The patriarch’s lips moved. “The Man Mammoth!” he muttered in an awed voice, so hushed that it sounded scarcely above a whisper. “He comes to jar the heavens and hurl down fire. Woe to us!” He groaned and covered his face with his hands.
Low howls and white puffs arose from the dust as his companions added their dismal chorus.
“Arrah! What is that you say?” demanded the now thoroughly mystified Pic. “Man Mammoth? Man and Mammoth, you mean. Tell me, Old Grey Head, is this some of your trickery?” He raised his ax on high as he said this and glared fiercely from one figure to another.
Low moans and white puffs again arose from the bank below him. Once more the patriarch uncovered his face and gazed in awe at the Mammoth-head and its human rider.
“What trickery can we poor cave-folk offer to the Man Mammoth who sees and knows all? We but humble ourselves that he may shine upon us and cease to ravage the land with flood and flame.”
“Agh-h,” grunted Pic. He smiled and his eyes twinkled. Now he understood. The Cave-men mistook him for a god because he rode upon the Mammoth’s neck. To them, he and the Elephant were one; part man, part beast—the Man Mammoth, ruler of the sky whose smile was sunshine; lowering clouds, his frown; and storm, his wrath. With thunder and lightning, he vented his rage upon the earth.
“Why do you all herd here above the valley?” Pic asked in a low voice that—to the humble cave-men—fore-shadowed clear sunny skies.
“We came to find and hammer the flints,” replied the patriarch rising to his knees and pointing at the bank above him. “Here lie the finest in the land.”