The Cave Lion, being the strongest and fiercest of the flesh-eaters, was the cloven-footed animals’ most dreaded foe. Every grass-eater in the valley had now learned to fear Grun Waugh above all creatures. As the Bison spoke his name, Hairi and Wulli looked inquiringly at each other. The former heaved a deep sigh and nodded gravely. The eyes of the Rhinoceros glistened and his lips set tightly together in a thin straight line.
“If you will, so do I,” he said to the Mammoth. “Our main task will be to make him stand and fight. He would never dare face both of us.”
“Drive him from his den, if you cannot kill him,” the Bison interrupted. “We do not ask more.” He suspected that Wulli was seeking an excuse to avoid the danger.
“Where is his den?” asked the Rhinoceros. “How can we find him?”
“No trouble about that. His home is high upon the big Rock.” The Bison nodded in the direction of a rugged promontory, the Rock of Moustier which jutted far into the valley, almost to the Vézère River. Its bare walls rose precipitously in limestone layers or ledges piled one upon another, to a broad table-like summit capped with snow. Facing the river, a steep slope composed of crumbled rock, formed the sole means of reaching the upper level from the valley beneath.
“Grun Waugh lives mid-way to the top,” the Bison explained. “The ground slopes up to his den. The den is his home.”
“Let us be off,” urged Wulli. “While we talk and do nothing, the Cave Lion may leave his hole and then we will be hard put to find him.”
To this Hairi agreed after a moment’s thought, so the pair marched off across the snow-covered meadow to the river. On reaching it, Hairi held back for an instant, then took a deep breath and set one foot upon the ice to test its strength. It creaked and trembled. The Mammoth retreated a step, raised his head and looked about him. The Rhinoceros hesitated not a moment but strode on ahead at his best gait. The air was cold, the ice proportionately thick and so he crossed in safety. Not until he reached the other bank and was pausing to catch his breath, did he realize that he was alone. With a surprised snort he turned and looked behind him.
About half-way between the two banks, Hairi was crawling along at a snail’s pace. His eyes never left the ice on which he trod. His footsteps rivalled the Panther’s stealthy tread. Had he been walking a tight-rope he could not have glided onward with more infinite pains.
To the Mammoth who had a healthy horror of mire, ice or any other support that threatened to give way beneath his weight, this was the most terrifying part of the whole adventure. To help matters, he held his breath and kept the fewest possible number of feet on the ice at any one time, all of which required his undivided attention. Meanwhile the Rhinoceros could only stand and stare, even after Hairi’s journey finally ended in a frantic leap to solid ground with half a dozen lumbering hops added to make sure.