After allowing Wulli ample time to decoy the hyenas a safe distance from their stronghold, Pic left the Mammoth to his own devices and set about to carry out his portion of the programme.

He reached the foot of the slope, ascended part way and paused. No dark forms appeared to mock him with their hideous laughter; so he went on until he reached the cave. No sound issued from within; only foul odors which in themselves were enough to repel any less determined invader than he. The hyenas were gone and now he had the place all to himself. So far, so good; he stepped inside.

The darkness was almost impenetrable so he was obliged to depend upon his sense of touch, groping about the floor with his hands and feet. Bones, bones, everywhere; but no stone. He searched about the entrance, then along the side-walls and finally the rear of the cave, carefully covering every inch of space; but without success. He repeated this performance; going over the ground a second time with the utmost care. Failure again; the stone was nowhere to be found nor the treasure which must be lying beneath it.

Pic’s patience was ebbing fast. He had begun this adventure in high spirits but as his quest yet remained barren of results, he grew fearful that it must soon end in total failure.

“My father would not have lied to me,” he strove to reassure himself. “Perhaps the stone has been accidentally removed. The treasure if it lies buried here, must be somewhere near the entrance.”

This last thought aroused his fading hopes and he resumed his search along new lines, chopping the dirt floor with his ax until not a spot near the cave-mouth remained untouched. His efforts were of no avail. Neither stone nor treasure came to light. This was the wrong cave.

Nothing remained to be done but leave and rejoin the Mammoth and Rhinoceros. It suddenly occurred to him that it was high time he was so doing. Night was drawing to a close and the hyenas would soon return. He stepped to the cave-mouth, then as quickly stepped back again at sight of some animals coming up the valley. His foot encountered an obstacle. His ax flew from his hand and he fell heavily upon its upturned edge.

A sharp pain shot through the rear of his thigh where the keen flint had inflicted a deep gash. He was up again in a moment, clutching the wound with one hand to stop the flow of blood. His injury although painful was not disabling. The hyenas were returning and it was necessary—for his own safety—that he be not caught intruding in their den.

He descended the slope with all possible haste, leaving a trail of blood-stains on the rocks behind him. He arrived at the foot of the slope none too soon. The hyenas were but a few paces distant. They came on growling and sniffing the air. Pic raised his ax and prepared to defend himself; whereupon they held back and showed no intention of proceeding further.

Pic retreated a step; the hyenas followed. He took several more steps and the foul beasts kept pace with him; halting when he halted; advancing as he retreated, threatening but ever hesitating to close in. None of them showed any interest in the cave. Not one climbed up the slope. It might be time to go home; but they were hungry. They smelled blood in the air and on the ground. Pic’s wound was not a dangerous one, but it gave promise; the odor of blood was alluring and so the hyenas followed. The Rhinoceros had proven a grievous disappointment; but now the scent of an injured man filled them with renewed hope.

Pic’s position was becoming decidedly unpleasant. He was being hounded by a pack of ferocious brutes who dared not attack him openly but who were prepared to take advantage of any opportunity offered them. He made off up the valley and the hyenas trailed behind at a respectful distance.

Their uncanny attention and particularly their persistence filled him with growing alarm. He was beginning to feel weary and faint; but to lie down; to lose his senses even for a few moments, meant death. His enemies were now gradually closing in; behind and on both sides. If they kept on, he would soon be completely surrounded. He must seek refuge among the rocks, in a cave or some place where he could defend himself without danger of attack from the rear. He scanned the cliffs—and there before him loomed a great rock which thrust its rugged flanks far into the valley. His heart quickened with renewed hope. It was the Rock of Moustier.

“Once I reach the grotto, I can make a stand against these beasts,” he encouraged himself; “unless”—and his spirits fell again like lead—“the Lion is there.”

However he must take his chance on that score. Things could not long continue as they were. A night of fruitless tramping up and down the valley was rapidly driving his enemies to desperation. Hyenas might be patient but even their patience could not forever endure the protests of empty stomachs. They quickened their pace and pressed on more closely. Some of them grew bold enough to walk ahead of him on either side.

The party drew up before the base of Moustier. Pic took a deep breath, grit his teeth and began the ascent. The hyenas hesitated, then followed after him. As he neared the middle terrace and came within sight of the grotto, he paused. For him, this was the turning-point—a situation fraught with fearful consequence. If the Lion were at home, he was lost—caught between two fires and hopelessly overmatched; but if the cave were unoccupied, he could make his stand in the entrance and fight off those who trailed behind him. All depended upon whether the grotto was or was not now occupied by its fierce tenant.

While he hesitated, one of his trackers, a huge beast with a ghoul-grinning face, lunged forward and snapped at his wounded limb, so closely that Pic felt the brute’s hot fetid breath. He turned like a flash just as the hyena sprang upon him a second time. A quick swing-back; and the blade of Ach Eul descended in a wide arc with all the power of arm and shoulder behind it. A terrible howl and the brute fell crashing down the slope with half of the flint buried in his skull. The other half and handle yet remained in Pic’s grasp; but the blade of Ach Eul was lost forever—shattered, destroyed by the violence of the blow.

Its owner gazed at the broken ax in dismay. He stood defenceless—armed only with a flimsy stick. Discarding his now useless weapon, he seized a jagged rock and raised it above his head, just as the other hyenas turned tail and scrambled down the steep slope after their stricken comrade. In a few moments, Pic heard them growling and snarling horribly as they fought and struggled over the dead body. Then sounded the ripping and tearing of flesh, followed by a more subdued clatter as of snapping and slopping jaws.

Pic was left alone. Below him, his enemies were devouring the one of their number he had slain. Now for the Cave Lion. With the rock still raised above his head, he took a last step upward and stood upon the platform fronting the grotto. No response came from within—no low growls nor angry snarls. He could see beyond the entrance and make out the interior, free of dark form and fiery eyes. The Lion was not inside. Pic glanced fearfully about him, then glided to the cave-mouth. It exuded no foul odor common to dens habitated by beasts of prey. The place was untenanted; and from all appearances it had been so for a considerable time.

Pic breathed more freely. Nothing was to be feared at the moment from the Lion. After assuring himself on that point, he stole across the rock-platform and peered down at the hideous group below. Already the dead hyena was but a framework of white bones and his fellows were straggling away down the valley. He returned to the cave and stepped boldly within.

Apparently the Lion had abandoned his winter quarters at the approach of Spring. His nest remained as he left it—a broad, shallow depression scooped from the floor. The brute had clawed out the dirt to the bare rock leaving the debris piled around the sides, thus forming a crater or enclosed receptacle shaped to his curled form. Its sides were covered with spiders’ webs and fungus growth. A single mushroom sprouted from the bottom—from the rock laid bare by the Lion’s claws. Pic looked curiously at this mushroom which could sprout from the hard limestone. He sank to his knees and bent low to examine it.

The stone from which it grew was not limestone but granite—a material foreign to the surrounding rock—of substance unlike that composing the cave-walls and roof; furthermore, the mushroom grew not from the stone but from a crack extended around it. The crack was filled with dirt and the mushroom sprang from the dirt.

Pic gazed thoughtfully at the mushroom, the dirt-filled crack and the granite stone. How did these three come there? Answer: because of the stone itself and no other reason; because of a stone in the floor—near the entrance—of a cave—on a mountain.

Pic trembled as this chain of circumstances ran through his mind. He reached down with shaking hand and scraped out the dirt which filled the encircling crack.

In a short time he had deepened it sufficiently to insert his fingers. One mighty heave—the stone yielded and came free. He raised it from the depression and tossed it to one side.

The hollow in which the stone had lain embedded, was filled with dirt. Pic set about to remove this by loosening and scraping it out with his fingers. While so doing, his knuckles encountered something hard and sharp. He pried the dirt from around the object, plucked it forth and held it to the light.

The object was a large flint-blade, flaked and chipped with edges so straight and keen, Pic could only stare and marvel. His experienced eye noted not the large flaking but the fine marginal chipping which gave the flint its finely-finished lines. It was a counterpart—a duplicate of his own ax so recently destroyed—the blade of Ach Eul.

Pic’s breath came loud and fast. The hot blood mounted to his temples. He set the flint carefully down beside him and turned once more to the hollow from whence it came. The dirt was soft and easily removed with his fingers. The ground beneath where the stone had lain, was a cavity filled with loose earth—and other objects as he discovered when once the loose material was removed.

The objects were flints—similar in form and finish to the first. The cavity was filled with them. He brought them forth one by one until he had secured more than could be counted upon the fingers of his two hands. Further search disclosed the cavity’s hard bottom but no more flints; nothing but a piece of bone.

“Part of the Cave Lion’s fare,” thought Pic. “It shows his tooth-marks and where he has licked it clean and smooth.” He was about to cast it aside, then checked the impulse and set it on the rock beside him where it soon passed from his thoughts. He turned again to the flints. The treasure of Moustier was now in his possession.

And it was indeed a treasure which had long lain buried in the floor of the grotto. Pic made a grimace as he thought of how many times he had stood, squatted, reclined over the very spot where it lay concealed. The stone—the guiding mark—had become buried in some unaccountable manner, thereby throwing him off the scent. It was but natural, he reflected, that Moustier—his father’s former home—should have been the cave which concealed the treasure; but who would have thought that the stone itself as well as the treasure might be hidden from sight?

Pic chuckled softly as he meditated over the element of chance that had brought about his good-fortune. But for the Cave Lion, he might have vainly hunted the world over until his dying day. He could thank Grun Waugh for this one thing, if nothing else. The treasure had been laid bare—or rather the stone which covered it—by a scratch of his big paw.

Pic gathered up the flints and carried them to the ledge outside. Here he squatted to feast his eyes on a dozen or more of the finest blades ever seen by mortal man—great almond-shaped flints, the size and form of his own hand—a sight to make the hunter and warrior’s heart beat fast with wonder at their great size and beautiful finish. The treasure of Moustier was priceless and beyond compare.

His first excitement having passed, Pic devoted himself to a more detailed inspection of the flints. They were all very much alike—great hand-axes; pointed and edged on one end; blunt on the other to accommodate the grip of the hand. They differed little from each other, in size, form, manner of chipping and even the material from which they were made. All bore the same evidence of retouch—the tiny chipping which made the margins so straight and keen. In them was none of the rude flaking and that, only on one side as characterized the wavy, irregular edges of Mousterian blades.

Wonderful indeed! Nothing could be more wonderful; but strange to say Pic turned from them and gazed wistfully at the sky. He sighed. The treasure of Moustier was incomparable with anything in all the world; but its owner now found himself a victim of baffled hope and bitter disappointment.

Why? Simply because they taught him nothing. A knowledge of the art itself and not the finished product was what he sought.

“How were they made?” had been and yet was the question uppermost in his mind; but on this point, the cold lustrous flints remained pitilessly silent. Pic was undisputed master of the treasure; but as far as the manner of its making was concerned, he knew no more now than he did before.

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