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.
Tlaxcan had heard him coming, and Mark once again found himself with one of Tlaxcan’s deadly arrows staring him in the face. But Tlaxcan recognized him at once and lowered his bow. He smiled feebly and tried to get up, but couldn’t make it. His tense face was white beneath its tan, and Mark could see that he had lost a lot of blood.
Mark came forward and knelt beside the fallen man. He was still oppressed by the fact that he could not speak and make himself understood, but Tlaxcan solved this problem for him neatly. He put his right hand on Mark’s shoulder and looked searchingly into his eyes, then lowered his hand and sank back. Mark understood—Tlaxcan was putting himself in Mark’s hands. Facing almost certain death if he were abandoned on the plains, he was trusting a stranger to save him.
Mark examined the wound in Tlaxcan’s shoulder. It was deep and undoubtedly painful, but not fatal if it could be properly taken care of. Mark was no doctor, but he could see that what he had to fear was the danger of infection, plus weakness that would result if the bleeding was not stopped in a hurry. He looked around and spotted the telltale line of dense vegetation that indicated one of the many postglacial streams flowing down out of the mountains and across the great plain. Tlaxcan’s wound should be cleaned, and for that he would need water, but the stream was at least half a mile away. Mark again looked closely at the wound, and saw that it had stopped bleeding for the present. He signed for Tlaxcan to keep still, and then built a quick fire that caught more easily than had his first such attempt.
Tlaxcan watched with avid interest, taking puzzled note of both Mark’s matches and his sharp metal knife that folded so miraculously in and out of itself. Mark cut a strip from the flank of Tlaxcan’s kill and broiled it on a stick. Acting on a hunch, he also collected some of the wolf-thing’s still-warm blood in a crude container he fashioned out of skin and gave it to Tlaxcan. Tlaxcan gulped it down with obvious relish, and then ate the meat that Mark had cooked for
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.
Tlaxcan had heard him coming, and Mark once again found himself with one of Tlaxcan’s deadly arrows staring him in the face. But Tlaxcan recognized him at once and lowered his bow. He smiled feebly and tried to get up, but couldn’t make it. His tense face was white beneath its tan, and Mark could see that he had lost a lot of blood.
Mark came forward and knelt beside the fallen man. He was still oppressed by the fact that he could not speak and make himself understood, but Tlaxcan solved this problem for him neatly. He put his right hand on Mark’s shoulder and looked searchingly into his eyes, then lowered his hand and sank back. Mark understood—Tlaxcan was putting himself in Mark’s hands. Facing almost certain death if he were abandoned on the plains, he was trusting a stranger to save him.
Mark examined the wound in Tlaxcan’s shoulder. It was deep and undoubtedly painful, but not fatal if it could be properly taken care of. Mark was no doctor, but he could see that what he had to fear was the danger of infection, plus weakness that would result if the bleeding was not stopped in a hurry. He looked around and spotted the telltale line of dense vegetation that indicated one of the many postglacial streams flowing down out of the mountains and across the great plain. Tlaxcan’s wound should be cleaned, and for that he would need water, but the stream was at least half a mile away. Mark again looked closely at the wound, and saw that it had stopped bleeding for the present. He signed for Tlaxcan to keep still, and then built a quick fire that caught more easily than had his first such attempt.
Tlaxcan watched with avid interest, taking puzzled note of both Mark’s matches and his sharp metal knife that folded so miraculously in and out of itself. Mark cut a strip from the flank of Tlaxcan’s kill and broiled it on a stick. Acting on a hunch, he also collected some of the wolf-thing’s still-warm blood in a crude container he fashioned out of skin and gave it to Tlaxcan. Tlaxcan gulped it down with obvious relish, and then ate the meat that Mark had cooked for
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