The chieftain hesitated. His eyes flashed fire but the rage within his heart was ebbing fast. Through his mind, ran thoughts of advantages to be gained by an alliance with this young warrior, hunter and maker of wonderful flints. He observed his followers closing in about them. “I did but wish to try his mettle,” he cried loudly, then lowered his weapon.
Growls of disapproval greeted this peaceful termination of what promised to be a combat well worth the watching. The Mousterian leader silenced them with a fierce look.
“The bargain is made,” he roared; “There shall be no blood-letting between us. Let him who objects, stand forth.”
The sight of his burly figure and savage looks was sufficient to repress further argument. None stood forth; nobody objected.
“What bargain?” shouted a voice.
The chieftain’s fierce mien suddenly changed. He produced his three flints and held them in his hand so that all could see. A chorus of astonished grunts arose as the Cave-men crowded forward and examined the wonderful blades.
“Who owns them? From where did they come?” one of the men asked.
“I own them,” the chief answered proudly. “They are the price that he who killed the Bison, chooses to pay for the girl, my daughter.”
Every pair of eyes turned inquiringly—some compassionately—upon him who could thus squander his wealth so recklessly. Pic felt overwhelmed with embarrassment by the publicity so suddenly thrust upon him. He saw nothing but a sea of eyes and leering faces.