Mists of Dawn (50 page)

Even as
Mark
watched,
he
became
aware
of
a
group of
men
coming
toward
him.
There
were
ten
of
them, all
strongly
built,
and
they
were
armed
with
bows and
arrows,
spears,
axes,
and
long
weapons
that looked
like
harpoons.
They
did
not
speak,
nor
did
they smile.
They
seemed
to
ignore
Tlaxcan
as
though
he wasn’t
there.

The
warriors
headed
straight
for
Mark,
and
their
expressions
told
all
too
plainly
that
they
meant
business.

Mark
hesitated,
knowing
that
he
was
in
a
ticklish position.
He
noted
with
considerable
satisfaction
that his
nerves
were
steady;
there
was
little
danger
now
of a
hysterical
outburst.
That
was
good—necessary,
even. He
had
to
think
his
way
out
of
this,
he
had
to
make the
right
decisions.
There
was
no
time
for
mistakes,
and he
knew
that
he
would
get
no
second
chances.

The
Cro-Magnons
came
closer,
threatening.
The humming
roar
of
the
waterfall
seemed
to
hang
suspended
in
the
air
of
evening,
waiting.

Mark
considered
drawing
his
.45
and
making
a
fast break
for
it,
but
discarded
the
idea
at
once.
He
had
no place
to
go,
and
knew
that
he
could
not
last
long
alone 
in
this
strange
world.
His
future
was
here
with
these people,
or
else
he
had
no
future
at
all.

He
looked
at
Tlaxcan,
quiet
by
his
side.
Had
he
led him
into
a
trap?
Had
he
taken
Mark
back
to
his
own people
as
a
prisoner,
a
slave,
a
trophy
of
the
hunt? Mark
didn’t
think
so.
Although
as
yet
they
could
not talk
fluently
to
each
other,
he
had
gotten
to
know
Tlaxcan
pretty
well
during
their
trip
across
the
plains. Tlaxcan
was
young,
possibly
no
older
than
Mark,
although
he
seemed
adult
in
every
way.
He
had
a
refreshing
and
genuine
habit
of
laughing
wholeheartedly at
little
incidents;
everything,
to
him,
had
a
humorous side
that
he
invariably
sought
out
to
laugh
at.
But
it was
not
a
stupid
laughter,
the
laughter
of
an
idiot
who knew
no
better.
It
was
the
laughter
of
a
man
who lived
in
a
tough,
hard
world
and
had
learned
that
it was
wiser
to
laugh
than
to
cry.
Behind
Tlaxcan’s
laughter,
deep
in
his
dark
eyes,
there
was
cold
steel.
He
was not
a
man
to
fool
with,
and,
if
Mark
was
any
judge,
he was
not
a
man
to
betray
a
friend.

Once
again,
he
put
his
trust
in
Tlaxcan.
He
was
not sorry.
At
once,
as
though
sensing
Mark’s
decision, Tlaxcan
stepped
forward,
between
Mark
and
the
oncoming
warriors.

“Orn,”
Tlaxcan
said
clearly,
pointing
at
Mark.
Then he
spoke
again,
too
rapidly
for
Mark
to
catch
what
was said.
The
Cro-Magnons
slowed
their
pace,
but
they kept
coming.
“Tlan!”
ordered
Tlaxcan
coldly.
“Stop!”

The
warriors
kept
coming.
Tlaxcan
slipped
an
arrow from
his
quiver
and
fitted
it
to
his
bowstring.
He
drew the
bow
taut,
and
it
was
clear
that
he
was
not
bluffing. He
was
ready
to
shoot.
The
warriors
stopped.
At
the time,
Mark
wondered
greatly
at
the
fact
that
Tlaxcan was
quite
evidently
ready
to
put
an
arrow
through
a lifelong
friend
for
the
sake
of
someone
he
had
known for
a
few
days,
but
the
explanation
was
simple
enough. The
band
of
Cro-Magnons
was
seldom
together
in
the valley
as
a
unit,
each
extended
family
group
following the
herds
alone
for
most
of
the
year.
The
warriors
who confronted
them
now
were
not
members
of
Tlaxcan’s immediate
kinship
group,
and
so
were
not
close
to him.
Probably
he
had
not
seen
them
twenty
times
in his
life.
They
were
known
not
to
be
enemies,
but
that was
all.
They
were
not
his
personal
friends.

For
a
long
moment,
the
tense
scene
held.
Then
five more
warriors
came
up
and
arranged
themselves
behind
Tlaxcan.
Tlaxcan
greeted
them
by
name,
and
they were
obviously
friends
of
his.
They
looked
at
Mark coldly,
but
offered
him
no
harm
as
long
as
he
was under
Tlaxcan’s
protection.
Mark
began
to
realize
that helping
Tlaxcan
when
he
had
been
in
trouble
was
the smartest
thing
he
could
have
done.
Strangers
around here
were
clearly
presumed
to
be
enemies
unless
they could
prove
otherwise
in
a
hurry.
They
were
declared guilty
until
proven
innocent—if
they
had
time
to
prove anything
before
someone
ran
a
spear
through
them. With
Mark’s
halting
command
of
the
language,
he would
not
have
had
a
prayer
without
Tlaxcan.