Every pair of eyes followed the outstretched arm and hand pointing to earth—at the blade of Ach Eul lying upon the ground.
A great commotion followed as the warriors surged around their captive for a closer view of the wonderful flint. In the excitement, Pic was left the freedom of his limbs. He was preparing for a bold dash to freedom when suddenly a voice bellowed from the outskirts of the group: “Stand back, crow’s meat;” and a burly figure forced its way toward the prisoner, thrusting aside those in front of him with no gentle hand.
All fell back and made room to let him pass. From the manner in which they submitted to his rude buffeting, Pic knew that the chief of the band was approaching. The burly newcomer was a man of broad shoulder and powerful limb. In spite of his famished condition, his arm and body muscles bulged through their drawn skin-covering and concealed all but the joints of his big-boned frame. As he glanced curiously at Pic, then at the ax lying upon the ground, a look of astonishment came over his face. He bent low and clutched the wooden haft.
“None can mistake this blade,” he muttered. “How came it here?” He turned to his prisoner. “Who are you?” he roared. “Common beasts do not go about alone, bearing chieftains’ blades. How did you come by this flint? Quick, answer before I stir your tongue with a burning brand.”
“I am not a chieftain,” Pic protested loudly. “But the ax is mine; rightly won and mine to hold and fight for if need be;” then as low growls greeted these bold words, his voice softened and became appealing. “Hear me, you warriors,” he pleaded, glancing from one face to another. “For three long winters, have I lived alone with the finger of scorn pointing at me—one who would neither hunt nor fight. All men are warriors; some are flint-workers but not one can make flints as they should be made. I have striven to be that one. I have searched in vain for what would make me that one; and now I know it cannot be. No longer will I live alone nor with”—he checked himself and went on—“Now I have returned to live as a man should. My arm is strong, seasoned for the hunt and prepared to cross axes with any man. The Ape Boy has passed away. Pic the——”
He got no farther. A bedlam of howls and yells rent the air:
“Death to the renegade! Arrah! Burn the Ape Boy! To the Rock; to the Cave Lion with him! Kill; kill!” The fierce Cave-men surged about him so furiously that no ax could be brought to bear, so much were one and all of them hampered by the eagerness of their fellows. Above the tumult now thundered the chieftain’s loud command: “Silence! Stand back, all of you,” and as the howls subsided into snarls at his bidding, he stepped forward and shook his ax-blade in Pic’s face.
“Ape Boy? Agh-h! Now we know you—friend of beasts, enemy of men. The Cave Lion is too gentle for such as you. Back to the shelter with him,” he roared. “No beast shall cheat the stomachs of starving men.”
In a moment, Pic was overpowered and borne to the ground. While half a dozen of his captors held him down and pinioned his arms behind him, others bound his wrists together with strips of hide. When he was thus securely trussed, the Cave-men helped him to his feet; and then, with their captive in the center, and the blade of Ach Eul borne triumphantly on the burly chieftain’s shoulders, they began their march across the meadows towards the overhanging cliffs bordering the valley.