Chapter 4

Could this have been the same cat that tried to get me out of the tree? How could an animal trail me across the plains after all that rain? The print looks just like the ones I found under the tree, though, but I don’t know any more about tracks than I do about knapping flint. On the other hand, if this wasn’t the same beast, then being stalked by one, and raided by another, seems to indicate that the things might be plentiful. Either way, I’m screwed.

“Great!” he groused aloud.

Mack contemplated a trip back to where he had killed the ill-tempered animal in the hope that the vegetables he had left would still be there. At length, he decided he was only kidding himself; the food would have, long since, been eaten by animals. He kicked his scattered firewood back into a pile and set about sweeping the strewn remains of his fire out the entrance so he could, at least, sit down without being covered with soot. He found a charcoal-blackened stick all the way in the far back corner of the cave.

How could a cat, however big, accidentally scatter the remains of the fire all over the cave? The animal must have attacked the fire, or what was left of it, to have strewn the remains around like this. Is the thing deranged?

He had just finished sweeping the last of the debris out the entrance when he noticed the smell of urine just outside the cave. Cold chills ran down his spine. What if it was the same cat venting its anger after failing to get me a second time? Mack carefully scanned the land below him, but there were too many places for the carnivore to conceal itself in the failing light at the day’s end.

He built a cooking fire well back from the entrance. After placing a vegetable in the coals to cook, he put the glue pot close to the fire, wiped the dirt off the chunk of dried glue and tossed it back into the pot. After placing his spear near to hand, he sat down to soak more of his sinew. Mack split and cut out the front inch or so of his arrows, inserted the shank of an arrowhead in each, put a few drops of glue in the slot, then wound multiple loops of the dampened sinew tightly around the end of the arrow before swabbing glue over the sinew. When the glue dried, the arrowheads seemed to be firmly attached.

With several moistened pieces of sinew laid out parallel to each other, he began to twist the sinew into a bowstring. After forming a loop in the end, he continued the process of twisting the sinew strands into one. Every few inches, he stretched the bowstring as hard as he could, which stretched the sinew, and consequently, reduced the diameter of the bowstring. When his twisting approached the end of the sinew string, he worked another string into the cord, making certain not to splice the sinew strings at the same place. Once he had pulled hard on the completed section of string, it was almost impossible to tell where the splices were.

He had done this as a teenager, but he had never gained any speed in the twisting of sinew into a bowstring when he was young. Now, he took his time, made certain the twisting of the sinew into a bowstring was correct and the splices were staggered properly. As the light gradually faded away with the day, Mack moved closer to the fire in an effort to better see his work. When he made a mistake and had to go back and take out several inches of the bowstring, he decided to give up the process until daylight.

He stripped leaves from some of the branches he had brought up and made two torches which he placed near his cooking fire, then moved all his remaining wood and piled it about five feet behind the entrance fire. If the cat came through the entrance fire, he wanted as much clutter in the way as possible.

He was famished. Having lost all his meat, he slowly ate his vegetable, then sat propped against the wall about twenty feet inside the cave. His spear beside him, he waited.

In desperation, he took the long leather strings out of his boots, tied them together, wet them and worked the wet leather into a more rounded configuration, especially in the center where he would nock his arrow. After stringing his almost-completed bow with it, he pulled the string back about halfway before stopping from worry about the laces snapping.

I haven’t started on my more powerful bow yet, and I’m afraid my leather laces won’t survive even this less-powerful bow at full draw. There just hasn’t been time to get everything done, and truth be told, I didn’t think the cat would find me after all that rain to wash away my smell. Maybe the cat that raided me isn’t the same one, but I have a feeling that it is.

The night slowly dragged by with Mack sitting well back from the entrance, his spear lying beside him and his bow in hand with his only arrow nocked and ready to fire. Occasionally, the fire would pop, which caused him to start. Nerves frazzled, he longed for the light of day.

The night was almost over, and he was beginning to allow himself to hope when he heard the first hunting cough; with no other warning, the cat sailed over the entrance fire into the limbs and brush of his wood pile that Mack had purposely put in the way. Large, luminous eyes focused on Mack, making him feel like a mouse waiting for the cat to pounce.

He had come to his feet and drawn the bow without thought, all that practicing for the championship in college not forgotten by his muscles, but the weapon felt weak and ineffectual in his shaking hands. If only I had my 30.06 now. This pitiful attempt at a bow isn’t going to kill this thing, but a blind man couldn’t miss at this distance. It felt as if he were nose to nose with the cat. The animal spat and thrashed mightily, slinging limbs in every direction, then crouched, tail swishing. Mack didn’t consciously sight, but smoothly released the arrow without even thinking. Its flight was over almost instantaneously, and arrow met cat just as the carnivore gathered itself to spring. With a sick feeling, Mack knew there wasn’t nearly enough penetration, for the arrow had hit the animal just below the throat, and although it was angled to penetrate its chest, it had stopped short. The cat roared and bit at the arrow, momentarily distracted, as Mack thrust his torches into the fire.

As the cat gathered itself again, Mack shoved both burning torches in its face and dived out the entrance, spear forgotten. There was a snarl of pain and rage as the cat whirled to pursue, but Mack had no intention of a foot race. As he hit the ground on the outside of the cave, he turned right, climbed madly up the sharp incline beside the cave, and started up the wall of the bluff. The cat, apparently thinking that Mack would go down the hill, made several leaps in that direction before realizing what had happened. By the time it had gotten turned around on the steep hillside and started back up, Mack was using hand and footholds to climb higher. He would not allow himself to look back — he was afraid that any pause at all would be his last.

As the cat hit the steep wall where Mack was climbing, it lost its footing and fell back, roaring and spitting. Mack continued to climb until he found an outcropping where he could sit down. For the first time, he looked down in the moonlight to watch the cat, in a frenzy, jump at the wall again and again. At last, it quit jumping and was lost in the moonlight as it made its way down the trail.

Mack wasn’t about to come down, but sat on the ledge and shook as the adrenaline punch spasmed his muscles. After his heart rate returned to something near normal, he moved cautiously along the ledge until he found a large rock that he could wedge himself behind, and waited. He must have dozed, but awoke as the cat screamed in rage as it fell back from the wall. It leaped twice more, then left as silently as it had come.

Missed again, Turkey. At least I gave you my best arrowhead. Hope you enjoy it.

Well after daylight, Mack made his way down the bluff. There were several small puddles and blood splatters inside the cave, as well as spots along the trail down the bluff. He didn’t delude himself into thinking that he had done any real damage to the cat. My bow just isn’t strong enough. Could I even make one strong enough, and if I did, would I be able to draw it?

Why is the cat so intent on following me? The plains are full of game. Something as big as the cat wouldn’t even have any problem bringing down one of the full-grown “bison” cows, let alone a calf. I suspect that bringing down one of the bulls would be another matter, even for the cat, though.

His bow and remaining arrow blanks were undamaged, and he sat to attach the not-so-good arrowheads to the remaining arrow shafts.

I need to make a quiver for my arrows, but I don’t want to use up what little hide I have left. For the time being, he cut a strip of hide to loop through his belt for the arrows. While waiting for a vegetable to cook, he again took up his bowstring. I need to get this finished. It’s past time for a heavier bow, and shoe laces would never be strong enough to draw it. I will probably need four strands of sinew for the stronger bow, and that will even take longer to finish than this string will. At least with a real bowstring, I’ll be able to come to a full draw without worrying about the bowstring breaking on my lesser bow. Millions of years into prehistoric time, and there still aren’t enough hours in the day.

After eating, he finished his bowstring for his weaker bow, then carefully strung it before returning the laces to his boots. At least I can now pull it to full draw without worrying about the string breaking. He held the bow out to examine it. I still need to do some smoothing, but I never meant for this to be my best bow.

I desperately need something to hunt with if I’m not going to starve. It still needs some finish work, but it’s functional and can easily take down something the size of a deer, but I’m beginning to wonder if even my other bow, when it’s finished, that is, will be strong enough to take that monster cat down. It’s just too friggin’ big. No telling how long it would take that thing to die, even if I managed to bury an arrow in its chest. Plenty of time for it to kill me, I suspect. Crap, how did I get myself into this mess? That arrow should have gone on to the cat’s heart or lungs, but it didn’t penetrate more than a few inches before it hit bone that it couldn’t pierce.

I need to work on my stronger bow, but I also need material for an axe. And ... I’m running out of food. Too many things to do and not enough time to do them in. Ironic since I’m living millions of years before I was even born.

After remembering the rock slide from previous firewood trips, Mack walked back east along the bluffs until he came to the slide. It took some time, but he eventually selected two likely-looking specimens for his axe head. Laboriously, he returned to the cave while carrying the stones in one arm and pulling a limb roughly six inches in diameter and five feet long with the other hand. Hopefully, I can make a decent axe handle out of the limb, but it is hardwood and will be a bitch to work with.

Even though he put the limb down before tackling the incline, he dropped one of the stones just before he reached the cave and had to go back down to retrieve it, then he had to drag the limb up on the third trip. If I had a shovel and a pick, I could make a decent path up this incline, but ... I don’t.

Chipping the axe head made the making of the arrowheads seem simple in comparison. The axe he had in mind wouldn’t look much like a conventional axe, but rather a much-widened pick about five inches wide, its cutting blade parallel to the axe handle. Overall, the business end would quickly thicken upward from the blade for a few inches to eventually reach a thickness of roughly five inches, then began tapering down toward the top end of the axe head. He hoped to make a hole in the thick handle that matched the pillar of the axe head and would have a shelf that would match a protrusion on the pillar. The wedge-shaped pillar would be forced into the hole in the thick pole. Hopefully, every strike with the axe head will only drive the sloping pillar of the head more firmly into the handle. If the handle is strong enough to withstand the pressure, the blade should never fall out of the handle — I hope.

If his reasoning were correct, he would have something that he could use to cut/hammer his way through a decent size tree or log. One of the stones he had chosen was of a darker material and seemed quite dense. It was generally oblong and approximately two feet on its longest axis. The other stone was similar but was bigger overall.

An hour’s worth of knapping left him with a quickly-tapering end of the pillar that he had purposely not attempted to sharpen to a razor edge — it would wear much too quickly. He had left a shelf approximately four inches from the other end of the pillar of stone. Now if he could only make a hole in the handle that would match the pillar of the axe head.

Cutting and burning a hole in the thick handle took many hours, but after numerous trial fits, the hole in the handle matched the contours of the elongated pillar above the axe head, and with a few solid licks against a thick limb that he had dragged into the cave, the axe head and shaft seemed to wedge quite firmly into the handle, even to the protrusion on the pillar matching the shelf inside the handle. But ... he knew the wood would dry and the axe head would loosen. To delay the event, he had made more hide glue and poured a generous amount into the hole in the axe handle before quickly reassembling the tool.

It took a large portion of his remaining hide, but he cut strips and let them soak in water before stretching and tightly winding them around the handle and axe head. He desperately wanted to try out his new axe, but he put it near the fire so the rawhide would dry and tighten more.

I’m really going to be pissed if this thing breaks on the first swing.

Resignedly, he laid thick limbs across the cave opening, got his fire going and practically collapsed against the wall about halfway back in the cave, an arrow nocked in his bow, and his spear lying across his lap. Wait another day, asshole, and I’ll have a door that will, at least, slow you down while I fill your chest full of arrows.

Even as tired as he was, and as sleep-deprived, now that he had the chance, sleep evaded him. In frustration, he adjusted his position as he thought, I only have one more of the fruit things left, even though I’ve limited myself to one in the morning and one at night — but it’s not nearly enough for as much work as my body has been putting out. Screw it; I’m tired of thinking “fruit things.” For lack of a better word, I’m just going to think of them as potatoes. They taste a little like them, anyway.

I’m also going to start losing strength if I don’t increase the amount of food I’m putting into my stomach. So, what am I going to do? I have to look for more vegetables or else kill something. I know there are animals out there — I’ve seen them from the top of the bluff — but other than the one I killed, I haven’t managed to get close to anything while looking for firewood or rocks — well, anything I could take, that is. Dinosaurs and those things that favor gigantic buffaloes cranked up on steroids aren’t exactly on my menu. And if I screw with them, they will trample me to death, if they haven’t already skewered me with those horns.