The Hunter Returns

by David Drake

  A monstrous ground sloth, a beast fully eighteen feet long, moved slowly among them. The dull-witted, harmless creature reared to curl its long tongue around a small branch and strip off the leaves. Bruising them between its hard, toothless gums, it swallowed the leaves and reached out for more.

  Hawk looked questioningly back to where the tribe had disappeared. It wanted food, and here was easy game to last all of them for many days to come. The giant sloths were neither agile nor quick-witted. When attacked, they tried only to get away unless they were in some corner from which there was no escape. Then they fought fiercely, and were so big and strong that they could kill or seriously injure anything they could reach with their long, hooked claws. But they were unable to strike fast, and a group of skilled hunters could always kill one.

  However, the tribe was gone beyond recall and just one man could not hope to kill a beast so huge. Much as he and Willow needed meat, the giant sloth would have to go on his slow, harmless way.

  When they reached the site of last night’s camp, Hawk poked in the white ashes with a stick, and uncovered a bed of glowing coals. Then he hesitated.

  Secretly he had questioned some tribal practices and taboos, but now that it was necessary for him to take over another man’s task he was filled with uncertainty. Kar had always been the Chief Fire-Maker and only Kar knew all the secrets of fire. Anyone else who tried to control its power would be interfering with something about which he knew little. Anything could happen.

  Deliberately Hawk kept his eyes from Willow, who had seated herself on her former bed of leaves and was applying a fresh herb compress to her wound. Hawk looked all about, and discovered nothing dangerous. Spear in hand, club dangling from his girdle, he went into the forest.

  He knew the various kinds of wood because, in experimenting with spear shafts, he had used limbs from most of the trees. But he had also watched Kar and his helpers bring wood in, and had noticed that wood suitable for spears was evidently not acceptable for fires. Almost always in starting a fire, Kar had used dead wood, whereas a spear-maker needed the straightest, hardest, and greenest shoots.

  As he strode among the great trees he remained alert to everything about him. He automatically noted where to find a future supply of spear shafts, where small animals had their secret lairs, where there were nesting birds, and where beasts had been. The faint, stale odor of wild dogs still clung to the mat of fallen leaves, but the dogs had left.

  Hawk soon found what he was seeking. A mighty tree had fallen, dragging others with it, and the place was now an almost impenetrable mass of dead and dying branches. Hawk broke a branch from the dead tree and dragged it back behind him.

  When he cast his branch on the glowing ashes, a shower of sparks rose. Powder-thin ashes sifted into the air and for a moment hovered in a tiny gray cloud. Hawk watched, perplexed.

  This was the way it should be done, for this was the way he had seen Kar do it. But no flame and scarcely any smoke rose from the tree limb. Hawk squatted beside it, his eyes intent as he sought to fathom the mystery of fire. He had never built one, and obviously there were secrets connected with the proper making of a good fire that he did not know.

  “Use small pieces.”

  Hawk turned in astonishment to find Willow kneeling beside him.

  “Break off small pieces and put them against the hot ashes,” she repeated.

  She seemed so sure of herself that Hawk broke some slender twigs from the end of the bough, and laid them on the ashes. Almost at once a little tendril of smoke leaped up and a second later there was a tiny tongue of flame. The flame grew, licking eagerly around the bough. Hawk glanced at Willow with a look of respect. Plainly there was more to this fire business than he knew. Even women, ordinarily the lesser part of the tribe, seemed to know more about it than he did.

  The fire rose, and began to burn fiercely at the big bough. Again Hawk went into the forest for wood. He was worried because night was certain to bring wild beasts and they would need a fire all night. But the flames seemed to be eating the wood faster than he could carry it. Returning with the wood he could carry, he threw an armful of dry branches on the fire. Rising sparks made a bright shower, and the flames raged high.

  As darkness began to fall, Willow wearily fell asleep on her bed, and Hawk began a frantic search for enough wood to last them through the night. Now he was no longer as careful in what he selected; anything would do. Green branches went with dead ones onto the fire. As he piled them there, Hawk noticed that the fire burned more slowly. He squatted beside his blaze, looking intently into it, seeking an answer to the puzzling question of why his fire did not now consume the wood so rapidly.

  When he rose he had learned something new. Dead wood created a fierce blaze, but wood with sap still in it burned slower. Therefore, dead wood was the fire-maker, but green was its keeper. Having found this out, Hawk brought in a large pile of both. As night shadows became deeper, he sat silently beside his fire. When a tiger coughed out in the darkness he scarcely even glanced up.

  Never in the history of his tribe had a tiger attacked human beings who were sitting around a fire. Of course a pack of starving wolves or wild dogs might come, and if so they would have to be dealt with, but there was small use in worrying about anything before it happened. Let the next hour bring what it would. They were safe for this one.

  Hawk picked up an extra spear shaft and began to toy with it. He drilled the shaft into the ground, bent it with his hand, and tried to brace his spear against it. He pulled the shaft out of the ground and examined it again. It was not good to drill it into the earth; there were too many things that could go wrong. But the slender shaft still retained its supple strength, and would, no matter where it was.

  Hawk tightened his fingers around it, then squeezed so hard that his clenched knuckles whitened. He could not depend upon finding a place to brace his shaft whenever he needed it, but a man’s hand was always ready! This, then, was the answer! Hawk laid the shaft back in his hand and tried to brace a spear against it. He could not. The spear was lying parallel with the shaft and there was nothing against which it might be held. The shaft needed a cross-piece or projection of some kind, something against which the butt end of the spear could be braced.

  Feverishly Hawk took up the throwing-stick, which his father had never showed him how to use. At last he knew! The magic had finally been revealed to him. Hawk grasped the smooth end of the throwing-stick and swished it experimentally through the air. The smooth end fitted his clenched hand perfectly and, almost of its own volition, the other end rose easily into the air. All the power and strength, all the magic of wood, were there. Hawk was no longer in doubt as to how it should be used.

  Holding the smooth end in his right hand, Hawk laid back the throwing-stick until it was level, and shoulder high. Then he fitted the butt of a spear against the hollow at the base of the branch. It worked smoothly, naturally, as it was supposed to work. The butt of the spear was braced against the short branch; the center of the spear shaft fitted easily into his palm, and the spear had an almost perfect balance. Hawk did not throw at once, but he felt that he could hurl the spear a great distance. The throwing-stick seemed to double the length and strength of his arm.

  Hawk removed the spear, then put it back into position. Again and again, never releasing the spear, he swung his arm back, then forward. Then he looked around. Some distance away, faintly revealed in the fire’s dancing light, was a tuft of withered grass. Hawk swung his arm forward and cast his spear at the grass.

  The weapon landed almost two feet to one side of the tuft, but some hunters could never come within two feet of their targets anyway. Retrieving the spear, Hawk threw again, allowing for his previous margin of error. This time the spear landed within a few inches of its target. Again he cast the weapon. Out of a dozen throws, he hit the tuft of grass squarely four times. Had it been an animal of any size, he would have struck it every time. The magic of the throwing-stick was his!


  Suddenly aware of danger, he raced lightly forward, snatched up his spear, and held it ready. Willow rose from her bed, struggled to her feet, and looked around. Painfully she bent to catch up a large stone lying at her feet.

  The wild dogs were coming back. The wind told Hawk that there were only two of them, but that they were determined to attack. Theirs was a fighting scent, the odor of intent beasts of prey. As he followed their progress by the breeze, Hawk balanced a spear in the throwing-stick.

  Had there been a pack of dogs he would not have done such a thing. The spear-thrower was new and experimental, and he had practiced too little to know much about it. If he kept the spear in his hands he could certainly kill one of the dogs, but there were only two and he thought he could handle both with his club, if the spear-thrower failed. He waited tensely.

  He saw motion in the grass, but restrained himself. The instinct to hurl a spear was born in him; spears had always been the most important part of his whole life. However, all his life he had thrown spears with arm power alone. Now he waited because he was not sure; for a second he was tempted to remove the spear from the throwing-stick. Then the feel of it gave him confidence. It was strong and good. He must trust it.

  He shifted the spear a bit, remembering the lessons taught by practice. To control the eager spirit of the green wood, the spear must be held exactly right and the throwing-stick must be given just the right motion. Hawk remained still until the wind and the gently rustling grass told him that the approaching dogs were about as far away as the tuft of withered grass had been. He squinted his eyes, trying hard to see. The head and fore parts of a dog were framed in the grass.

  They were there for only a split second, but that was enough. Anyone who lived by hunting had to learn, first of all, to take advantage of opportunities. Hawk cast his spear.

  He heard it strike, and saw a thrashing in the tall grass. Instantly he was running forward, his club upraised. Meeting the other dog, he sidestepped as it struck at his throat. Hawk smashed his club solidly down on the dog’s head. It staggered, threw itself about, and went limp.

  Scarcely pausing, for he was in the fire’s outer glow and therefore in a very dangerous place, Hawk went forward to get the spear-stricken dog. It was a female, and the one he had killed with his club was a big male. Doubtless they were a mated pair with puppies somewhere in the forest.

  Hawk dragged both dogs to the fire and left them beside Willow. Then he squatted down near the fire.

  He still shivered with excitement at the power of the wonderful new weapon that was now his. It was a long-sought answer to two pressing problems: how to stay far enough from dangerous game and at the same time attack it; and how to reach out and kill small, agile beasts which hitherto had eluded the hunters. At last he had a weapon with which he could strike at an unheard-of distance.

  Hawk sat still, so entranced by the new and wonderful spear-thrower that he paid small attention to the familiar smell of burned hair and roasting meat. But when Willow brought him the roasted haunch of one of the dogs he tore happily at it. Finished, he looked to his fire and lay down to sleep.

  His slumber was light. Ceaseless vigilance, an ability to be awake and on one’s feet fighting, all in the same instant, was the price of life. Hawk awakened at intervals to tend his fire and to test the various winds. No danger threatened.

  He slept sporadically, satisfied that all was well and still refusing to worry about what tomorrow might bring. Banishment should have meant death in a matter of hours, but he and Willow were still alive and had food in plenty. They also had fire, their surest protection. Hawk rested contentedly, knowing that at any moment he might have to fight for his life but accepting that fact as a normal part of existence.

  With dawn he rose and ate more meat, which Willow cooked. The day would bring its own special problems and the question of coping with them occupied his thoughts.

  Until now his life had been a nomadic one. The tribe to which he had belonged had always found it necessary to wander, to follow the game herds upon which they depended for food. Often they passed one season hundreds of miles from where they had spent the previous one. There was no such thing as a settled or permanent home.

  And the tribe, with a dozen strong hunters, had been able to wander. That many spearsmen, presenting a united front, could beat back almost anything that attacked. Even the ferocious saber-tooth was not a match for twelve spears.

  But Hawk knew that he could not possibly wander now. Even if he were not accompanied by the wounded Willow, one man alone was no match for all the dangers of traveling. He must have a haven, some place of safety, and the fire was the safest place he knew. He hauled more wood and built his fire up. Then he looked restlessly about.

  The second absolute necessity for just staying alive was plenty of food. For the present he had plenty, but it would not last. He must get more, and the fact that he had to hunt meant that he must leave the safety of the fire.

  Hawk carefully fashioned two more spears for himself, then lashed points to them from the flints and thongs in his pouch. He tried them both for balance, and fitted them to his spear-thrower. Satisfied, he glided softly into the forest.

  Seeking game, Hawk walked as cunningly and as carefully as any four-footed hunter. He used his eyes, ears, and nose, as completely as any beast of the forest. Always he hunted into the wind, so that he might be sure of everything about him.

  Suddenly he halted, his nostrils dilating as they detected a faint scent. The odor strengthened, bringing to him positive news of a great cave bear. Hawk stood still, smelling, looking, listening. Cave-dwelling bears were monstrous things, even more savage than the saber-tooth tigers. From time to time, when they were desperate for food, the tribe’s hunters had attacked and killed a bear, but such a creature was far more than a match for one man. Still, for safety’s sake, he had better locate the bear’s cave.

  Cautiously he stole forward, only to halt again as a new scent began to mingle with that of the bear.

  It was the odor of dire wolves, giant beasts larger than the deer they usually hunted. A pack of them must be after the bear.

  Just ahead of him was a small hillock crowned with a group of trees. Hawk ran swiftly up the slope and stopped beneath a tree whose low-hanging branches offered a quick climb to safety if need be. He peered around the trunk.

  Across a small meadow, and against the side of another hill, the cave’s black entrance made a gaping hole. Taller than a man, it was little more than a yard wide. Nothing was visible, but Hawk was sure that the bear was within his den. Wolf scent grew stronger.

  They swept into sight, a score of them. Lean gray beasts, each almost as tall as a man, the pack was strong and knew it. Even a herd of giant bison might fear such a pack. Should they attack a marching tribe, one unprotected by fire, the best the hunters could do would be to climb the nearest trees. Unfortunate humans caught on the ground would be torn apart in seconds.

  The pack was intent on the bear’s den, and without hesitation swept in to attack. To Hawk, watching from the opposite hill, the cave’s dark entrance seemed to become a shade darker, and then the massive head and shoulders of the bear were framed in it. The wolves were leaping now, crowding each other in their eagerness to close. They swept in from every angle.

  Like swift clubs the bear’s paws flashed. His great jaws snapped, and three wolves lay where they had fallen. More pressed in, so many that for a moment, the cave’s mouth and the bear were almost hidden beneath a wave of wolves.

  Then, almost as suddenly as it had started, the fight was over. Leaving its dead behind, the battered pack withdrew. For a few minutes the wolves milled uncertainly, as though they would attack again. Then they trotted away.

  Hawk waited until he was sure they were gone before he left the sheltering trees. It had been a surprising fight. The bear should have been killed, and would have had he been caught in the open. But he had chosen his position well and defended it easily. His tender flanks and belly,
his most vulnerable parts, had been protected on three sides, and he had won his battle.

  It was something to think about. Hawk added the incident to his wealth of forest lore.

  He continued his hunt, searching out those places where he thought game would be. Presently he stopped again. Just ahead, a herd of antelope was feeding. Hawk stalked the small beasts carefully. He fixed a spear in his throwing-stick, stepped around a tree, and found himself within a few yards of the antelope.

  They reacted in their usual fashion. Leaping and jumping erratically, they seemed for a moment unable to decide just where they were to go. Hawk cast his spear and saw it transfix a buck. Entering one side, the spear head and six inches of shaft protruded through the other. Happily Hawk went forth to retrieve his game. Again he had done it. Again he had killed game at a greater distance than a man could throw a hand spear by strength alone.

  As Hawk shouldered the little buck, he straightened and stood still, alerted by the scent of dog. It was a puzzling odor, last night’s stale smell mingled with a faint but fresh one. Hawk followed his nose.

  He looked beneath the roots of a great tree at two snarling puppies.

  WOLVES

  The mammoth had begun bellowing in the middle of the night. The men of Wolf’s tribe awakened immediately. They squatted, shoulder to shoulder, just inside the glow of firelight.

  The hunters murmured among themselves as they strained their ears to catch every detail of sound and scent which the wind bore.

  The commotion might mean food, and the tribe needed food very badly. Wolf’s belly pinched though he, as Chief Hunter, had eaten as well as any of the men in the tribe. The women looked gaunt, and several of the children cried listlessly with hunger.

  When dawn was a hint so slight that stars still sparkled on the eastern horizon, Wolf muttered, “Come!” He got up, carrying his two spears in his left hand. Several of the hunters watched their chief in concern.