Mammoth Boy Read Free Page A

full-grown bison bull.
    It was motionless. Urrell remained still too, under a downswept bough. A rogue bull bison was more than a grown hunter would face single-handedly, let alone a boy. He was about to draw back to make a detour through the forest when a slight movement in the thickets opposite caught his eye. For a while he saw nothing more. Then, as the brushwood stirred again he knew it was being moved by a living creature, and that the creature was a hunter stalking the bison.
    With his attention now intent on the far side, Urrell saw not one but several hunters slowly closing in on their prey from behind brushwood screens. The men were invisible. Only their camouflage, as they inched forward, revealed their presence to Urrell, if not to the bison.
    Urrell’s excitement rose as he watched. The bison must be wounded or exhausted, having been harried, perhaps, for days.
    When they judged they were within range of their quarry, five hunters rose as one man from behind their screens and hurled their javelins at the bison. Urrell glimpsed the points of the weapons, their tips longer and sharper than those his clansmen fashioned. The movement alerted the bison, but too late to avoid the missiles which struck its flank. It bucked and snorted, shrugging its body as it strove to dislodge the spears, its small eyes alight with anger as it turned to confront its tormentors. Three javelins remained embedded. Faced by the bison the hunters withdrew with their brushwood shields, shorter stabbing javelins held ready. Urrell guessed they were enticing the beast to charge, ready to jump aside and drive their javelins deep between its ribs.
    The bison appeared to guess this also, feinted a charge, then turned and galloped off down the clearing into the forest. Only then did Urrell notice that its left rear hoof was entangled in a sort of wickerwork box-trap which, for all its bucking and kicking as it fled, the beast could not shake off.
    In his excitement Urrell jumped up in sympathy with the hunters – but as quickly quailed back. Too often had he seen the killer lust of hunters injuring hapless creatures that got in their way.
    The men picked up their javelins and examined the points. One showed the others the broken tip of his, no doubt embedded in the bison’s side, a good hit after all.
    They were clad in leather breechclouts made from pelts of smaller animals, and skin jerkins, much like Urrell’s clansmen. All wore belts hung with pouches and pokes while one, perhaps the leader, wore a baldrick, whereas Urrell’s clansmen out hunting seldom bothered with more than a pouch slung over one shoulder into which they stuffed spare scrapers, cutters and scraps of meat. These men, moreover, were streaked in ochre and white on any bare brown skin, with white zags across their faces. Urrell shivered a little at the sight.
    They appeared to be in no hurry to take up the chase. Instead they squatted, emptied food from a satchel and set to. As Urrell watched his stomach gurgled with hunger until he feared they might hear him.
    There was nothing to do but wait. Not far beyond the clearing there must be an encampment where Urrell knew he might cadge scraps from the women and any camp-bound old men, as well as rummage for food amid the rubbish strewn around in the abundance of summer’s good hunting. No-one would bother about a scavenging lad while food was so plentiful.
    When the hunters had eaten they conferred. The one in the crossbelt scratched a plan or design on a bare patch of ground, which all looked at intently for a while and discussed. Then, as one man, they leapt to their feet, brandished their javelins, jigged round the patch of ground, uttered a single howling whoop that startled Urrell almost into giving away his hideout, and trotted off in single file in pursuit of the bison.
    It was some time before Urrell felt safe enough to steal out to the gnawn bones marking the spot of the hunters’ repast. He regnawed every one clean