The animal was still thrashing about. “Hold him down, you fellers, while I get him ready to take home.”

  Several of the hunters restrained the young ox, and Reb cut two short pieces of vine and tied its front feet together. “OK, you can let him up now. He ain’t going nowhere,” he said cheerfully.

  The tribe watched the beast struggle to its feet, look around, try to run. It was tripped immediately by the hobble. This went on for at least ten falls. Finally the animal was exhausted, and Reb untied its legs.

  “I reckon he’s ready now.” Reb cut off another short piece of his vine rope and fashioned it into a bridle. It went through the animal’s mouth and back over its neck. The yearling tugged at it.

  “Come along now. You’ll get to like us.”

  The animal was hard to lead. Time and again it would try to run, but Reb would jerk its head back. By the time they’d gotten halfway back to the cave, the ox was following as gentle as a lamb.

  At the cave they were met as usual by the women, who started at once clamoring for something to eat.

  “Not this time. I’m going to keep him—along with Pretty Boy,” he said. “I’m going to show you something about this fellow in a few days,” Reb told the chief.

  It was actually a week later. The tribe had gotten accustomed to Reb’s going out with the ox, which he had named Stonewall. They would go off together and come back a few hours later.

  Finally, one morning Reb said, “Y’all come. I got something to show you.”

  Clag went along, as did Lom and the rest of the Sleepers. Eena and some of the women followed.

  Reb led them to an open field. “Now, you watch this. Me and Beno been working on this.” He looped a series of vine ropes over Stonewall’s head. The ends of the vines were already tied to what appeared to be sticks fastened together. He grasped the stick contraption by two protruding handles and said, “You ain’t never seen this, I reckon.”

  “Why, it’s a plow!” Josh said in astonishment.

  “Yep, that’s what it is. Watch this now.” Reb steadied the device, and called out, “Hup, Stonewall! Hup!”

  The animal lumbered forward, pulling the contraption easily. The plow had a stone point—no doubt made by Beno—that turned over the light soil in a nice furrow.

  Then Reb cried out, “Gee, Stonewall! Gee!” Obediently the ox made a wide turn and came back. Reb stopped, looking back at his double furrow. “Look at that!” he said proudly. “Ain’t everybody can plow a straight line like that. How do you like it, Chief?”

  Clag stared. “What it for?”

  “Well, I thought you folks might learn to farm a little bit. Your daughter—Eena here—she’s got a mighty good idea. What we need to do is plant these seeds, and pretty soon you’ll have a garden.”

  It took a while to explain the concept of garden to Clag, but he appeared interested.

  Lom, however, said in disgust, “Only women play in dirt!” He turned around and walked away his back straight.

  “I guess Lom doesn’t care for the idea too much,” Josh said, “but it’s a good idea, Chief.” He tried to explain how they could raise gourds and vegetables and roots. “You won’t have to go hunting for them. They’ll be right here for you.”

  Afterward, when the Sleepers gathered for one of their meetings, Josh beamed warmly. “That was fine, Reb. Just the sort of thing that’ll help these people.”

  Dave had said little. He had been subdued ever since his idea of the arrows failed. Now he went off by himself, looking sullen.

  Abbie followed him. “What’s the matter, Dave? Things are working out pretty well—except for the war that might come.”

  “If you’ve come to nag me,” Dave snapped, “you can go somewhere else. I don’t need it.”

  “Well, all right,” Abbie said stiffly. “If you’re going to be that way, I’ll just let you alone.”

  Dave was sorry but was too proud to say so. He walked for a long time by the river, filled with apprehension and doubt. When he was coming back, still thinking about his problems, a shout from the cave took him by surprise.

  Something’s wrong! He dashed up the path and found all the tri
be circled around something he couldn’t see. Shoving his way through, he burst into the inner circle.

  There stood a young man, someone he’d never seen before, a tall young man with reddish hair that was now down in his eyes. He’d been injured, for blood trickled down his scalp, but he stood fearlessly looking around at the hunters, who were yelling and brandishing axes at him.

  “Who’s that, Chief?”

  Clag was smiling broadly—it was one of the few times Dave had ever seen him show such pleasure. “This Ral.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “He from Mord’s tribe. He Ral, son of Mord.” He walked up to the young man, who faced him unafraid. His arm had been wounded too, for blood dripped from his elbow.

  “You come to spy,” Clag grunted, and then he raised his ax.

  The young man called Ral still showed not a flicker of fear. “No,” he said. “I lost.”

  “You lie.” Grak danced into the circle. He wore a necklace of bones, as usual, and his face was painted yellow and blue. He looked hideous. His screams rent the air. “You die! You die! We give you to Greska.”

  “No, I kill,” Clag said.

  But Grak threw himself into one of his fits. He fell on the ground and shrieked. Then he got up and, for an old man, moved surprisingly fast. He danced around the chief and the young enemy warrior, screeching, “He belong to Greska.”

  Then Clag seemed to relent. He reluctantly nodded at the young warrior. “Yes, give to Greska. Take him to stone.”

  Strong hands seized Ral and dragged him along. Fists struck him many times, but he uttered not a word.

  “We’ve got to stop this!” Dave gasped.

  “If you interfere, you’ll take on that old witch doctor,” Jake said. “He’s got these folks convinced. Why, they’re just liable to take us instead, if we mess with their religious ceremony.”

  But Dave and the other Sleepers followed along, their cries drowned out by the howling warriors, who by now had thrown themselves into a frenzy.

  Finally they reached a large, flat rock. Four warriors threw Ral down on it, each holding a hand or foot so that he was spread-eagled.

  Then the witch doctor grinned and plucked a sharp stone from the pouch at his waist. He stood over the helpless young man. “We give heart to Greska.”