The Hunter Returns by David Drake, Jim Kjelgaard Page B

the meat alone, you fool!” Wolf snarled.
    Boartooth gripped the shaft of his spear and pulled the weapon free. It left a shallow gouge, scarcely even a flesh wound; but, as Boartooth had said to Bull, that was the wound that drove the herd into the other tribe’s hunters.
    The strangers’ discussion became heated. Troutscale raised her shrill voice. The old woman’s demands were flattened again and again by Bull, who rumbled like an avalanche. At last, snapping and glowering at one another, Bull’s tribe strode back toward Wolf.
    “It is right that you should join us,” said Bull. “We have decided.”
    “Waugh!” Boartooth shouted in joy. He slapped the flat of his spear across his chest in enthusiasm. The spearhead struck his necklace of tusks with a sharp clack. The chert spearpoint shattered on the hard tooth. The spear suddenly had only a brown nub instead of a true point.
    “They are accursed!” Troutscale shrieked in horror, pointing at the omen. Even Bull looked horrified. He stepped back a pace.
    “Wait!” cried Wolf. “It is not an omen! We have lost our Chief Spear-Maker!” He stepped forward with his hand out to the other chief.
    “Go back!” shouted Bull. He raised his own spear, a well-fashioned weapon whose edges glittered through a film of drying horse blood. “You are accursed! Get away from us or we will kill you all!”
    The hunter who had previously argued with Longshank now glowered and thrust his spear at Boartooth. Wolf’s would-be spear-maker jumped back, barely avoiding the point.
    “It is right that we should share—” Wolf began. A woman from Bull’s tribe hurled a rock at him. He dodged, but all the women and children of the other tribe were picking up stones to volley in another moment.
    Wolf skipped back around the range, angrily gesturing his people to follow him. They didn’t dare fight against such odds.
    “What you are doing is not right!” he shouted at Bull.
    But as the Chief Hunter fled, he wondered if perhaps the old woman was right. Maybe he and his tribe really were accursed.

TAIL FEATHER
    The tiger facing Hawk crouched close to the ground, a fierce, tawny menace. Its saber teeth, long upper tusks protruding six inches from either side of its jaw, flashed white in the sunshine. Its short tail was bent in a half-curve behind it, and the powerful shoulders rippled as it gathered itself for the attack. It did not snarl, but merely looked with deadly eyes at the two humans it had trapped. Hawk backed cautiously, keeping Willow behind him and scarcely noticing the puppies. To have an enemy between him and the nearest place of safety was a situation that should never occur. He glanced quickly at the fire, where he had left his spears and throwing-stick. He knew that it was impossible to fight a saber-tooth with just a club alone. But that was all he had, and he clenched his fingers around it desperately.
    He wasted no time wondering why the tiger was here instead of harassing the camel herd, where he had been sure it would be. Instead, he glanced all around, taking exact note of everything that lay about him. A little to one side was a nest of boulders. If he could get to them before the tiger charged, the boulders would serve as weapons should he lose his club in the fight. They would also supply some slight protection. Hawk began edging toward the boulders.
    The tiger followed him, in no hurry. A cat who knew it had a victim trapped, it was taking its time and playing a bit before delivering the final killing blow. The tiger advanced a step at a time, hindquarters near the ground and humped shoulders rising. Hawk gauged the distance to the boulders, and planned his next move.
    Men of the early wandering tribes were distinguished from beasts principally by their intelligence, their ability to think. It was a man and not a tiger or bear who had first thought of picking up a piece of flint and using it as an axe. It was a man who thought of tying a flint head to a