Mists of Dawn by Chad Oliver Page A

night without protection of some sort. He knew nothing about curing hides, but he figured that if he scraped all the meat off and then dried it in the sun it would serve his purpose and keep him warm.
    Then there was the meat. It had taken two shots to down the reindeer, and he had used one on the Neanderthal, which left him with three shots in his  .45. He could not afford to waste the meat, but on the other hand, he certainly could not eat it all before it spoiled. Mark decided to cut up the choice sections, wrap them in leaves, and bury them deep in the snow. That was as good a deepfreeze as he could ask for, and the meat cache should keep him alive for weeks if necessary.
    Mark got up and speared the other steak, which he cut up as he had the first. He ate this one more slowly, savoring the fine flavor, and he actually found himself feeling uncomfortably full. Then he lay back again in the grass and permitted himself the luxury of relaxation. It was good just to be alive, and danger seemed a remote and unreal thing under the blue sky, with the white clouds drifting by, the smell of flowers and green grass in the air, and the warm afternoon sun beating gently down upon him. Good just to be alive! Mark realized sleepily that he had never truly appreciated that before. When you tottered on the brink of the Valley of the Shadow, and then came out once more into the sunshine, you looked at things with new and deep-seeing eyes.
    Mark nodded, half-asleep. He rolled over on his stomach, yawning. He looked into the still waters of the pool—and suddenly stiffened. He knew instantly that he had been guilty of the greatest mistake of all-he had won through, only to let his guard down when victory was in his grasp. A dark shadow was reflected in the pool, silent, unmoving.
    Someone, or something, stood behind him!

Chapter 9   Across the Ages

    FOR a long moment, Mark could not move. To come so far, to dare so much and then to be struck down through blind carelessness—it was hard to take. Fool, his mind whispered to him. Fool! Steeling himself to calmness, unwilling to surrender to fate no matter how tough things got, Mark snaked his hand toward his .45, moving very slowly in order not to excite any suspicion. It was a fortunate circumstance, he knew, that the .45 was not known as a weapon in this era. If your enemy thinks that you are helpless, he is apt to be careless. And when your helplessness actually consists of a loaded .45—
    Mark drew the .45. There was still no sound behind him. Very cautiously, almost inch by inch, Mark began to roll over on his back where he could snap a shot with some hope of success. Still not a sound from the figure he had seen in the pool. Mark tensed himself and whipped over on his back, his finger already contracting on the trigger of the .45 even as its stubby muzzle swung down on its target.
    In the nick of time, Mark held his fire.
    A man stood watching him. Not a half-man, not a  Neanderthal, but a man. He carried a bow at the ready, with a feathered arrow taut against the bowstring. He was tall, perhaps a shade under six feet, and he was a magnificent physical specimen. He was bronzed from the sun, but recognizably white. He was dressed neatly in furs, with his powerful arms and legs bare. His hair was long and black, but neatly arranged and tied with a rawhide thong. His face was broad and strong, and he reminded Mark of a tall Indian, though he lacked Mongoloid characteristics.
    Mark looked at the man, and the man looked at Mark. Both seemed equally surprised, and uncertain of how to proceed. Neither dared to lower his guard, yet neither seemed ready to kill without cause. Mark realized that the man could have killed him at any time, and that he even now considered Mark unarmed. The man was evidently not a killer unless he was prompted, but one glance into his cold black eyes convinced Mark that death would be swift and sudden if he made a wrong move.
    The scene held, a moment frozen in