Mists of Dawn (57 page)

He
could
not
be
sure,
but
he
thought
that
this
cave —which
was
very
small,
little
more
than
a
deep
recess in
the
rock—was
the
one
from
which
he
had
heard
the whinings
and
growlings
of
the
wolf-dogs
earlier.
He sniffed
the
air,
and
there
was
no
doubt
that
something
had
recently
occupied
the
cave.
He
hoped
with
all
his heart
that
it
had
been
nothing
more
dangerous
than
a dog,
and
that
it
wouldn’t
take
a
notion
to
come
home sometime
in
the
dark
hours
of
the
night.

Mark
was
very
tired;
he
had
not
realized
how
tired he
was
until
he
stretched
out
on
the
cave
floor
with
the warm
fur
over
him.
He
took
his
.45
from
its
holster, placed
it
within
easy
reach
and
closed
his
eyes.
The ways
of
men
are
indeed
odd,
he
thought
sleepily
.
.
. A
few
short
days
ago,
he
would
have
thought
anyone crazy
who
tried
to
tell
him
that
it
would
be
possible for
him
to
go
back
through
space-time
to
the
beginnings
of
man
and
calmly
go
to
sleep,
without
fear
and with
an
untroubled
mind.
And
yet
he
found
himself relaxed
and
trusting
toward
his
new-found
friends.
The Danequa,
he
was
sure,
were
not
a
treacherous
people. He
was
safe
in
their
hands—safe,
at
least,
from
cowardly
sneak-attacks.
When
these
people
felt
like
arguing,
they
would
do
it
in
the
open.
And
here,
finally,
he need
not
worry
about
the
ghastly
half-men,
who prowled
like
fantastic
accidents
through
the
night lands
of
the
Ice
Age
.
.
.

Mark
slept
and
dreamed.
He
was
grateful
for
the sleep,
but
it
would
be
long
before
he
was
able
to
forget his
dream.

Through
the
gray
twilight
world
of
sleep,
in
a
world without
color
of
any
sort,
a
man
ran
desperately.
He had
been
running
for
a
long
time,
and
he
was
very tired.
His
lungs
ached,
and
even
in
the
cold
air
sweat covered
his
body
like
a
film
of
moisture.
His
feet
were cut
and
bleeding.
The
man
was
dressed
in
furs,
but Mark
knew
him.
The
man
was
himself.

Behind
Mark,
almost
touching
his
weary
feet
as
they pounded
across
the
gray
earth,
the
half-men
screamed and
growled
hideously.
Mark
did
not
dare
to
turn
and look
at
them,
but
he
knew
that
they
were
there.
The Neanderthals
neither
gained
on
him
nor
did
they
lose ground.
They
came
on
untiringly,
always
exactly
the same
distance
behind
him.

Where
was
he
going?
Mark
looked
around
him,
sensing
that
he
knew
this
country
somehow.
He
had
been here
before.
Behind
him,
the
low
pine-covered
foothills
merged
into
the
mountains,
with
their
snow
white against
the
gray
sky.
Between
the
mountains
was
a valley—and
not
the
valley
of
the
Danequa,
with
its green
grass
and
beautiful
waterfall.
A
ghastly
valley, a
nightmare
valley
.
.
.