Authors: Chad Oliver
Comfortable
at
last,
Mark
lay
back
in
the
afternoon sun
and
just
enjoyed
feeling
human
again.
Now
that he
had
the
chance,
he
determined
to
skin
the
reindeer
before
evening.
He
was
not
going
to
get
caught out
another
night
without
protection
of
some
sort.
He knew
nothing
about
curing
hides,
but
he
figured
that if
he
scraped
all
the
meat
off
and
then
dried
it
in
the sun
it
would
serve
his
purpose
and
keep
him
warm.
Then
there
was
the
meat.
It
had
taken
two
shots to
down
the
reindeer,
and
he
had
used
one
on
the Neanderthal,
which
left
him
with
three
shots
in
his
.45.
He
could
not
afford
to
waste
the
meat,
but
on the
other
hand,
he
certainly
could
not
eat
it
all
before it
spoiled.
Mark
decided
to
cut
up
the
choice
sections, wrap
them
in
leaves,
and
bury
them
deep
in
the
snow. That
was
as
good
a
deepfreeze
as
he
could
ask
for, and
the
meat
cache
should
keep
him
alive
for
weeks if
necessary.
Mark
got
up
and
speared
the
other
steak,
which
he cut
up
as
he
had
the
first.
He
ate
this
one
more
slowly, savoring
the
fine
flavor,
and
he
actually
found
himself
feeling
uncomfortably
full.
Then
he
lay
back
again in
the
grass
and
permitted
himself
the
luxury
of
relaxation.
It
was
good
just
to
be
alive,
and
danger
seemed a
remote
and
unreal
thing
under
the
blue
sky,
with the
white
clouds
drifting
by,
the
smell
of
flowers
and green
grass
in
the
air,
and
the
warm
afternoon
sun beating
gently
down
upon
him.
Good
just
to
be
alive! Mark
realized
sleepily
that
he
had
never
truly
appreciated
that
before.
When
you
tottered
on
the
brink of
the
Valley
of
the
Shadow,
and
then
came
out
once more
into
the
sunshine,
you
looked
at
things
with
new and
deep-seeing
eyes.
Mark
nodded,
half-asleep.
He
rolled
over
on
his stomach,
yawning.
He
looked
into
the
still
waters
of the
pool—and
suddenly
stiffened.
He
knew
instantly that
he
had
been
guilty
of
the
greatest
mistake
of
all-he
had
won
through,
only
to
let
his
guard
down
when victory
was
in
his
grasp.
A
dark
shadow
was
reflected in
the
pool,
silent,
unmoving.
Someone,
or
something,
stood
behind
him!
FOR a long moment, Mark could not move. To come so far, to dare so much and then to be struck down through blind carelessness—it was hard to take. Fool, his mind whispered to him. Fool! Steeling himself to calmness, unwilling to surrender to fate no matter how tough things got, Mark snaked his hand toward his .45, moving very slowly in order not to excite any suspicion. It was a fortunate circumstance, he knew, that the .45 was not known as a weapon in this era. If your enemy thinks that you are helpless, he is apt to be careless. And when your helplessness actually consists of a loaded .45—
Mark
drew
the
.45.
There
was
still
no
sound
behind him.
Very
cautiously,
almost
inch
by
inch,
Mark
began to
roll
over
on
his
back
where
he
could
snap
a
shot with
some
hope
of
success.
Still
not
a
sound
from
the figure
he
had
seen
in
the
pool.
Mark
tensed
himself and
whipped
over
on
his
back,
his
finger
already
contracting
on
the
trigger
of
the
.45
even
as
its
stubby muzzle
swung
down
on
its
target.
In
the
nick
of
time,
Mark
held
his
fire.
A
man
stood
watching
him.
Not
a
half-man,
not
a
Neanderthal,
but
a
man.
He
carried
a
bow
at
the
ready, with
a
feathered
arrow
taut
against
the
bowstring. He
was
tall,
perhaps
a
shade
under
six
feet,
and
he was
a
magnificent
physical
specimen.
He
was
bronzed from
the
sun,
but
recognizably
white.
He
was
dressed neatly
in
furs,
with
his
powerful
arms
and
legs
bare. His
hair
was
long
and
black,
but
neatly
arranged
and tied
with
a
rawhide
thong.
His
face
was
broad
and strong,
and
he
reminded
Mark
of
a
tall
Indian,
though he
lacked
Mongoloid
characteristics.