Free Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1953 by The Last Mammoth (v1.1)

as though Giluhda had
spoiled as much as he had eaten.
                “Now he will go to drink,” whispered
Otter again. “See, his trail leads toward the Big River .”
                He pointed toward the southwest. Sam
wet his finger to test the slight morning breeze.
                “It blows toward us from along his
trail,” he told Otter, also whispering. “He cannot smell us when we follow
him.”
                Quietly and carefully, they moved
after Giluhda. As before, there was a track that almost anyone could follow.
The huge thing they hunted had broken off saplings along his way, and had
tramped over brush and undergrowth with no effort. Once they came to a belt of
big canes that extended from a brake, and through this was driven a boldly
broken passage, like that left by an ox wandering through a field of corn.
                An hour and more had passed, and
they had covered perhaps four miles, when Otter stopped again, signalling for a
conference.
                “Beyond this is a big drinking place
for animals,” he muttered, his mouth close to Sam’s ear. “Do not stir a leaf as
we go there, for Giluhda’s ears are big.”
                With painful care they edged their
way through some close-grown brush with broad green leaves. Beyond that they
came upon a game trail, almost wide enough to let a wagon pass, and upon its
mossy surface showed the big round footmarks of Giluhda.
                A few yards more, and light came strongly in among the trees ahead. Then they paused and looked
out into a clearing. It was as large as a good-sized garden plot, and the paws
and hoofs of many beasts had worn it bare of all growth. At the far side it
sloped gently down to the edge of the Big River , which gleamed blue in the morning
sunlight. As Otter had said, this was a drinking place for all sorts of game.
                Sam held his rifle ready, gazing
from side to side for some glimpse of the monster he had come so far to shoot.
But nothing moved, except one or two small, nimble birds in the upper branches
of a big sycamore.
                “He is gone,” said Sam to Otter, and
stepped into the open.
                “Stay here,” Otter cautioned him,
but Sam was already walking across the cleared space toward the water. Under
his feet the earth felt hard as a pavement; but at the damp far edge, Sam saw
deep, round holes.
                He came almost to the brink of the
river, gazing down at the place where Giluhda had stood to drink. Fully a foot
deep into the wet clay his footprints drove, like huge post holes. Sam peered
into them, and clicked his tongue in triumph. Water was seeping into those
great tracks, but they were nearly empty— Giluhda could not have been gone more
than a minute or so.
                “Brother!” cried Otter in loud
warning.
                Sam whirled around. From a clump of
dogwoods Giluhda was emerging.
                This time there was no comforting
stockade from which to look at the great, shaggy giant. Sam felt a chilly
shudder pass over him, like the breath of a freezing wind, as Giluhda tilted
his head to peer, and moved his trunk-tip gropingly as though to sniff the air.
                Sam brought his rifle to his
shoulder.
                As he did so, Giluhda lumbered
forward. Catching his sights on a point just between and above Giluhda’s
far-spaced little eyes, Sam fired. Giluhda didn’t even pause. Straight at Sam
the monster charged, on swiftly thudding feet.
                That hairy mountain of flesh seemed
to be upon him with one furious bound, and Sam looked up in panic as Giluhda
loomed over him like a house. He hurled his empty rifle at those glaring little
eyes, sprang to one side, and dashed for the path among the trees.
                Giluhda gave an ear-piercing cry,
and Sam