Mists of Dawn by Chad Oliver Page A

him.
    Mark let him rest a few minutes and then judged that he was strong enough to make it to the stream. He put out the fire and got himself under Tlaxcan’s good right shoulder, lifting him up. Not a sound came from
    Tlaxcan’s lips, not even the whisper of a moan, although the pain must have been terrific. Taking it easy, Mark supported him as they slowly walked the long half-mile and then lowered him to the ground again by the banks of the stream, which was large enough to qualify as a small river.
    Tlaxcan’s shoulder was bleeding again, but that couldn’t be helped. A little bleeding wouldn’t hurt, probably, and would even assist in cleaning the wound. Mark carefully washed it out with the ice-cold water, which stopped the bleeding in short order, as the veins and muscles contracted with the cold, permitting the blood to coagulate. He took out his handkerchief, which was still clean, and folded it into a bandage which he placed over the wounded shoulder. Then he tore a long strip from his shirttail, and after some difficulty, tied the bandage in place.
    It was now early afternoon, and Mark judged that it would be unwise to try to move farther that day. He spent the afternoon in rigging a lean-to shelter and building a fire, and then sat down by Tlaxcan’s side. Tlaxcan had not moved, but now his color was better and most of the tenseness had gone out of his face. He dug into his skin pouch with his good arm, took something out, and handed it to Mark.
    For a moment, Mark did not understand what the thing was. It was one of those common, ordinary things that we become so used to seeing in one form that we do not recognize the same article when it is made out of something else. It was a length of some sort of organic material, about six feet long, with a curved bit of bone or ivory attached to the end.
    Mark hesitated, puzzled. Tlaxcan pointed to the gurgling waters of the little river, and then Mark got it. The thing was a fishing line! He hadn’t thought of fish before, but the streams must be full of them. He smiled. Fishing was something that he was an expert in, and it was nice to know that there was at least one thing he could do as well as a savage who had had the ill luck to be born many thousands of years before the blessings of civilization.
    Mark examined the fishhook and decided that it was made of ivory. It was excellently constructed, sharp and with a definite barb, and it was fastened to the line by tying the line through a hole punched in the ivory, in the fashion of modern fishhooks. Mark looked at the soft river earth and considered digging for worms, but changed his mind and caught a grasshopper instead. He put the grasshopper on the ivory hook and wandered down the riverbank until he came to a beautiful dark pool behind a large rock that blocked the current. The pool was clear and cold and deep, and it had fish written all over it in letters that fishermen of any age could read without difficulty.
    He dropped the line in and got an instant, thrilling strike. He yanked the line, felt the lithe, tugging pull at the other end, and knew he had a fish. He could not help thinking of how much Doctor Nye would have enjoyed a chance to fish in this paradise—how hard it was, even now, to realize that his uncle was far, far away, cut off from him by the gulf of centuries, in another world that in a sense was yet to be born.
    Mark landed the fish after a brief fight, and was faintly surprised to find that he recognized the fish at once. If he was expecting some strange marine monster of the type so dear to the hearts of writers of lurid prehistoric fiction, he was disappointed. The fish was a perfectly ordinary salmon, although a beauty that must have weighed close to four pounds. Mark broke the fish’s neck and cleaned it speedily with his knife. It was the work of but a moment, since salmon have no scales and are an easy fish to clean.
    Mark started back to Tlaxcan, the fish held proudly in his hand. He