Authors: Chad Oliver
Mists of Dawn (35 page)
Too
nervous
even
to
breathe,
Mark
took
careful aim
at
the
buck.
His
hand
trembled,
and
twice
he lowered
the
gun
to
steady
himself.
One
of
the
does sniffed
nervously
at
the
air,
and
the
buck
raised
his antlered
head
inquiringly.
Mark
could
hesitate
no longer.
He
aimed
the
clumsy
.45
and
squeezed
the trigger.
There
was
a
smashing
report,
unnaturally
loud in
the
stillness,
and
the
buck
spun
and
leaped
for
the shrubbery
behind
him.
Mark
cried
out
despite
himself.
He
had
missed!
Mark
leaped
to
his
feet
and
desperately
fired
again. In
mid-air
the
buck
faltered.
He
came
down
trying to
run,
but
Mark
spotted
the
telltale
red
wetness
on his
left
shoulder.
He
took
careful
aim
but
held
his fire.
He
could
ill
afford
to
use
up
another
bullet,
but he
was
prepared
to
do
so
if
he
had
to.
But
it
wasn’t necessary.
The
buck
managed
a
few
staggering
steps and
then
collapsed
in
the
grass,
his
great
sad
eyes looking
at
Mark
in
a
way
that
was
almost
human.
The fawn
nosed
the
fallen
buck
in
confusion,
then
followed its
mother
away
across
the
plains.
Mark
came
forward,
his
hands
shaking
with
excitement.
He
knelt
beside
the
reindeer
and
fumbled
for his
pocketknife.
“Sorry,
old
boy,”
he
murmured,
“but
I
never
needed a
meal
in
my
life
like
I
need
this
one.”
Mark
set
to
work,
but
it
was
tough
going.
The
blade of
his
knife
was
razor-sharp,
but
it
was
not
made
for carving.
He
sawed
around
the
right
foreleg,
cutting through
the
skin
and
as
many
tendons
as
he
could. Then
he
placed
one
foot
on
the
leg
between
the shoulder
and
the
cut,
and
attempted
to
break
the
bone by
force.
In
his
weakened
condition,
it
was
far
from easy.
But
he
managed,
and
then
carved
out
several good
cuts
with
his
knife.
There
might
be
Neanderthals
lurking
near,
but Mark
reasoned
that
if
his
shots
had
not
drawn
their attention
then,
nothing
else
would.
Hungry
as
he
was, he
did
not
intend
to
eat
his
meat
raw.
A
flat
rock
by the
pool
would
serve
as
a
fireplace,
and
the
shrubs should
kindle
up
into
a
good
enough
fire.
Mark
found enough
shrubs
within
twenty
yards
to
more
than satisfy
his
needs,
and
he
hacked
branches
from
them with
his
pocketknife.
He
trimmed
them
of
foliage
and then
carefully
split
several
of
them
down
into
sections.
These
he
shaved
into
fine
slivers
for
kindling. He
arranged
the
wood
with
meticulous
care
on
the flat
rock,
building
it
up
from
tiny
shavings
to
fair-sized
branches.
He
trimmed
one
stout
branch
to
a sharp,
twin-forked
point
and
he
was
ready.
Mark
fished
out
his
matches
and
struck
one
on
the box.
It
failed
to
light,
and
he
saw
that
the
matches were
damp.
He
felt
a
sinking
sensation
in
the
pit
of his
stomach
and
began
to
realize
what
primitive
man was
up
against.
Suppose
he
had
to
make
his
own
knife, where
would
he
start?
Suppose
he
had
to
kindle
a fire
from
a
chunk
of
wood
and
an
improvised
drill? Sure,
it
looked
simple
enough
in
the
diagrams—but could
he
do
it?