“I can kill you,” he announced by way of greeting, “for I am Big Fist, and until Flatfoot returns I am king—and maybe afterward, for some day I shall kill Flatfoot.”
“I do not wish to fight you,” replied Thandar. “Already have I killed Korth, and Flatfoot will return no more, for Flatfoot I have killed also. And I can kill Big Fist, but what is the use? Why should we fight? Let us be friends, for we must live together, and if we do not kill one another there will be more of us to meet the bad men, should they come, and kill them.”
When Big Fist heard that Flatfoot was dead and by the hand of this stranger he pined less to measure his strength with that of the newcomer. He saw the knothole that the other offered, and promptly he sought to crawl through it, but with honor.
“Very well,” he said, “I shall not kill you—you need not be afraid. But you must know that I am king, and do as I say that you shall do.”
“ ‘Afraid,’ ” Thandar laughed. “You may be king,” he said, “but as for doing what you say—” and again he laughed.
It was a very different Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones from the thing that the sea had spewed up twelve months before.
II
King Thandar
The first thing that Thandar did after he entered the village was to seek out Nadara’s father.
They found the old man in the poorest and least protected cave in the cliff side, exposed to the attack of the first prowling carnivore, or skulking foeman.
He was sick, and there was none to care for him; but he did not complain. That was the way of his people. When a man became too old to be of service to the community it were better that he died, and so they did nothing to delay the inevitable. When one became an absolute burden upon his fellows it was customary to hasten the end—a carefully delivered blow with a heavy rock was calculated quickly to relieve the burdens of the community and the suffering of the invalid.
Thandar and Nadara came in and sat down beside him. The old fellow seemed glad to see them.
“I am Thandar,” said the young man. “I wish to take your daughter as my mate.”
The old man looked at him questioningly for a moment.
“You have killed Korth and Flatfoot—who is to prevent you from taking Nadara?”
“I wish to be joined to her with your permission and in accordance with the marriage ceremonies of your people,” said Thandar.
The old man shook his head.
“I do not understand you,” he replied at last. “There are several fine caves that are not occupied—if you wish a better one you have but to slay the present occupants if they do not get out when you tell them to—but I think they will get out when the slayer of Korth and Flatfoot tells them to.”
“I am not worried about a cave,” said Thandar. “Tell me how men take their wives among you.”
“If they do not come with us willingly we take them by the hair and drag them with us,” replied Nadara’s father. “My mate would not come with me,” he continued, “and even after I had caught her and dragged her to my cave she broke away and fled from me, but again I overhauled her, for when I was young none could run more swiftly, and this time I did what I should have done at first—I beat her upon the head until she went to sleep. When she awoke she was in my own cave, and it was night, and she did not try to ran away any more.”
For a long time Thandar sat in thought. Presently he spoke addressing Nadara.
“In my country we do not take our wives in any such way, nor shall I take you thus. We must be married properly, according to the customs and laws of civilization.”
Nadara made no reply. To her it seemed that Thandar must care very little for her—that was about the only explanation she could put upon his strange behavior. It made her sad. And then the other women would laugh at her—of that she was quite certain, and that, too, made her feel very badly—they would see that Thandar did not want her.
The old man, lying upon his scant bed of matted, filthy grasses, had heard the conversation. He was as much at sea as Nadara. At last he spoke—very feebly now, for rapidly he was nearing dissolution.
“I am a very old man,” he said to Thandar. “I have not long to live. Before I die I should like to know that Nadara has a mate who will protect her. I love her, though—” He hesitated.
“Though what?” asked Thandar.
“I have never told,” whispered the old fellow. “My mate would not let me, but now that I am about to die it can do no harm. Nadara is not my daughter.”
The girl sprang to her feet.
“Not your daughter? Then who am I?”
“I do not know who you are, except that you are not even of my people. All that I know I will tell you now before I die. Come close, for my voice is dying faster than my body.”
The young man and the girl came nearer to his side, and squatting there leaned close that they might catch each faintly articulated syllable.
“My mate and I,” commenced the old man, “were childless, though many moons had passed since I took her to my cave. She wanted a little one, for thus only may women have aught upon which to lavish their love.
“We had been hunting together for several days alone and far from the village, for I was a great hunter when I was young—no greater ever lived among
