Authors: Chad Oliver
The
long days passed, and became weeks. Mark stayed with the Danequa, learning their language, learning their ways, and learning the million things that he had to know in order to exist in this strange new world. His friends, Tlaxcal and little Tlax, Roqan and Roqal, Qualxen, the shaman, stuck by him and helped him. And there was always Tlaxcan, steady as a rock at his side, ready to kill or to laugh on a moment’s notice. These were happy days, and busy days, but still Mark was lonely. With all his friends, he was yet not a member of the tribe of Danequa, and was therefore necessarily rather left out of things.
The dog, who had come to him in the night, was like the man who came to dinner; Mark could not get rid of him. Not that he wanted to, for the dog made the long nights less lonely. lie was really quite a dog, and Mark named him Fang, after the dog he had left behind in 1953. He had named his cocker spaniel Fang as a kind of joke, but the new Fang lived up to his name. Gentle enough with Mark, who fed him, he bristled and snarled at anyone else who came near him. The Danequa were curious about the
friendly
relationship
between
Mark
and
the
dog;
they had
never
seen
a
pet
before.
But
they
accepted
it
as they
had
accepted
Mark
himself.
Different
people
behaved
in
different
ways,
and
that
was
all
there
was to
it.
Nranquar
was
still
suspicious
of
Mark,
and
having
Fang
around
didn’t
help
matters
any,
but
he
was the
only
one
who
seemed
to
care
one
way
or
the
other.
Then
one
day
it
happened.
One
of
the
scouts,
out on
the
same
duty
that
had
first
taken
Tlaxcan
to
Mark, came
back
to
camp
with
the
long-awaited
news.
The mammoth
herd
had
been
sighted!
The
camp
was
thrown
into
great
excitement
over the
information,
and
at
once
preparations
for
the
hunt were
begun.
The
primitive
equivalent
to
K-ration, dried
meat
pounded
and
mixed
with
berries,
then sealed
with
animal
fat,
was
made
ready
for
use. Qualxen
went
into
action
to
contact
the
supernatural, and
brief
ceremonies
got
underway.
Mark
for
the
first time
appreciated
how
much
time
was
taken
up
by the
Danequa
in
their
almost
endless
ceremonies,
but the
ceremonies
gave
to
them
a
confidence
that
was well
worth
the
time
invested.
On
a
tough
job,
it
helps for
the
worker
simply
to
believe
that
the
job
can
be done.
The
men
were
armed
with
lances,
harpoons,
bows and
arrows,
and
sharp
cutting
knives.
The
women
and children
prepared
noisemakers
of
various
sorts,
and loaded
up
on
robes
which
they
would
flap.
Mark
carried
his
.45,
and
was
prepared
to
use
it
if
he
had
to, but
he
was
not
under
the
illusion
that
he
could
kill a
mammoth
with
a
pistol.
In
addition,
he
carried
one of
TIaxcan’s
spears,
and
he
was
determined
to
prove himself
on
this
hunt.
He
had
to
prove
himself,
he
remembered
grimly.
The
camp
moved
out
through
the
valley
and
hit the
long
trail.
The
quaro
herd
had
been
sighted
due north,
on
the
edge
of
the
retreating
ice
sheet,
about fourteen
hours
distant.
Men,
women,
children—the whole
tribe
went.
The
mammoth
meant
food,
shelter, clothes,
and
many
other
things
for
the
whole
village, and
it
took
the
whole
village
to
bring
one
down.
One hunter,
no
matter
how
able,
could
not
possibly
handle a
mammoth.
It
would
be
like
hunting
an
elephant with
a
slingshot,
a
practice
which
does
not
work
very well
outside
of
the
jungle
movies.
It
was
broad
daylight
when
the
Danequa
moved out,
and
once
more
Mark
found
himself
on
the
great plains
with
their
waving
grasses
and
millions
of
brilliant
flowers.
But
it
was
different
this
time;
he
was no
longer
alone,
he
was
part
of
a
team,
and
the
world held
no
terrors
for
him
now.
He
might
win
or
he might
lose,
he
might
live
or
he
might
die,
but
he
could face
what
was
to
come
with
a
steady
heart.
Part
of it
was
due,
of
course,
to
the
friends
that
walked
at his
side—but
part
of
it,
too,
was
due
to
Mark
himself. For
Mark,
subtly
and
almost
unknown
to
himself,
had changed.
It
is
doubtful
that
his
friends
in
1953
would have
recognized
him
now—a
young,
bronzed
savage, spear
in
hand,
long
hair
held
in
place
by
a
thong
of bison
hide,
his
body
covered
with
the
warm
furs
that had
been
made
for
him
by
Tlaxcal,
a
fierce
wolf-dog at
his
side.
Mark
had
been
aged
by
more
than
time, and
he
was
hard
as
only
a
hard
world
can
make
a man,
with
a
confident,
even
look
in
his
eyes.