The Rock of Moustier, a truncated pyramid of buff limestone, was but a portion of the distant plateau jutting far into the valley to the right bank of the VÉzÈre River. On one side of the Rock, a steep causeway of broken stone led to a broad deep ledge midway between base and summit. This ledge served as the threshold of a grotto which opened into the wall back of the ledge.

Three men all carrying heavy burdens were ascending the causeway to the cave-threshold, while above, stood a fourth, waiting as though to receive them. He was a large man of mighty chest and shoulders and yet neither overfleshed nor muscle-bound but fibred and corded from neck to heel like a fight-trained lion. The newcomers were big strong men but he who stood upon the ledge seemed a giant beside them. They greeted him with a certain deference that marked the larger man as a person of more than ordinary importance. One by one they cast down their burdens upon the rock-platform and squatted beside them. These consisted of several bison hides, bundles of faggots, a leg of venison and several large stones about the size of a man’s head.

After a hasty survey of the various articles, the giant’s interest centered upon the stones. He selected one of them and held it in the palm of his left hand. This was done seemingly without effort and but for his swelling biceps, one might have thought the stone a trifling weight. Using a large pebble as a maul, he struck the stone a resounding blow, separating it in two halves as cleanly as though cut with a knife. The newly fractured surfaces were wax-like in appearance and of a lustrous grey color. The giant smiled broadly and nodded to the three men. He seemed much pleased with the stones and well he might be, for they were the finest of beeswax flint. All about him were strewn chips of similar material; small piles of blanks and partly finished flakes. Near the cave-entrance lay many much used mauls and hammerstones of various shapes and sizes; the tools of the flint artisan.

One of the three men coughed noisily. Having delivered their goods, the trio were growing impatient. They wanted their pay.

The giant set aside the flint lump and hammerstone and brought out from the grotto a small hide full of finished flints, all nicely shaped, edged and pointed. They were of various shapes and sizes, each one designed for a special purpose; small tools for scraping hides, knife-blades, dart-heads and axes. The three men bent over them expressing by word and gesture their appreciation of every piece. One of them gathered up the four corners of the hide and swung it over his shoulder; then the trio descended the causeway to the valley below.

The giant weapon-maker was preparing to turn again to the flint-lumps when he caught sight of two figures making their way up the causeway toward him. The giant smiled upon one of them—a boy—then gazed inquiringly at the other. The pair reached the ledge. As the unknown stepped upon the rock-platform, he bent low and laid down his ax with much ceremony, then stood erect with both hands raised high above his head. Strangers with good intentions always behaved themselves in this manner—presenting themselves unarmed and at the mercy of them they visited. The boy came quickly forward and for several minutes spoke in low tones to the giant, glancing from time to time at his companion. The flint-worker’s face fairly beamed as he listened.

The youth explained the circumstances of his meeting with the stranger, enlarging upon his own narrow escape from the panther and how his benefactor had so nearly paid the penalty of death for the part he had chosen to play.

“Good,” said the giant when the boy had finished. “Friends should ever help each other.” With that, he picked up the stranger’s ax and presented it to him, then led his guest to a fire which burned near by.

The Muskman’s brain was in a whirl. He had accomplished wonders in a single day. So long had he known naught but hostility from man and beast that this peaceful reaction from danger and privation, to say nothing of his recent mauling, nigh overwhelmed him. He passed one hand across his forehead where the blood had not yet dried.

“The boy tells me that you leaped upon the panther from the sky,” the giant now said. “Men do not leap from the sky however. How and why did you come here?”

Gonch felt the other’s piercing gaze directed full upon him. The deep-set eyes seemed to be searching his inmost soul.

“Mine is a restless spirit,” he replied. “It has led me through many lands to see strange and wonderful things. I have been told of the Mammoth Man, maker of the finest flint-blades the world has ever seen. Are you he?”

“I am called many names,” said the stalwart flint-worker with a twinkle of his deep-set eyes.

“To some, I am known as Pic, the Weapon Maker; to others—but no matter. One name is as good as another. Yes, I am the Mammoth Man.” He folded his arms across his broad chest and even as he looked kindly upon his visitor, his eyes as much as said: “Can it be possible that mere curiosity has brought you here—to see me?”

Gonch did not notice the look of those eyes; he was watching the man himself. Such evidence of physical health and strength, he had never before observed in a human being. “I can see now why they call him the Mammoth Man,” he thought to himself. “He is a giant among men as is the Hairy Elephant among beasts.” But all he said was:

“I helped your boy. Perhaps for that you can look upon me as a friend.”

Pic’s eyes softened. He looked down at the ground and replied sadly: “Yes, you have done me a great service. Since his mother died, he is all I have.”

“Why not get another?” the Muskman suggested. “Women are plentiful enough. A man like you could have any or all of them.”

Pic scowled and raised his hand in protest. “She is gone,” he muttered hoarsely. “None can take her place; and of this you need say no more.”

Gonch was taken aback by this peculiar display of sentiment. “One woman?” he sniffed: “Ridiculous. The man is a giant but a simpleton for all that. All giants are simpletons.” But now that Pic had declared himself upon the subject of women, Gonch prated of the southland; its fine climate, abundance of game and the strong men who lived there; painting the picture in such brilliant colors that he almost believed in it himself. But in spite of his eloquence, Pic remained unmoved. Whether he believed or not, he showed no more than ordinary interest. There was a note of sarcasm in the flint-worker’s voice as he made brief comment: “If this is so, why do you come here?” to which in spite of his eloquence Gonch could find no ready answer.

The latter took another tack. “Men say that you are a mighty hunter,” he began; “and that you scorn such small game as the ox and bison, reserving your great strength for the Lion and Hairy Elephant.”

Pic’s nostrils swelled. There was a sinister glitter in his eyes as he directed them full upon his guest. “Who says that?” he growled. Then without waiting for a reply, he added: “Men who are wise, do not speak to me of the Lion and Mammoth in the same breath.”

“Agh, I forgot,” muttered Gonch completely abashed. “It was of another they spoke. You are a flint-worker who neither hunts nor fights.”

Pic scowled at this impudence and was on the point of replying angrily, when he checked himself as a thought suddenly occurred to him.

“Hunt? fight?” he said sternly: “It is well that you reminded me. You are a stranger here and should know our rules. Listen to them and heed them well for it is quite necessary that they be most carefully observed.”

“Rules?” Gonch awaited curious. His host now spoke in a tone of authority and yet he had mentioned “ours.” A chieftain would have said “my rules.”

“There are three of these rules,” said Pic in his most impressive manner, holding up three fingers by way of illustration. “The first concerns our young men. It is not permitted for them to do any unnecessary quarrelling among themselves. If they should quarrel, it must be a fair fight and for some good reason.”

“He must be joking,” thought Gonch. “No fighting? Whoever heard of such a thing?”

“Our second rule is equally simple,” Pic went on. “Also equally important. There must be no waste of game. The valley abounds with animals of every kind and they are easily caught. We wish these conditions to continue. Without beef or venison, we would starve and so these animals should neither be alarmed nor driven away. Promiscuous slaughter is therefore forbidden. Men must not kill more than they need.”

Gonch gasped as the true meaning of this astounding utterance forced itself upon him. The motive that inspired it and its sound logic were too lofty for his understanding or appreciation. Had Gonch not been born hungry and hungered all his life, he might have understood, for his wits were as keen as those of a fox. But killing was his primary instinct. His every thought and act sprang from his unquenchable blood-lust. “Simple rules indeed and a simpleton who says them,” he sneered under his breath. “This Pic has gone crazy with his flint-working. No wonder his people put him here by himself where he can do no harm.”

But outwardly, Gonch appeared only an attentive listener. “Good,” he said, “I understand. These are your hetman’s orders.”

“Yes, our hetman’s orders.”

“And this hetman, who is he?” asked Gonch.

“You will know him in good time,” was the reply. “You will also learn that he is a man not to be trifled with. And now for our third rule, an important one which you must be sure to remember. Of all animals, the Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros are absolutely immune. No man shall hunt, harm or annoy them in any way. The penalty is death.”

This was too much. The Muskman laughed like a hyena in Pic’s face. “Death no doubt,” he sneered. “Those two animals can take good care of themselves. But you have forgotten one; there is a third.”

“What?” demanded Pic, his eyes blazing.

“The Cave Lion. No fool would——” and then Gonch wished he could have swallowed his words before he said them, for the giant flint-worker’s face fairly flamed with terrible rage. He thrust his great head forward and bared his teeth in the Muskman’s face. He extended his right arm. Gonch felt the huge hand closing like a vise upon his wrist. An ounce more pressure would have meant crushed and broken bones. He cowered sick with terror as the threatening jaws opened wide as though to tear his throat.

“Meddler!” roared Pic. “Kill the Cave Lion if you can or let him kill you; either way, it would be good riddance; but the other two beasts are my friends—friends, do you hear? If you dare disobey my commands and harm one of them, I will tear you to pieces with my teeth and hands.”

He released his grip upon the Muskman as he said this. His face relapsed into its former calmness and the storm-wrath rolled away as quickly as it had come.

“You saved my boy,” he said in a voice so gentle that Gonch stared at him amazed at the sudden change. “I am not ungrateful and will treat you as a friend, provided you do not break our rules. Be wise; observe them and all will be well. Enough; we now understand each other.” With that he turned away and busied himself with the fire. So completely had his former tranquillity returned, that when the boy Kutnar who had been dozing all this time, awakened, his father and guest appeared on such good terms, he had not the slightest suspicion of anything unusual having happened while he slept.

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