When Gonch arose next morning, he found Kutnar piling fresh wood upon the cave-hearth fire. The boy had been awake all night, nevertheless he appeared in good spirits. For some reason or other this angered the Muskman and he curtly ordered Kutnar to make ready for the morning hunt. This in itself was a flagrant violation of the Castillan code. Night fire-tenders were always permitted a rest after their labors while others attended to the next morning’s food-gathering. But this was an exceptional case. Gonch found the hetman’s brow-beating too much to bear and so he passed the burden with his spite added, on to the boy.

And still Kutnar did not complain but made ready as he was told. It would appear that he had resigned himself to the position of menial and camp drudge and would perform any work allotted him. So it seemed, judging by his actions; but Gonch was keen enough to see that the boy’s manner was not quite the same. He appeared to have changed over night. The change was in the look of his eyes. Gonch recalled that same look in the eyes of a wounded wolf he had once cornered. The beast had sprung upon him and bitten him severely as he approached to club it to death. The comparison might be a product of his imagination, but Gonch deemed it wise to take no chances. He would watch the boy and be on his guard, for there was no knowing what Kutnar might do if he once made up his mind to do it. The main thing to guard against was the sling. If the boy ever took a notion in his head to attack anyone with it, no doubt he would prove a dangerous customer. “A deadly toy,” was Gonch’s opinion of it. “I will keep an eye on the lad and see that he does not get a chance to use it.”

Kutnar took his place as usual in the morning hunt and Gonch accompanied him. No matter where they tramped; through snowdrifts and over hill and dale, whenever the boy looked behind him, there was the Muskman standing close at his elbow.

It was past mid-day when the party returned to Castillo. Kutnar had no sooner thrown himself down by the fire to rest than the Muskman curtly informed him it was time to descend to the bank of the River Pas and search for flint-lumps. Without a word, the boy rose obediently to his feet. Gonch again observed the strange hunted look of those eyes; also the jaws were set tightly together. It was on his mind to take several of the cave-men along too, for there was greater safety in numbers, but he put this notion scornfully aside. “What a fool I am to fear him and his fling-string,” he reflected. “A mere lad who knows better than to pit himself against a man”; but he was careful just the same and kept his ax in readiness to strike down the lad if he made a move to use the sling girt about his loins.

In this manner they descended to the river bank. Then began the search for flint-lumps, but in spite of their diligence, they had no success. With the passing of time, Gonch grew more and more desperate as he thought of the trip back to Castillo where he must face the hetman empty-handed. “Look closer, boy,” he snarled. “If you fail, there will be neither food nor rest for you to-night when we return.”

Kutnar looked furtively about him, not toward the ground but at the distant mountain of Castillo, the snow-covered lowlands and up and down the ice-bound stream. His hands fumbled with the rawhide thong tied about his waist. In an instant the Muskman’s ax flashed threateningly above his head.

“And so the little boy would play with his fling-string,” sounded Gonch’s taunting voice followed by a fierce command: “Quick, give it to me or I will kill you.” Kutnar’s nostrils swelled and his face reddened but there seemed no help for him. He loosened the sling from his body and cast it at the Muskman’s feet. At sight of the youth now completely disarmed and at his mercy, Gonch laughed a loud brutal laugh charged with cruelty and malice. “You hate me,” he hissed; “but your hatred is a mere pebble beside yonder mountain compared with what I feel toward you. Do you know why?”

Kutnar made no answer; merely glared at his tormentor with hunted eyes.

“Because you are the whelp of the Mammoth Man,” snarled Gonch. “He, your father, I hate even worse than I hate you. You do not know why.”

Again no answer; Kutnar only glared.

“Because he has the heart of a woman in his great lion body,” Gonch raved on vindictively. “Because he is a friend of beasts and would withhold them from the paunches of hungry men; because he would make weaklings of hunters and warriors; and because of the strength in his lion body which prevented my bringing him here a slave.”

Kutnar’s chest rose and fell with his hard breathing. He bit his lips until the blood came; but still he said nothing.

“I was but a wolf running amuck in his flock,” the Muskman sneered. “A rock fell from the cliff and nearly destroyed the Mammoth and Rhinoceros. Who pushed it down? I. A man set upon the Mammoth caught fast in the mire and would have destroyed him, had it not been for the meddling Rhinoceros. Who was that man? I. Who stole the Lion Man’s cub when all chance of securing the Lion Man himself was gone? I. Do you hear me, whelp? It was I.”

The boy’s eyes were now blazing like coals of fire. His face had become livid. Gonch noted the effect of his cruel mockery and he gloated over it even as he gloried in the boy’s helplessness.

“We were such dear good friends,” he scoffed. “I loved you, my comrade, as a hyena loves a bone. We fled to the southland together; you and I. Your father pursued us. He rode upon the Mammoth and soon we were overtaken. I thought it unwise for you to know who was pursuing us, for your father was angry and would have spoiled all. We lay hidden in the bushes. Another moment and you would have learned the truth, had not someone struck you from behind. Who struck that blow? A lion? No. It was——”

“You!” screamed Kutnar, and like a flash, he launched himself at his tormentor’s throat.

So sudden and unexpected was the attack that Gonch’s weapon was stricken from his hand. Now he too was unarmed. Over and over they rolled in the snow; first the man, then the boy uppermost, clawing and biting like wildcats and without apparent advantage to either. Gonch was howling with fury but Kutnar fought silently like a weasel and his hands ever worked for a weasel hold on his foeman’s throat. Rough and tumble, kick, strike, gouge; they struggled with all the strength and fury of madmen. For an instant they separated and each stood upon his feet. Gonch sprang to recover his ax but Kutnar frustrated this attempt with a quick leap that bore his detested enemy to the ground. The Muskman’s guard was open and Kutnar found the opportunity which he had long sought. Both hands clutched the Castillan’s throat and clung there like death.

Over and over they rolled again. Gonch’s cries were now screams of pain and rapidly losing force, even as his struggles to free his neck from that tearing, strangling clutch, became feebler and feebler. Kutnar felt his foe weakening; he gripped the tighter. Gonch’s body jerked convulsively, the blood trickled from his nostrils, then he relaxed and lay still. Kutnar released his hold and stood erect. The Muskman never moved. “Men will soon know of this,” the boy muttered; but there was no need of their knowing it too soon, so he seized the body by the shoulders and dragged it out of sight among some neighboring bushes. This done, he recovered his sling, also not forgetting to appropriate the Muskman’s fine flint-ax for his own use; then he was ready to proceed.

The die was cast and now there could be no turning back. Sooner or later, the man-pack would be after him. “To be caught is to be killed and to be killed is to be eaten,” he thought and so he made ready to escape with all speed. Which way? There was the broad highway eastward across the windswept snow-plain. It was the shortest route back to home and friends. He gazed longingly in that direction then shook his head. An endless journey in the dead of winter; the attempt would be madness. He could do it after the first spring thaw but not now. There was no help for it; the path pointing to the east meant cold, sickness and death. He turned to the south. There lay the mountains full of hiding places and caves no doubt where he might live protected from the elements. Food? His sling had killed for many; now it could surely kill for one. Yes, he would flee southward and take refuge among the mountains until such time as the return of mild weather would permit the long journey home.

He was making off along the line of the Pas when he thought of the Muskman. Something prompted him to look once more upon the body of his enemy and for the last time. He retraced his steps and entered the bushes. Gonch lay there upon his back. As Kutnar gazed down at him, he said in a melancholy voice: “The rogue has met his just deserts; and yet—it is hard to forget that I once looked upon him as a friend.”

He kneeled over the body and laid one ear against the chest. “Can it be that he is still alive?” he asked himself. “The heart still beats; the flesh is warm.” The thought disturbed him. He raised his ax. One blow and all doubts would be removed; then for some reason he hesitated. “He will die anyway,” the boy reasoned. “It would be but striking a corpse.”

“That may strike back if you do not,” something within warned him and he raised his ax once more, only to lose heart when it came to actually dealing the finishing stroke. “He will surely perish of cold if nothing else,” he said finally. “The night will soon come and none can find him before morning.”

That settled it. By morning, Kutnar would be well on his way and among the mountains; then he need worry no more about the Muskman, be he dead or alive.

He left his fallen enemy lying among the bushes, took one more longing look at the broad eastern path and then fled rapidly in the southern direction along the line of the River Pas.

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