The hunt was ended. The roe-buck had breathed his last and lay where he had fallen with glazed eyes staring at the sky. The Cave-men were gathered about the body, preparing to remove the skin and quarter the carcass for transport across the meadows.

While his followers were thus engaged, the burly Mousterian chieftain withdrew to the neighboring stream to cool his heated brow and rest himself. The chase had been a hard one but he was in rare humor nevertheless. His dart had been the first to reach its mark; and after the long chase, his ax had dealt the finishing stroke. As he sat upon the bank gazing at the water below him, his thoughts were rudely disturbed by a loud “Hi-yo!” coming from across the stream. He looked up and saw a man standing on the opposite bank. The stranger shouted again and waved an arm. The hunters now came running up to obtain a better view of the newcomer.

“Who is it?” asked one.

“If I had not with my own eyes seen him fall a victim to the Mammoth and Rhinoceros, I would say it was the Ape Boy,” said another.

The burly chief glared fiercely at the one who had just spoken.

“Ape Boy? Bah! Let no man speak that name again if he values his own beast-hide. He is Pic, Killer of the Bison. Remember it well.”

“Killer of the Mammoth and Rhinoceros too,” added the man thus chided. “How else could he return to us alive?”

Meanwhile the stranger was wading and swimming across the stream. The hunters gazed at him in awe as he drew nearer and nearer. He emerged at last, climbed the bank and shook the dripping water from his body.

“Do the dead live again?” asked the amazed chieftain. “Or do I see before me, one greater than the mighty Mammoth?”

Pic merely grinned. “The Mammoth? Agh; no matter. I drove him and the other beast away. But enough of them. Tell your men to step back. I have something which you alone should see.”

The chieftain shouted a command and in a moment his followers were hustling back to their business about the dead buck.

Pic squatted upon his haunches and took a deep breath. He held a packet of rabbit-skin in his hand.

“Since leaving you, my days were spent alone upon the Rock,” he began.

“Alone? Why?” the chieftain demanded.

“I was—um-m—sick.” Pic suddenly remembered the half-healed wound in his thigh. He did look a bit thin and haggard. Hard work and light eating had left their marks.

“Bah!” The chieftain was again gazing dreamily at the water. His brows were contracted in deep thought. He seemed to have forgotten the other’s presence.

“While I was—um—sick,” Pic began, “I spent my time making something for you to see.” He glanced at the Cave-men who were now engaged in skinning the dead buck, then held out the packet of rabbit fur. The chieftain took a quick sidelong glance, then looked away.

“Ugh,” was all he said.

Pic rolled back a fold of the packet, meanwhile watching the other closely from the corners of his eyes. A large flint blade was disclosed—a skinning knife. In form and finish, it was a gem.

The chieftain lost his far-away look. He began to fidget. His mouth watered as he observed that which lay so temptingly within his reach. He made a supreme effort to conceal his true feelings; but flesh and blood could not—would not—stand the strain. He gasped, turned quickly and pointed to the skinning-blade.

“That flint you hold—Agh! Let me see it.”

Pic’s blood surged through his veins like molten steel. With difficulty, he stilled the exultation raging within him and preserved his appearance of outward calm. Without a word, he handed the flint to his companion who seized it eagerly and ran his thumb along one edge.

“It is indeed a treasure,” he exclaimed. “Never have I seen the like. Would you part with it?”

To conceal his bubbling joy, Pic now drew a long face.

“Part with it?” he exclaimed in tones of well-feigned astonishment. “Then I would have nothing—unless you chose to give me something in return.”

The chieftain chuckled inwardly at this shrewd suggestion. “My share of the buck, how would that suit you? I would give even that for such a flint as this. What say you? A haunch of venison? You have been ill. The meat will make you strong.”

But Pic merely shook his head.

“A hide; one, two, three,” the Mousterian leader held up one finger after another but without increasing the other’s interest a single whit. “Here is an odd fellow,” he thought to himself. “Nothing appears to please him. He is our best warrior and may well give me the worst of it if I fight him for the flint.” He wrinkled his brows, much perplexed. He could make one more offer, such as it was and if that failed, a combat was unavoidable, for he was determined to keep the blade now that it was in his possession.

“The flint I must have,” he growled. “I will offer you something else—a woman.”

The youth’s manner changed in a flash. He raised his head and squared his shoulders. “Agreed; the flint is yours. I take the girl—she who so narrowly escaped death on the butcher block.”

The Mousterian leader was astounded. He had not expected such quick and ready response. He now recalled Pic’s interest in the young woman and already repented his offer. “Oho,” he thought; “What a calf I was;” and his face assumed such a cunning expression, Pic saw in a moment that he had overplayed his hand.

“Ugh! Not so fast,” he remonstrated; “The girl is my daughter and the daughter of a chief cannot be had for nothing. One flint is not enough.”

Pic’s eyes opened wide; then scowled angrily. He unfolded the packet once more. The chieftain’s face brightened. He was gazing upon a second superb flint—a tool for scraping and dressing hides. Although differing in design, it was as fine in form and finish as the first. It was on his lips to say “Agreed,” and close the deal at once but he checked himself just in time. The packet—as he observed—was not yet empty.

“No; not even the two are enough,” he growled. Pic unrolled the packet the third time, then held the rabbit-skin dangling from his fingers to show that his limit was reached. The last flint—an ax-blade with edges hewn straight and keen—was a marvellous creation. As in a dream, the chieftain stared and wondered, while Pic strove to drive home his bargain.

“The knife, scraper, ax; all are yours,” he said determinedly. “I take the girl. Quick, your answer. If they are not enough, I will make them so and with my bare hands”; and he squared back with his arms outstretched as though prepared to fly at the other’s throat.

A great commotion ensued among those gathered about the dead buck. The Cave-men dropped their work and came crowding around the pair. A contest between two such skilled warriors would be worth going far to see.

The chieftain hesitated. His eyes flashed fire but the rage within his heart was ebbing fast. Through his mind, ran thoughts of advantages to be gained by an alliance with this young warrior, hunter and maker of wonderful flints. He observed his followers closing in about them. “I did but wish to try his mettle,” he cried loudly, then lowered his weapon.

Growls of disapproval greeted this peaceful termination of what promised to be a combat well worth the watching. The Mousterian leader silenced them with a fierce look.

“The bargain is made,” he roared; “There shall be no blood-letting between us. Let him who objects, stand forth.”

The sight of his burly figure and savage looks was sufficient to repress further argument. None stood forth; nobody objected.

“What bargain?” shouted a voice.

The chieftain’s fierce mien suddenly changed. He produced his three flints and held them in his hand so that all could see. A chorus of astonished grunts arose as the Cave-men crowded forward and examined the wonderful blades.

“Who owns them? From where did they come?” one of the men asked.

“I own them,” the chief answered proudly. “They are the price that he who killed the Bison, chooses to pay for the girl, my daughter.”

Every pair of eyes turned inquiringly—some compassionately—upon him who could thus squander his wealth so recklessly. Pic felt overwhelmed with embarrassment by the publicity so suddenly thrust upon him. He saw nothing but a sea of eyes and leering faces.

“Who made them?” demanded one of the Cave-men. “Would that all of us had flints like these.”

Pic glowed with pleasure as he heard these words. They gave him courage to unburden his heart and speak of what was in his mind. “I made them,” he said and then as all stared in wonder and held their peace, he went on:

“For many days have I sought the lost art of retouching hammered flints. We men have grown careless with our flint-working. We have become sluggish. We sit back to rot in caves or starve, simply for the lack of fitting tools and weapons to kill and dress our food. I know now how they may be made. Those”—he pointed to the three pieces in the chieftain’s hands—“are my first—the new patterns chipped straight and keen—on both sides.”

Pic’s hearers were now rapidly recovering from their first astonishment. By this time, they were ready to believe anything of this remarkable youth. Had he produced a pair of wings and flown away, they would have been surprised no doubt; but one and all would have accepted it as a matter of course.

“If you made these, you can make more,” suggested one of the Cave-men.

“Arrah; he can thus serve us even better than by taking his part in the hunt!” said another.

Pic fairly beamed. His first efforts to revive the lost art were tested and adjudged an unqualified success. A thought of the future flashed through his mind.

“To make blades like these, I will need many flint lumps,” he said. “If you gather them I will have more time for my work.”

The burly chieftain nodded approval.

“My men will supply them,” he generously agreed. “The stone will be forthcoming if you make the tools.”

Pic shut one eye and grinned in the other’s face. His future career as a business man was rapidly shaping itself.

“I will need food and hides as well,” he shrewdly suggested. “Perhaps your men will supply them too.”

The Mousterian leader cocked his head thoughtfully on one side. He began to see that neither he nor his followers were to be furnished new tools and weapons unless they gave something in return. Far from resenting Pic’s shrewdness, he congratulated himself on having established close relations between himself and this remarkable youth. Raw flint was plentiful enough. Sharper, finer weapons, meant more meat and hides—more fruitful hunting. He and his followers could meet Pic on his own terms.

“Agreed,” he said. All nodded assent; and Bargain Number Two was closed.

The hide and severed portions of the slain buck were now raised on half a dozen pairs of brawny shoulders; and with Pic in their midst, bearing himself like a returning conqueror, the Cave-men of Ferrassie returned across the meadows to the overhanging cliffs.