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off with brush. For a little bit it cast about looking for an exit but, finding none, it turned and charged right at me! Its head lowered, its tusks swinging side to side, its beady little eyes glowing red, it attacked! Knowing how much we needed the food, I didn’t give an inch. I dropped to one knee, my spear butted to the ground behind me and the boar spitted itself right below the breastbone. It dropped in its tracks.”
    Pell was musing to himself about the fact that it must have been the same brush clogged ravine he and Boro came through earlier and must have been the kill they saw the blood from when he heard Denit continue …
    “Yeah, good thing Pell wasn’t there. He probably would have thrown a couple of wild pebbles and frightened the boar away.”
    Pell started. A sick feeling came over him. Everyone was going to think he couldn’t hunt—maybe he couldn’t. Inwardly he raged at Denit. “Yeah, how come when Boro and I were in that same ravine on the way home from our hunt it looked like a pig got stuck in the brush and some great hunter just walked up and stuck his spear up its ass? Charging? Ha! Hey, did anyone see a wound in the front of that pig?” Pell looked around. “Where’s the skin?”
    Pell found himself on the floor of the cave with Denit astride his chest, hitting him . His arms were trapped under Denit’ knees but he convulsed one knee up to strike Denit in the back and knock him forward. Denit fell forward a moment but quickly sat back and resumed flailing at Pell’s head. Pell had turned his head and was trying to bite Denit on the thigh when Roley walked over and broke up the fight with a few well-placed blows.
    L ater Pell cowered in the corner, hurt much worse by Roley’s single cup handed blow to the side of his head than the many rained on him by Denit— dazedly he thought to himself that it was little wonder no one challenged the massiveRoley for leadership of the Aldans.
     
    After several days of successful hunts, that night developed into a joyous celebration. They feasted on the leftover deer from the day before and the roast pig from Denit’ hunt. Pell was sitting by the cooking fire, sucking the marrow out of a couple of ribs. He didn’t feel the celebratory mood of the others—though he thought to himself that life probably couldn’t get much better. After all he had a full stomach and the warm fire made for a pleasant feeling all over.
    Still, he felt uneasy—worried about his status in the tribe. Though gratified he was amazed that Roley had cuffed Denit as well as Pell in stopping Pell’s fight with Roley’s own son. Donte had told Pell that Roley had respected Pell’s father Garen tremendously. Perhaps that led to Roley’s relative ly soft spot for Pell—if Roley could be said to have a soft spot. Perhaps a “not so hard spot?” Nonetheless, Pell had gnawing doubts that Roley would continue even a pretense of fairness if it came to something really important. After all Roley had never really singled Pell out for special treatment or even tried to teach him to hunt. What if Pell never got any better at throwing? He resolved to try flint knapping again. He must find another skill ! S omehow he had to become a useful and productive member of the tribe !
    Having made that resolution he sat back, feeling contented. He saw that the healer squatted near him, brewing one of his concoctions. It seemed, once again, to consist mostly of hemp leaves. “Who’s sick?” Pell queried.
    Pont glared over at him. “None of your business, ginja boy!”
    Pell started back. The healer’s answer was practically dripping vitriol. It was a bad portent to be on poor terms with the tribe’s healer, even the seemingly invincible Roley carefully stayed on the healer’s good side.
    Pell had often wondered why? I t seemed to him that Pont could do little enough when you were sick. However, his hemp concoctions eased pain and dulled the worry. Also his chanting rituals seemed to