The Hunter Returns

by David Drake

  Wolf skipped back around the range, angrily gesturing his people to follow him. They didn’t dare fight against such odds.

  “What you are doing is not right!” he shouted at Bull.

  But as the Chief Hunter fled, he wondered if perhaps the old woman was right. Maybe he and his tribe really were accursed.

  TAIL FEATHER

  The tiger facing Hawk crouched close to the ground, a fierce, tawny menace. Its saber teeth, long upper tusks protruding six inches from either side of its jaw, flashed white in the sunshine. Its short tail was bent in a half-curve behind it, and the powerful shoulders rippled as it gathered itself for the attack. It did not snarl, but merely looked with deadly eyes at the two humans it had trapped. Hawk backed cautiously, keeping Willow behind him and scarcely noticing the puppies. To have an enemy between him and the nearest place of safety was a situation that should never occur. He glanced quickly at the fire, where he had left his spears and throwing-stick. He knew that it was impossible to fight a saber-tooth with just a club alone. But that was all he had, and he clenched his fingers around it desperately.

  He wasted no time wondering why the tiger was here instead of harassing the camel herd, where he had been sure it would be. Instead, he glanced all around, taking exact note of everything that lay about him. A little to one side was a nest of boulders. If he could get to them before the tiger charged, the boulders would serve as weapons should he lose his club in the fight. They would also supply some slight protection. Hawk began edging toward the boulders.

  The tiger followed him, in no hurry. A cat who knew it had a victim trapped, it was taking its time and playing a bit before delivering the final killing blow. The tiger advanced a step at a time, hindquarters near the ground and humped shoulders rising. Hawk gauged the distance to the boulders, and planned his next move.

  Men of the early wandering tribes were distinguished from beasts principally by their intelligence, their ability to think. It was a man and not a tiger or bear who had first thought of picking up a piece of flint and using it as an axe. It was a man who thought of tying a flint head to a stick and thus having a spear. Man learned that fire could be a servant rather than a terrible master. Man, eternally groping for cause and effect, rather than meekly accepting what offered, had progressed because he was inquisitive. Despite the fact that many had died because man insisted on tampering with things toward which no mere instinct had directed him, those who survived had learned more and more.

  A deer or antelope in Hawk’s place would have trembled and awaited the tiger’s charge. A wolf might have prepared to fight back, knowing his case was hopeless but fighting by instinct. Hawk sought a means to outwit his foe because he knew that even hopeless situations could be changed. He should have died when he was banished, but he had not. If he died now, it would not be because he had not tried to live and to protect the girl with him. Again he gauged the exact distance to the boulders, and gripped his club a little more tightly.

  All in a split second, the tiger made Hawk’s decision for him. Stiffening his tail, he padded rapidly forward, snarling. Hawk took two quick steps to the side. As he did so, he shouted as loudly as he could. It was a war cry and a challenge meant to focus the enemy’s attention upon him and to keep that enemy away from what must, if possible, be protected. He was aware of Willow’s breaking away, running toward the pile of boulders. He grasped the club with both hands, ready for the most smashing blow he could deliver.

  Without any warning, a new warrior entered the fight. Shrilling his own war cry, the gray puppy flung himself straight at the mighty saber-tooth.

  He was small, weighing scarcely a dozen pounds, but every inherited sense and instinct had taught him that, from the time he was old enough to walk, he must help protect his own kind. Accepting Willow and Hawk as such, he was giving everything he had to give.

  The tiger stopped, diverted by the attack. When it slapped with its paws, the gray puppy wasn’t there. Instead, he was boring in from the side, scoring the saber-tooth’s flank with his puppy teeth. The tiger twisted around, spitting its rage at this insignificant tormentor. But now the other puppy had entered the fight on his brother’s side. The tiger pounced with both paws and pinned the dun-colored puppy between them. A shrill scream rent the air.

  For a split second Hawk hesitated, for he had neither expected nor counted on interference. Then he recovered himself. The tiger had made a kill, and for at least a short time would gloat over its triumph. It would rend and claw the dead puppy before turning to deal with the other one or before again centering its attention on Hawk and Willow. There would be a brief lull, and Hawk took fullest advantage of it.

  He wheeled, pushing Willow around. Instantly she fell in beside him, and they raced around the preoccupied saber-tooth. Hawk heard the tiger’s angry cough, but did not look back, for now it was a question of speed.

  As they reached the fire, he heard the gray puppy’s shrill battle cry again. Almost without breaking stride Hawk swooped to snatch his spears and throwing-stick. He swung about.

  The saber-tooth had come as near the fire as it dared. Having cast the body of the dun puppy aside, it was snarling in enraged frustration at the two humans. The gray puppy continued its valiant attack, and the tiger swung to strike at it. But the puppy was too agile and elusive.

  Hawk fitted a spear into his throwing-stick and purposely advanced. Seeing him, the tiger paid no further attention to the fiercely attacking gray puppy. The little dog was nothing more than a nuisance, now that bigger game was in sight. The saber-tooth crouched and gathered itself to meet the man’s attack.

  Hawk slowly continued, keeping his eyes on the tiger, on its tense muscles, its jerking tail, and its glaring eyes. At every second he must know exactly what it was going to do next.

  Precisely at the right time—in another flick of an eye the saber-tooth would have charged him—he stopped and cast his spear. It sang through the air, glancing along the tiger’s neck and burying itself in one of the humped shoulders. Hawk stood his ground, for to run now might prove fatal, and fitted his second spear into the throwing-stick.

  The saber-tooth roared in pain and rage, and turned to bite at the protruding spear shaft. Blood ebbed from around the imbedded flint head, and ran down the tawny leg.

  Hawk kept his eyes on the tiger, awaiting his second—and last—chance to throw a spear. Fortunately, the saber-tooth was intent on rending the spear shaft, as though that were a live enemy which had hurt it, and had no thought for anything else. Hawk cast his second spear.

  This time he struck where he had wanted to, in the neck, and a gush of blood spouted around the shaft. The saber-tooth roared again, and reared on its padded hind feet. With powerful front paws it struck at the spear shaft, fell over backward, twisted to its feet, and came forward with great, leaping bounds.

  Hawk stood with his club ready, prepared to fight to a finish. The tiger had been mortally hurt, but was possessed of such strength and vitality that there was no way of telling just when it would collapse. Then it faltered, coughed hoarsely, took three stumbling steps, and sank to the ground.

  Still full of fight, the gray puppy charged up, seized a fold of tawny skin, and strained backward with all his strength. Puppyish growls that foretold the fighting dog to come rolled from its distended throat.

  Hawk turned to find Willow, a heavy stone in her hands, at his shoulder. Then he looked back at the puppy.

  Bristled, stiff-legged, he was walking around and around the tiger. At last convinced that it was dead, he turned contemptuously to scratch dirt over the fallen enemy. Walking proudly, he came back to join Hawk and Willow.

  It was over. They had been attacked by one of the most ferocious of their enemies, and they had defeated it. The fight had left its valuable lessons, too. When the gray puppy brushed Hawk’s leg, he reached down to stroke him lightly. The puppy wriggled in delight, and turned to lick his master’s hand. From now on his place as a valued member of the camp was secure.


  Hawk and Willow grasped the dead tiger by the front paws and dragged it over the grass to the fire. They knelt on opposite sides, flint knives in their hands, while they removed the thick pelt, pulled out the imbedded spears, and cut up the meat. And it was Hawk himself who hacked a choice part from one leg and gave it to the dog. The gray puppy lay before the fire, growling softly as he gnawed his portion.

  The skinning and dismembering of the tiger and the dead puppy over, and the offal dragged far enough so scavengers would feel safe in coming to feed on it, Willow devoted herself to cooking while Hawk stared into the fire.

  It had been a very close call; without the intervention of the two pups he and Willow might have been killed. Obviously they needed better protection than they had, and the answer to that lay in Hawk’s ability to strike hard and often at any foe. But how to acquire that ability?

  Hawk fondled his six darts, and balanced them in his hands. If only the darts were not deflected by any chance wind! If he could find some way to make them obey him, to hit what he threw them at . . .

  He started suddenly, alarmed. Again it was only the bird skin, fluttering in the wind. Irritably Hawk rose, tore it from the bush, and scowled at the rustling feathers. Then he noticed the square-tipped tail. He studied it thoughtfully.

  This he had seen before in some connection, but he could not at once remember what it was. Then, suddenly, he had it. The bird, the little bird which proved whether or not a spear was true! The one with which he had tested Short-Leg’s first spear had not been able to fly straight when its tail feathers were broken. But the second one had flown straight. What did the tail feathers have to do with it? Did the bird with the broken tail lack the same power that his darts did?

  Hawk plucked a couple of feathers from the skin and laid them in the palm of his hand. He looked closely at them, but could see no connection between birds and darts. He let a feather drift to earth, closely watching its erratic course. Again and again he let the feather drop.

  By nightfall he was no nearer a solution to his problem. He had tried letting the feathers drop from every possible angle and in every possible way, and there was nothing about their descent to indicate how they helped guide a bird or how they might guide a spear. Still puzzled, Hawk brought in more firewood and lay down to sleep.

  His problem was there to greet him when he awakened. He was sure that there was something important in the fact that birds could fly straight when they had a whole tail, but couldn’t when they did not. But what was it? He stared moodily into the fire. When he finally rose the gray puppy followed him. Hawk paid no attention, but walked directly to a place near the willows and leaned on his spear, studying the birds flitting about the branches.

  They were of various kinds, from little insect-eaters to fruit-and-bud-eaters, and had different methods of flight. The insect-eaters could bend and twist with unbelievable agility as they pursued their prey. For the most part, the others flew straight. But all seemed to use their tails a great deal, bending them according to the direction in which they wanted to turn or holding them straight if they wished to fly straight.

  Hawk’s interest heightened. As he watched, a big predatory bird swooped out of the sky toward the willows, and the little birds scattered frantically. The big bird selected a victim, and banked sharply to cut it off. The little fruit-eater dove close to the ground, so close that the tips of his beating wings almost touched the earth. The baffled attacker spread his wing and tail feathers wide, to avoid striking the ground, and rose sharply into the air.

  Hawk wandered slowly back to the fire. He had seen and learned much that he had not known before. With renewed interest he picked up a dart and examined its slender length. He took hold of the butt end and squinted down the shaft, then examined the butt.

  A bird’s tail was attached to the rear extremity. Always, when the bird wished to fly straight, and apparently they could do so whenever they wished, the tail was straight. Hawk rolled the dart over and over in his hand. Experimentally he laid one of the feathers against the butt, holding it in place with his thumb. He bound it with sinew.

  Hawk stood erect, the dart in his throwing stick, and cast at a tuft of grass. Great excitement seized him.

  The dart landed to one side, but it was much nearer the target than any he had thrown so far. Also he thought he knew what was wrong. A self-taught master of balance, the spear-maker had noticed that the butt of the thrown dart had traveled too low in flight.

  He retrieved the dart, unwound the strip of sinew and laid another feather on the butt, on the opposite side. Carefully he rewound them with the sinew, and pulled experimentally to make sure they were tight. He stood up and cast the dart again.

  A happy shout of triumph burst from him. The dart had struck the grass tuft squarely, within two inches of the place at which it had been aimed. Hawk bounded high in the air, overcome with elation. He raced happily forward to retrieve his dart, and cast it again. Twenty times he cast at the tuft of grass and every time the dart hit close to where he wanted it to hit.

  This was it; he had found the answer. Hawk crouched by the fire, fletching the rest of his darts. Willow, who had been watching with great interest, sat across the fire as he worked. She had buried the dead puppy’s skin in the damp ground by the willows, and when it was soaked she had scraped the hair from it. Then she had stretched it out in the sun, with stones on the edges to keep it taut. Now she was working with the cured, parchmentlike skin.

  She folded it, forming a long, deep pouch, and pierced the edges at intervals with an awl made of sharpened bone. She laced it with sinew, then cut a long, thin strip of skin which she folded in half. This she attached to serve as a shoulder strap. When Hawk finished fletching his darts Willow gave him the container she had made. Hawk looked at it, puzzled.

  “It is for your darts,” Willow explained. “You can carry all of them within it.”

  Hawk grunted his pleasure. The container was well and strongly made, and was a very practical arrangement. He put his darts in it, heads down and feathered butts protruding. When he slung the filled pouch over his shoulder, he could instantly reach any dart. A new sense of confidence rose within him.

  Now, carrying his club, spears and throwing-stick, his darts in the pouch, he was armed as several men. He could strike hard and fast at anything that threatened, and he needn’t depend exclusively on the club after he had thrown both spears. Now he could keep on throwing, and though the darts lacked a spear’s range and power, he could still hurl them from the throwing-stick farther than the average hunter could throw a hand spear.

  The pouch of darts on his shoulder, and the puppy trotting happily beside him, Hawk ranged into the forest. He did not try to drive the puppy back, nor tell Willow to hold it, because he cared little whether or not he found game. There was meat in plenty at the camp. The spear-maker was roaming largely because he wanted to try his darts on various targets and under different conditions.

  Trotting ahead of him, the puppy stopped suddenly. His ears were alert, and one forepaw was lifted as he remained intent on something. Hawk watched closely. He knew that wild dogs hunted game in this fashion, but had never seen a hunting dog at such close range.

  The puppy took a few more steps and dropped his head to the ground. He snuffled audibly, and his tail began to wag. Keeping his nose to the ground, the puppy trotted swiftly away. He did not bark, or make any sound. Hawk advanced to find out what the puppy was hunting.

  A deer had passed this way, but to the man the scent was very faint. Hawk had to kneel close to the ground in order to detect it at all. Plainly dogs had an exceptionally keen sense of smell. It was much better than his own, for the puppy had been some distance from the dim trail when he smelled it.

  Since the puppy was now out of sight, Hawk began practicing with his darts. Time after time he cast them, gaining more and more confidence in his ability to control their feathered flight.

  Presently he heard the puppy barking sharply, t
he sound coming rapidly nearer. A deer appeared among the trees, the puppy almost at its heels. Hawk tensed himself, for here was an opportunity to throw at a moving target. Crouching in the brush, he laid the throwing-stick in position, fitted a dart into it, and waited.

  The deer was a bounding shadow in the forest. It appeared, then disappeared, and appeared again. Hawk kept his eyes on a little opening through which the running deer’s course would take it, and not until the deer was in that opening did he step from behind the bush.

  Seeing the motion, the deer jumped spasmodically, then stood still a moment, head thrown up. Hurrying, but not fumbling, Hawk cast the dart. It flew straight to its mark. The deer gave a single bound, staggered, and fell.

  Hawk ran forward. The deer had been pierced just where he wanted to hit it, behind the foreleg, and it had died almost at once. He pulled out the feathered shaft and looked at it proudly. It was good. In the darts he now was master of a weapon with three-fold magic: the hardness of stone, the strength of wood, the flight of birds.

  BATTLE

  The overcast sky turned twilight to night. Damp, chill air sucked the heat from the bones of the men of Wolf’s tribe.

  “It’s your fault for not apologizing to the spirit of the bison,” said Elm querulously. “You hunt other beasts instead, and the bison spirit is angry. This tribe has always hunted bison, back to the memory of my mother’s mother.”

  Kar put another log on the fire. It flared up with enthusiasm and a shower of sparks. At least the tribe had wood, here. The Chief Fire-Maker backed a little. His creation curled the white hairs of his chest and beard.

  Fire was good, but it wasn’t enough for comfort. The spirit of the fire could only keep men warm on the facing side. A hunter who huddled as close to tonight’s blaze as he could stand might still shiver at the touch of cold air on his back. What the tribe needed—

  “We need meat, Chief Hunter!” Elm continued. “We will have no luck hunting until the spirit of the bison smiles on us again.”