Mists of Dawn (43 page)

Mark was
up
in
an
instant
and
out
in
the
open
air. Perhaps
Tlaxcan
had
only
awakened
early
and stepped
outside
to
wait
for
him.
He-looked
around hopefully,
but
Tlaxcan
was
not
in
sight.
Mark
sat down
on
a
rock,
wondering.
Where
had
he
gone?
Why?

Then
he
noticed
Tlaxcan’s
stone
knife
on
the
ground in
front
of
the
lean-to.
He
walked
over
and
picked
it up.
Surely,
Tlaxcan
would
not
have
wandered
off
and forgotten
something
that
represented
many
hours
of labor
for
him.
He
must
have
left
the
knife
behind
intentionally,
as
a
sign
that
he
would
return.
Where
had he
gone?
Well,
he
had
taken
his
bow
and
arrows
with him,
and
that
suggested
that
he
had
gone
out
after
food.

Mark
climbed
to
the
top
of
a
large
rock
and
shaded his
eyes
with
his
hand.
He
judged
that
Tlaxcan
would probably
hunt
on
the
open
plains,
which
certainly seemed
to
be
teeming
with
game,
and
so
he
looked for
him
there.
He
saw
nothing
at
first.
There
was
only the
grassy
expanse
of
open
country,
so
deceptively peaceful
under
the
morning
sun.
A
faint,
fresh
breeze rustled
among
the
flowers,
a
joking
reminder
of
the bitter
gale
that
had
raged
the
night
before.

Mark
saw
a
herd
of
animals
in
the
distance,
grazing on
the
plains,
and
at
first
he
thought
they
were
bison. But
as
he
looked
more
closely
he
changed
his
mind.
It was
difficult
to
tell
so
far
away,
but
the
herd
looked
for all
the
world
like
wild
horses,
with
several
small
colts frisking
happily
about
in
the
sunshine.
Mark
tried
to remember
whether
or
not
there
had
been
horses
in the
year
50,000
b.c.,
and
then
he
smiled.
There
the horses
were,
and
after
all
was
he
not
the
world’s
greatest
authority
on
this
Ice
Age?
He
was
the
only
modern man
who
had
actually
been
there.

Then
Mark
saw
something
else.
To
his
left,
over
the spot
where
he
had
left
the
dead
reindeer
by
the
pool, a
cloud
of
great
black
birds
hovered
on
widespread wings,
drifting
in
the
breeze,
landing,
and
gliding
in endless
circles.
Mark
shuddered.
Vultures,
the
grim scavengers
of
the
dead
.
.
.

He
became
aware
of
still
another
cloud
of
the
devil birds
to
his
right,
and
it
was
a
moment
before
the
significance
of
the
sight
sunk
in.
Tlaxcan!
The
vultures would
not
venture
near
his
kill
if
he
was
all
right
himself.
Of
course,
he
could
have
left
a
carcass
behind
him and
started
back
for
the
shelter,
but
if
that
was
the case,
either
he
was
moving
very
slowly
or
else
the
vultures
had
moved
in
with
unusual
speed.
Something told
Mark
that
there
was
no
time
to
waste.

He
grabbed
up
Tlaxcan’s
stone
knife
and
drew
his .45.
Taking
a
careful
sight
on
the
cloud
of
vultures
so as
not
to
miss
his
directions,
he
scrambled
down
from the
rock
and
left
their
camp
on
the
double.
He
did
not try
to
sprint,
knowing
that
he
had
too
far
to
go
for that,
but
kept
to
a
steady
trot
that
covered
the
ground with
rapid
speed.
He
loped
out
of
the
foothills
and onto
the
grassy
plain,
and
then
cut
eastward
to
where he
could
still
see
an
occasional
vulture
flying
higher than
his
fellows.

It
took
him
over
half
an
hour,
and
at
his
approach the
great
ugly
birds
rose
higher
into
the
air,
their
gruesome
naked
necks
arched
in
dismay.
Carefully,
Mark picked
his
way
through
the
shrubs
until
he
saw
that
his fears
had
been
only
too
well
warranted.
Tlaxcan
had propped
himself
up
against
the
dead
body
of
his
prey, a
very
large
wolflike
animal
that
looked
something
like an
overgrown
Arctic
fox.
The
wolf-thing
was
dead,
but it
had
given
a
good
account
of
itself.
Tlaxcan
had driven
two
arrows
completely
through
the
beast,
but Tlaxcan
himself
had
been
clawed
badly
on
his
left shoulder.
The
blood
had
run
down
his
side
and
dried in
a
dark
mat,
although
it
was
still
thickly
red
at
the wound.
Somehow,
Tlaxcan
had
retained
his
senses
and had
actually
been
using
his
bow
to
good
effect
with his
shoulder
clawed
and
bitten
fearfully,
as
one
dead buzzard
with
an
arrow
through
its
neck
mutely
testified.