But the beast did not drop; it seemed to have a will to live as strong as his own. He followed it endlessly and was beginning to wonder what he would do if it grew dark before the buck gave up. He had to have that knife.
He suddenly saw that there were two spoors.
Something had stepped beside a fresh, split hooved track of the little antelope; something had stepped on a drop of blood. Quivering, his subconscious “bush radar” at full power, Rod moved silently forward. He found new marks again . . . a man!
The print of a shod human foot and so wild had he become that it gave him no feeling of relief; it made him more wary than ever.
Twenty minutes later he found them, the human and the buck. The buck was down, having died or perhaps been finished off by the second stalker. The human, whom Rod judged to be a boy somewhat younger and smaller than himself, was kneeling over it, slicing its belly open. Rod faded back into the bush. From there he watched and thought. The other hunter seemed much preoccupied with the kill . . . and that tree hung over the place where the butchering was going on
A few minutes later Rod was again on a branch, without a knife but with a long thorn held in his teeth. He looked down, saw that his rival was almost under him, and transferred the thorn to his right hand. Then he waited.
The hunter below him laid the knife aside and bent to turn the carcass. Rod dropped.
He felt body armor which had been concealed by his victim’s shirt. Instantly he transferred his attention to the bare neck, pushing the thorn firmly against vertebrae. “Hold still or you’ve had it!”
The body under him suddenly quit struggling.
“That’s better,” Rod said approvingly. “Cry Pax?”
No answer. Rod jabbed the thorn again. “I’m not playing games, he said harshly. “I’m giving you one chance stay alive. Cry pax and mean it, and well both eat. Give me any trouble and you’ll never eat again. It doesn’t make the least difference.”
There was a moments hesitation, then a muffled voice said, “Pax.”
Keeping the thorn pressed against his prisoner’s neck, Rod reached out for the knife which had been used to gut the buck. It was, he saw, his own Lady Macbeth. He sheathed it, felt around under the body he rested on, found another where he expected it, pulled it and kept in his hand. He chucked away the thorn and stood up. “You can get up.”
The youngster got up and faced him sullenly. “Give me my knife.”
“Later . . . if you are a good boy.”
“I said ‘Pax.'”
“So you did. Turn around, I want to make sure you don’t have a gun on you.”
“I left I’ve nothing but my knife. Give it to me.”
“Left it where?”
The kid did not answer. Rod said, “Okay, turn around,” and threatened with the borrowed knife. He was obeyed. Rod quickly patted all the likely hiding places, confirmed that the youngster was wearing armor under clothes and over the entire torso. Rod himself was dressed only in tan, scratches, torn and filthy shorts, and a few scars. “Don’t you find that junk pretty hot this weather?” he asked cheerfully. “Okay, you can turn around. Keep your distance.”
The youngster turned around, still with a very sour expression. “What’s your name, bud?”
“Uh, Jack.”
“Jack what? Mine’s Rod Walker.”
“Jack Daudet.”
“What school, Jack?”
“Ponce de Leon Institute.”
“Mine’s Patrick Henry High School.”
“Matson’s class?”
“The Deacon himself.”
“I’ve heard of him.” Jack seemed impressed.
“Who hasn’t? Look, let’s quit jawing; we’ll have the whole county around our ears. Let’s eat. You keep watch that way; I’ll keep watch behind you.”
“Then give me my knife. I need it to eat.”
“Not so fast. I’ll cut you off a hunk or two. Special Waldorf service.
Rod continued the incision Jack had started, carried it on up and laid the hide back from the right shoulder, hacked off a couple of large chunks of lean. He tossed one to Jack, hunkered down and gnawed his own piece while keeping sharp lookout. “You keeping your eyes peeled?” he asked.