The Hunter Returns by David Drake, Jim Kjelgaard

stone on the side of the hill. He pried among the tumbled pieces of flint that had broken off, examining every piece with painstaking thoroughness, rejecting most of them. He was not concerned with size, but rather with flaws, conformation, and the way any given piece might be expected to flake. Finally, after an hour’s search, he returned to the fire with half a dozen rough pieces of flint.
    Now it was necessary to haul more wood for the night’s fire. Grudgingly, reluctant to leave his task, he rose and went into the forest. While he made trip after trip, Willow sat quietly, shaping her basket. When it was finished, she lined the bottom with grass, then put in a large quantity of seeds she had gathered. As Hawk brought in his last load of wood, she began cooking more meat.
    Holding a long piece of flint in his right hand, Hawk pried a flake from one of the pieces he had selected. Carefully, making no sudden moves that might injure the small head, he pried another flake off. Ordinarily it took only a few minutes to make a good spear head, but these, being smaller, must be made with great care. The spear-maker continued to shape the head he had planned, using pressure to remove one tiny flake at a time.
    When he was finished he looked critically at the point in his hand. It was very good, better than most of the spear heads in his pouch, but he thought he could make a still better one. By the fire’s light he crouched down again and went to work. Willow had been sleeping for hours when he finally thrust the last half-finished head into his pouch.
    With morning he resumed his task, so absorbed in it that he forgot all else, except to eat what Willow gave him. Finally he balanced half a dozen flint heads in his hand. Again and again he inspected them minutely, looking at each for flaws. He could find none. He went into the forest and returned with an armful of hardwood shoots.
    He knew what he had in mind, but he was somewhat at a loss as to how to accomplish it. The darts must be lighter and shorter than spears, but they must be long enough so that he could rest them in the throwing-stick and still balance them. With a sharp piece of flint he scraped a stick until it was perfectly smooth. Working with painstaking precision he smoothed off all the uneven edges, so that the stick balanced perfectly. He made another, and another.
    It was noon of the following day before he had finished his task. He had half a dozen darts, better fashioned and balanced than any hand spears he had ever made. All six of them did not weigh as much as two spears, nor would they be any harder to carry. With mounting excitement he fitted one into his throwing-stick, getting the feel of it in countless practice casts before he finally threw.
    A grunt of disappointment escaped him. Lacking the weight of a spear, the dart wobbled in flight and fell three feet to one side of the tuft of grass at which he had aimed. Nor could he get as much distance with the lighter weapon. He tried again and again, and failed each time to strike the tuft of grass. Hawk sat before the fire, chin in his hands. There must be some way to make the darts fly straight, but what was it? A shadow fell across him and he looked up.
    Willow stood beside him, offering him baked cakes on a flat piece of stone. Hawk glared at her.
    “Where is the meat?”
    “There is no more. You have not been hunting.”
    Without answering Hawk reached out to grasp the dun-colored puppy by the scruff of its neck.
    He lifted it with one hand, and reached for his club. This was why he had brought the puppies; now let them serve as food. He raised his club.
    Willow moved so swiftly that she was in and out before the heavy club could descend. She snatched the puppy from his hands, and stepped backward. Hawk stared, too startled to move. A woman had defied him! As he got to his feet with a growl of rage, she swung away from him, shielding the puppy.
    “Do not kill it! We have food!”
    Hawk took a