The Hunter Returns (12 page)
Read The Hunter Returns Online
Authors: David Drake,Jim Kjelgaard
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Historical, #Prehistory, #Action & Adventure, #Survival Stories, #General
Hawk kept moving, awaiting a chance to hurl his dart. Then the dog attacked.
He flung himself in with a rush, leaping high as he grasped a mouthful of the sloth’s coarse hair. As swiftly as he had attacked, the dog retreated, escaping the blow of a massive claw-tipped paw by a hair’s breadth. But in wheeling to repel the dog, the sloth exposed its calf.
Hawk hurled his dart, and saw it bury itself to the feathers in the calf’s chest. The calf groped at it with both front paws, and started to waddle away. Hawk cast another dart that pierced the back of the neck and severed a vital nerve. The calf slowly tumbled to the ground.
Still the mother sloth refused to leave. Flicking its long tongue in and out, it stood protectively by the calf’s body. The dog snarled furiously in, and out again. The sloth struck at him and stood her ground, refusing to leave the calf.
Hawk pondered. He had killed the calf, but could not get at his prize unless he could drive the mother away. Deliberately he danced in front of her, teasing her to strike. When the giant sloth tried to crush him he leaped backward. The dog barked furiously. The sloth pursued them a few feet, looked back at her calf, and returned to it.
“Fire! Try fire!” Willow cried.
Hawk looked appreciatively at her. Fire had driven the giant bison, and it might work on this great beast. Going into the grove of trees, he sought among the lower branches for twigs covered with dry bark. He shredded this into the finest of tinder and made a little heap on the ground exactly to windward of the sloth. Keeping dry sticks ready, he struck a spark into the tinder.
It caught, making a tiny glow that might live or might die out. Hawk got down on his hands and knees to blow into it. The newborn spark glowed more hotly, then a tiny flame spread through the tinder. Hawk laid a few twigs on the little fire, then added more. In a moment a plume of smoke blew about the giant sloth’s head.
It snorted, shook its head, and stared nervously. Then the smoke increased. At a lumbering trot, the sloth started away. A hundred yards from the fire it stopped, looked around, then at a slow walk it started toward another grove of trees. Its own personal tragedy was already forgotten in the pressing need to get more food to keep its massive body alive.
As Willow bent over the dead sloth, a stone knife in her hand, Hawk gathered more wood for his fire. They had started out to seek food and now had much more than they could possibly carry. Therefore, their camp would automatically be right here until the meat was gone.
While Willow tended the new camp, Hawk and the dog ranged into the surrounding country scouting for game signs. The sloth would not last forever; they must locate more game for the future.
But in ten days the dog found and ran only one deer at which Hawk could get a fair shot. But the wounded animal escaped, and they could find nothing else. They must move again.
The rich river bottoms, the best grazing lands, were still the logical place to go. Of course, if they attracted herds of grazing animals, the grass-eaters, in turn, would draw more dangerous beasts. There would be saber-tooths in plenty, packs of dire wolves and wild dogs, and the whole range of meat-eaters, big and small. There might be men, too, the fiercest hunters of all, and they might or might not be friendly. Though different tribes could live amiably together, in times of hunger any tribe that found a good hunting place would defend it. But that chance they had to take.
Cautiously, his own senses always alert and keeping his eyes on the dog, Hawk led Willow over the small hillocks, toward the river bottoms. Three days later, they looked down on the meadow where the unsuccessful fire drive had been attempted. All scars of the fire were gone, and a rich carpet of green grass covered the meadow. A herd of mammoths fed there.
There were twenty in the herd, ranging from immense, heavy-tusked bulls to calves at their mother’s side. As Hawk watched, a bull circled cautiously. He faced into the wind, his trunk extended. The spear-maker took interested note.
The hairy elephants were so big, and so strong, that almost nothing dared attack a herd. But obviously this one had known danger and was expecting it again. Although the bull could not have scented them, he seemed to have some premonition of their presence. Hawk drew Willow back into the sheltering forest.
Evidently there were, or had been, human hunters ranging the river meadows. If so, they were desperate hunters. Failing to find giant bison, camels, or other game which they could kill with comparative safety, they had been attacking the mammoth herds. As a result, the mammoths were alerted. Whoever went into the river bottoms now did so at the risk of his own life. To be seen meant to be attacked. Unlike the sloths, the mammoths were intelligent beasts and despite their bulk they could whirl and twist like cats.
The dog sat down, ears pricked up as he studied the herd of mammoths. He looked questioningly at Hawk, and fell in beside him as the two lone humans started up the series of forested hills that rose out of the flat river meadows.
The meadows had been flooded by a veritable inundation of mammoths. The lumbering beasts were everywhere, and all seemed aroused and belligerently ready for whatever danger might come. But Hawk saw no humans, only a few saber-tooths that probably hoped to catch a calf separated from its mother, and a pack of dire wolves. Though he continued to study the situation, Hawk did not dare go down into the meadows. He would have to find his food on the forested slopes.
But there was nothing, and that night they made a hungry camp in the hills. The next morning they went on. Ranging ahead, the dog bristled and came to a sudden halt at the edge of a little clearing. Lips curled back from long fangs, he backed against Hawk’s legs. Hawk fitted a dart into his throwing-stick and intently sniffed the various winds. He looked all around, then centered his attention on the clearing.
There was a trampled place in the center of the valley. All about were smashed bushes, and a few broken tree limbs. Faintly dominating all was the scent of mammoths.
The dog snarled, and pressed closely against Hawk’s legs as he went forward, Willow following fearfully. Hawk stooped, attracted by an object that met his eye, and picked up a spearhead. As he examined it, he realized that it was one he himself had made. Near it, smashed into splinters, was the broken shaft. The spear was one he had made for a hunter of his own tribe. Then he knew.
Some of his former tribesmen had died here; but what had killed them? There were no tracks in the trampled earth save those of mammoths, and rain had obliterated most of those. There were no bones, but of course anything left to eat had already been devoured by starving beasts, and bones might have been dragged away. Nothing whatever remained except the broken spear. Had the tribesmen, driven by desperation, attacked and been trapped by a herd of mammoths? Had they been overwhelmed by a pack of dire wolves? Or had hunters of some other tribe killed them? Perhaps his whole tribe had been wiped out here in a grim, determined battle for food, without which they could not live.
Shuddering, Hawk left the place. He led Willow up the opposite hill and looked again into the river bottoms. His interest quickened.
Far out, near the river’s edge, a herd of a hundred or more mammoths was dozing in the sun. But just beneath the hillock, a single cow and her calf had detached themselves from the herd and were wandering alone. Hawk remembered the young sloth. If he could somehow manage to kill the calf, then wait until the rest departed, he and Willow would have meat. Hawk turned to the girl.
“Hold the dog,” he directed, “and wait for me.”
Quietly he slipped down the slope. This would be the ultimate test of his hunter’s skill and ability. He must get near the mammoth and her calf without being detected, then cast his dart and escape before he could be overtaken.
Hawk hid himself in the tall grass and crept forward, careful to stay downwind. Carefully he raised himself just far enough so he could see his intended quarry.
The cow, suspicious, shuffled nervous feet, spread her ears, and snaked her trunk in various directions. The calf, too young to be aware of any danger, squealed happily. It ran a few steps, intrigued by something it heard or saw, and the cow promptly followed. She whacked it with her trunk, grunted, and shepherded her baby toward the river.
Hawk followed, knowing that he had to get his shot before she neared the rest of the herd. He ran swiftly along, maneuvering for position.
Suddenly, without any warning whatever, a thrown spear came so close to his head that he felt a little wind brush him as it passed. Hawk spun around.
Coming through the grass, spread out to cut him off, were more than fifteen strange hunters. There was no escape; the hunters were too well dispersed and coming too fast. Nor was there any doubt about their purpose; for whatever reason, they were deadly intent on killing him.
Without hesitation Hawk ran straight toward the cow. He hurled his dart, not at the calf, but at its mother. The cow bellowed for help.
Answering bellows and angry trumpetings came from the herd at the river’s edge. They wheeled, and at top speed, stampeded to the aid of their wounded comrade.
ESCAPE
The dart was sticking in the cow mammoth’s neck, just behind her flaring ear, and a little blood dribbled down her hairy side. She bellowed again, high and shrill, and waved her trunk. Wheeling on her huge pads, she examined her calf to make sure it was safe. Then she whirled and launched herself straight at Hawk. Behind her appeared the charging herd, literally shaking the earth as it pounded along. In another few seconds everything in the meadow would be overwhelmed.
But Hawk was poised for instant action, another dart ready in his throwing-stick. When the cow swerved toward him, he cast his dart straight at the calf.
It skidded across the baby’s back, plowing a bloody furrow with its flint head. The calf squealed its alarm. Instantly the cow pivoted and returned to it. She stood protectively over her baby, rumbling threats while she awaited the rest of the herd. Hawk turned and ran, straight toward the enemy tribesmen.
At the best he had only a very few seconds, and two kinds of enemies to avoid. He had purposely aroused the mammoth herd, hoping by so doing to divert the human hunters on his trail. But now he had to run back toward the enemy tribesmen, to escape the greater danger of the thundering mammoths.
His ruse had worked. The hunters were running, too, most of them scrambling toward a high pinnacle of rock that reared from the base of a nearby hill. Seeing the many hunters, the approaching herd bulls roared their defiance and led the herd toward the pinnacle. Hawk stooped, so that the waving grass reached over his head, and veered toward the left, away from the rock pinnacle. He swung far out, making a wide circle, and when he thought he had run far enough he changed his course to take him back into the forest where he had left Willow. Not until he was well within the trees did he stop to catch his breath.
He tried to look back, but the trees obstructed his vision and he could not see what the angry mammoths were doing. The roaring and trumpeting of the enraged herd filled the air. They were, Hawk guessed, milling around the base of the pinnacle where the hunters had found safety. High above the mingled sounds, there came the angry squeal of a cow.
Hawk shivered. This was undoubtedly the cow at which he had cast his dart to bring on the stampede, the mother of the calf he had wounded. She had probably assured herself that he was not among the hunters on the pinnacle, and now was seeking him. The cow knew her real enemy. Again she squealed, and Hawk decided that she had detached herself from the herd and was casting about for his scent. He started running again.
He had no plan beyond finding Willow and taking her to some safe place, but he knew they would have to move fast. The enemy tribesmen would know, from the action of the cow, that he had not been killed in the stampede. Therefore they would trail him at the first opportunity, and human hunters were far more deadly than any other kind. Judging by their first actions, these tribesmen would not be contented until they had caught and killed him.
Without any warning another spear sailed out of the brush, flicked into a tree a few inches from his shoulder, and quivered jerkily.
Hawk realized that he had made a mistake in assuming that all the hunters had fled to the pinnacle of rock. And in that confidence, and his haste to return to Willow, he had become careless. He had run with the wind instead of against it, and therefore had been unable to scent whatever might lie ahead of him. Now he dodged behind a tree, fitted a dart to his throwing-stick, and made ready to defend himself.
There were three hunters after him, savage, hairy men with bison-skin girdles flapping about their waists. Hawk noted with relief that none of them carried throwing-sticks; he had that much advantage, at least.
As soon as he saw them, Hawk cast his dart and struck the first hunter squarely in the throat. The wounded man dropped his spear, clutched at the dart with both hands, and took two backward steps. Then he fell, dead or dying.
The two remaining hunters screeched their rage, and melted into the brush. Hawk waited, knowing that he could do nothing else, for now he could see neither of his enemies. He tried to locate them by their scent, but the eddying wind came in fitful gusts and he could detect only occasional snatches of either man’s odor. They were working around him, one to either side, until such time as one or the other, or both, were in position to throw another spear.
Again there came the squeal of the enraged cow. She was very near the forest now, working out the way Hawk had taken and still on his trail. He tensed himself.
In the deep brush at the left he caught the faintest sound. His back to the tree, Hawk stood perfectly still, trying to pierce the brush with his eyes but unable to do so. The two men hunting him had worked out a cunning strategy. He could be seen. They were in brush where they were hidden, and they knew it. When both had maneuvered themselves into position, they would attack.
Faintly the sound came again, and Hawk saw a slight motion in the brush. With lightning swiftness he cast another dart. The man in the brush rolled into sight, clawing at the dart in his chest, and Hawk pivoted.
The other man was closing in, club held high. Hawk snatched at a dart, but knew that he could not possibly shoot in time. The man was almost upon him, and coming fast. Hawk grabbed for his club and stepped forward to meet the attack. As he did so, his toe caught under an unseen vine and sent him sprawling. Hawk threw himself sideways.
Then, as though he had appeared by magic, the dog hurled himself out of the brush, straight upon the hunter. The man whirled to meet his new attack. He half-swung his club at the dog, but before he could complete the blow, a rock struck him squarely on the side of the head. He dropped in his tracks, and Willow stood framed in the brush.
“Hurry!” she panted.
Hawk leaped to join her, and the dog bounded alongside. From behind they heard the smashing of trees and brush, and the angry trumpeting of the cow mammoth. She had body scent now and was coming fast.
Willow plunged deliberately into the thickest brush, a tangle of vines and small trees, and threaded an agile way through it. Hawk followed, silently approving her strategy as he did so. There was no place in the forest they could go where the mammoth would be unable to follow, but at least the brush would slow her. In open forest again, Willow swerved sharply to the right.
A moment later Hawk saw why she had turned. Some of the small hills were separated by gentle valleys, others by deep gorges, and they were now approaching such a gorge. About forty feet wide at the top, its sides dropped sharply down in uneven layers of rock. Scrambling from ledge to ledge, they worked their way down one side and up the other. Hawk turned to lift the dog over the last high ledge, and they clambered to the top. Willow turned breathlessly.
“The mammoth cannot cross here!”
“No,” Hawk agreed, “she cannot.”
He sat down, panting heavily while he regained his spent breath. The dog, tongue lolling, whirled to look back in the direction from which they had come. He did not bark, or make any sound, for the value of silence had been born within him. A few seconds later the cow mammoth appeared on the opposite side of the gorge.
Somewhere she had brushed against a tree or ledge of rock and broken the dart; its ragged end still protruded from her neck. She stamped angry feet, extended her trunk to its full length, and screamed her hatred of the two humans. Cautiously she tested a ledge with her front feet, seeking a safe way down, and when she could not find it she beat a restless patrol back and forth on top of the ledge.
Hawk watched her calmly, no longer concerned about her or the herd. That danger had been passed. But there was another, vastly greater peril to worry about. The hunters trapped on the rocky pinnacle would be likely to remain there for a considerable length of time; the herd of mammoths would see to that. But the mammoths would eventually go away to feed, and when they did the men could escape.
Their first thought would be the man they had tried to trap, and when they took the trail they would find out that Willow was with him. Whatever had been their original reason for attacking Hawk, they would be doubly determined to catch him when they found the men he had killed.
Somehow they would have to be thrown off the trail, and that would be a very difficult feat; all men who lived by hunting were past masters in the art of tracking. A broken twig, or a bent or broken blade of grass, were usually enough. Hawk turned to Willow.
“We must escape the hunters who are sure to follow,” he said. “Even without them, the situation here is not good. There are only mammoths to hunt, and they are too dangerous. There was not much game around our old camp, but it could be hunted. We must return.”
Hawk led off, still following the hillocks that flanked the river meadows. The pursuit, certain to follow, would be patient and relentless. To throw it off, they would need all the guile and craft at their command. By traveling away from their old camp instead of toward it, the pursuers might be deceived into thinking they were going to continue in that direction.
They walked carefully, choosing each place to put their feet down. They avoided grass or brush whose broken or trampled appearance might betray them, and walked on stones or stone ledges where they were available. Often Hawk circled to cut back on their trail and brush out some real or fancied mark.
It was midafternoon before Hawk swerved away from the hills, making the first arc of a great circle that would carry them back to the camp they had left. When he turned, he walked down a rock ledge that sloped in the direction he wished to travel. They stopped at the end of the ledge.
Beyond was nothing but sand, a great area of white sand in which sparse tufts of grass grew at scattered intervals. Hawk looked worriedly back toward the hills. He doubted if the hunters would escape from the mammoths in time to see them crossing the sand, but he and Willow would leave plain tracks. Still, there was no guarantee that they would not run into more sand if they returned and sought a new way, and they had to travel in this direction if they would reach their old camp.
A strong breeze blew down the ledge and plucked at the sand. Its surface ruffled gently.
Stooping, Hawk gathered the dog in his arms and held him tightly. He started across the sand. Behind him, Willow stepped exactly in his tracks. On the other side of the sand-covered area at last, Hawk stopped and looked back.
Their tracks were still plain, but the wind was filling them; before the hunters came along it might cover them completely. They would have to trust the wind.
An hour later Hawk turned toward a grove of trees. Night was coming, and any human foolish enough to travel at night did so at the risk of almost certain death. But at least the hunters would not travel at night either. He and Willow had eluded their pursuers so far, and were safe from them until morning.
The trees were chunky forest giants with tough vines dangling thickly from huge limbs. Hawk stopped beneath one and looked up into its interlaced twigs and branches. If they were to hide their trail, a fire was out of the question. Therefore they must spend the night in a tree. Hawk grasped the trailing end of a vine and put his weight on it. The vine held. It would not come tumbling down, or break and let them fall. Hawk motioned Willow to climb up.
She went up hand over hand. Halfway to the first limb she twined her legs around the vine and rested. Then she resumed her climb and drew herself up on the great limb. Leaving all his weapons except his knife behind him, Hawk followed. Once on the limb, he turned around to examine their night’s bed.
The limb itself was so large that they might have lain on it without too much danger of falling, but the crotch at the trunk was much safer. They walked down the limb, and settled themselves in the massive spread of branches that rose from the crotch. The space was large enough so they could sleep comfortably and safely.
At the foot of the tree, the dog was curled in a furry ball, his bushy tail over his leathery black nose. The dog got up, padded restlessly about, and returned to his bed at the foot of the tree. He knew how to take care of himself at night, and there was no need to worry about him.
When Hawk awakened sometime during the night, a bright moon had risen and was shedding a soft brilliance that almost matched the light of day. He stirred uneasily. He had been awakened by a sensation of danger, a premonition of something that was not as it should be, and was troubled because he could not locate what had caused it.
Then there was a distinct, alarmed snarl. It came from the dog, and Willow awakened quietly. She sat up, looking questioningly at Hawk but making no noise. Hawk walked up the limb and stopped at the vine they had used to climb the tree.
He looked down, but could see nothing. There was another snarl, then a series of them, and the dog came out of the moon-painted shadows to bristle at the base of the tree. He was facing the brush, snarling, and Hawk swung out on the vine.
A moment later a dire wolf came out of the brush and circled the dog. The dog was big, but the wolf dwarfed him. For a second it continued to circle, then closed in. The dog leaped aside, and feinted at his enemy.
Unhesitatingly Hawk scrambled down the vine. The dog had helped him when he was hard-pressed by the enemy hunters, therefore he must not let the dog fight alone. Hawk leaped lightly from the vine, catching himself on the balls of his feet, and snatched up his spear.
The wolf, aware of the fact that a new enemy was entering the fight, left the dog and sprang forward. Hawk hurled his spear, and knew he had made a hit. But the wolf scarcely paused. Hawk groped for his club.
As he found it, the dog closed in from the rear. Savagely, aroused to the very peak of fury, he sliced at the wolf’s haunch, leaped away, and sprang in again. The wolf doubled to deal with him, and when it did Hawk swung his club. It struck home, in a vital spot, but the wolf was too big and too full of life to die easily. It growled throatily, and dragged itself forward to close with the man.
