Mists of Dawn by Chad Oliver Page B

time. Mark did not want to shoot, but on the other hand he could not know when the stranger would take a notion to release that arrow. He waited. The man waited. The sun seemed to stop in the blue afternoon sky, watching. Mark noted that he was sweating, and not with heat.
    “Orn?” said the man suddenly, his voice deep and steady. It sounded like a question.
    Mark felt keenly the language barrier that stood between them. The man had asked him something, and waited for an answer. But what could he say?
    “Friend,” Mark said, feeling that it was best to say something, even if it could not be understood. He spoke slowly and as calmly as he could. “I am your friend.”
    The man looked at him, unmoving. His black eyes were unreadable. The arrow did not waver. Mark wondered at the strength that held that taut bow as steadily as a rock.
    “Orn?” the man asked again.
    Mark hesitated and then very slowly he got to his feet. The man stepped back instantly, and the bow tensed still more. Mark managed a smile. Should he shoot?
    “I am your friend,” he said again. Cautiously, so as not to alarm the man, he raised his left hand, palm outward, in a sign of peace. With his right, he held the .45 at the ready. The man watched with intelligent eyes, but it was at once obvious that the sign meant nothing to him. Mark lowered his hand and smiled again. The man did not move, nor did the bow relax in any way.
    “Orn?” the man asked once more, his voice hard. This time it sounded like an ultimatum.
    Mark’s finger tensed on the trigger, but he could not forget that this man had spared his life when he might have killed him in cold blood. The man was an unknown factor. What was he like? Mark had to know before he could come to any understanding with him. If only he could make him understand that he was not an enemy!
    With sudden inspiration, Mark moved very slowly over to the ashes of the fire. The man’s eyes followed him, but he made no move. Mark reached over and picked up one of the reindeer steaks that he had cut but not cooked. He held it out to the man with his left hand, still holding the .45 in his right, ready for instant action. The man looked at the meat, and his grip on the bow relaxed just a trifle. Mark started toward him, holding out the meat. At once, the man backed away again and the bow tensed in his hands.
    This was a crucial moment, and Mark knew it. The friendship or the hostility of this fur-clad man might very well mean the difference between life and death to him in this strange world. Mark hesitated and then placed the steak on a rock at his feet. He pointed to it, and he pointed to the man. Then he backed slowly away, leaving the meat unprotected.
    The man watched him, his face still expressionless. A long minute passed. Neither moved. Finally, with sudden decision, the man relaxed his bow. He took the arrow and replaced it in a hide quiver on his shoulder. He stepped forward, still not taking his eyes off Mark, and picked up the meat. He smiled, showing fine white teeth.
    Mark smiled back and holstered his gun. He realized that the man was not placing himself in Mark’s power, at least not to his way of thinking. He still thought of Mark as unarmed, and his putting aside of his bow just meant that he had abandoned the idea of killing Mark, at least for the present. No doubt he figured that he could handle Mark with his bare hands if it came to that, and looking at the man’s bronzed muscles Mark did not question his ability to do so.
    The man evidently did not eat his meat raw. He walked over to the ashes of the fire and stirred them up. He threw some shrubs on, and kindled a new blaze from the still-hot coals of the old. Using the same stick Mark had used, and looking with interest at the sharpness of the points on the double fork, he roasted his steak. Permitting it to cool only slightly, he picked up the meat in his hands and gnawed at it with great satisfaction. Then he washed off his hands in the