The kromp bull had not permitted a little jungle to hinder him.
Yorgh pulled himself to his feet and limped back along the freshly made trail to the open. In the distance, he could hear the herd still stampeding. He hoped he had turned it enough so that the kromps' propensity for straight-line charges would cause them to miss the camp.
"Well, I'd better see to myself," he sighed. "Left on foot twice in three days! Some will have a good time with me over that. Ouch! That knee feels skinned."
He made his way to the brook, where he stripped and bathed. As the water stung them, he discovered nicks and scratches he had not known he had, but he felt better after dressing again.
He patched the worst slashes in his pants with a long thorn and a bit of vine, but the proud crimson tunic was a tattered wreck. It fluttered on his shoulders as he walked out into the open again.
On the ground, his sharp eye noticed trampled splinters of wood.
"The spear!" he muttered. "Funny—I can't even remember when I dropped it."
He searched the area, and finally dug up the copper spearhead with the toe of his boot. He put it in his belt and walked out to his fire beside the carcass of the loppa, feeling fairly fit although he knew he would be stiff and sore the next day. His fire still smouldered, and he piled on some dry sticks.
As The Star drifted lower on the sky, he began to worry.
"Someone should have come for me by now," he told himself. "Unless—"