Totan gave his henchman a sour look. “Lad? Ugh; he does better than all the rest of you put together. But bah! why speak of him? I want none but his father the Lion Man, Weapon Maker or whatever else you choose to call him. I hunger to crush his bones.”
Gonch sensed the approaching storm. He grasped desperately at a straw. “Weapon Maker?” he whispered looking carefully around him as though he were about to impart some deep-dyed mystery. “You ask for him who makes the fine blades? Pst! he is here.”
“The Lion Man?” roared Totan, leaping to his feet and snatching at his club. “Where?”
“Son of the Lion Man, you mean,” corrected Gonch. “It is my little secret. He makes the fine weapons even better than his father. What a prize; a hunter and flint-worker, all in one.”
“Agh! the boy again,” howled the hetman in a great rage and then his curiosity got the better of him as Gonch hoped and half expected it would. “The boy a flint-worker?” he sneered. “This is another of your lies; but you have said it and I will know the truth, even if I have to eat it out of you.”
“Try him,” said the Muskman much relieved that he had so neatly turned the trend of conversation. “I said and proved that he was the equal of our best hunters. I say and will prove that he is a skilled flint-worker. To-morrow he will begin making the fine blades.”
“And a sorry day it will be for you if he fails,” snarled the giant enraged at being so easily diverted from the main idea and yet not having wit enough to stick to it.
And so the storm-clouds lifted temporarily, giving Gonch a chance to keep his hide on him and him in it. He sought Kutnar and said, “Those who do nothing, shall eat nothing. You idle too much. Now is the time for you to hammer and finish the fine flint weapons. You know how the work is done. We must have blades. Make them.”
And so more was required of him. Kutnar’s eyes glittered as he answered, “But there is no flint here. Blades cannot be made from nothing. Find me flint-lumps if you must have the tools.”