Clifford Simak - No Life of Their Own And Other Stories

Yancey whistled soundlessly.

He wheeled from the port.

“Jack,” he began breathlessly, “there are thousands of herds out there—”

But Cabot, he saw, had already unlocked the door.

The four of them stood grouped in the doorway and stared out. Pascal smiled.

“You see,” he reminded them, “that I told you the truth.”

Cabot drew in his breath sharply.

“You sure did,” he admitted. “I doubt if Africa in its prime was better than this.”

“An overlapping of fauna,” said Pascal. “The old Stone Age merging with the modern. One type dying out, another coming in. The most diversified and plentiful game herds that ever existed on the face of the earth before or since. The cave bear, the saber-tooth, the cave hyena, the mammoth and woolly rhinoceros living coincidentally with vast herds of wild ox, reindeer, Irish elk and other animals of more recent times.”

“Some hunting!” said Yancey.

Cabot nodded in agreement. He stepped down from the door onto the ground.

“Let’s stretch our legs,” he suggested.

“Can’t right now,” said Cameron. “Have to check the machinery over. I want to be sure everything’s all right.”

Yancey jumped to the ground.

“You fellows had better take your rifles,” warned Cameron.

Cabot laughed.

“We have our revolvers,” he said. “We aren’t going far away.”

The two hunters walked slowly, wonderingly, away from the tractor. The ground beneath their feet was soft to the tread with thick grass. Head-high thickets spotted the hillsides that sloped away toward the river. On some of the hills reared great, grotesque rock formations. And everywhere was game.

Yancey halted and lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes. For several minutes he stood, studying the landscape. Then he lowered the glasses and slipped the thong from his neck. He handed them to Cabot.

“Take a look, Jack,” he invited. “You won’t believe it until you see it with your own eyes. There’s a herd of mammoth down by the river. That dark spot just this side of the big grove. And there’s another big bunch up the river a bit. I picked up a few woolly rhinos. And bison, something like the old American buffalo.”

“Bos priscus,” said Cabot. “I read up some on Stone Age animals the last few weeks. Primitive form of bison. Maybe we’ll be able to get a few Bos latifrons. Big brutes with a horn spread of ten feet. But maybe they’re extinct. They’re the grandpappies of those fellows out there.”

“What’s that big bunch across the river?” Yancey asked.

Cabot trained the glasses in the direction of Yancey’s pointing finger.

“Irish elk,” he pronounced.

A coughing roar brought the two men halfway around. What they saw held them petrified for a moment.

Less than a hundred feet away, at the edge of a thicket, through which he must have come without a sound, stood a massive bear. A huge beast, six feet at the shoulders. He was dark brown in color and he was angry. He rocked gently from side to side and champed his jaws. From his chest rumbled a growl that seemed to shake the earth.

“For God’s sake,” hissed Cabot, “don’t move fast! Edge over toward the tractor easy. That boy is ready to charge!”

Yancey’s hand dropped to his gun butt. Out of the tail of his eye Cabot caught the motion.

“Yancey, you damn fool,” he whispered huskily, “keep your hand away from that. A forty-five slug wouldn’t more than tickle him.”

Slowly the two men backed away from the bear, back toward the towering gray form of the time-tractor, their eyes never leaving the monstrous beast that stood swaying before them. The bear was working himself into a rage. His chest rumbling was almost continuous now, like a train crossing a long trestle. He snarled and the snarl was a sound of raw fury that sent cold shivers up Cabot’s spine.

Tensely they paced their slow backward march. Yancey’s heel caught in a root and he stumbled, but righted himself quickly. The bear growled thunderously and shook his head. Foam from his drooling jaws flecked the massive brown shoulders.

Then the bear charged. With no apparent preliminary move he launched into full motion, with the speed of an avalanche.

“Run,” shrieked Cabot, but his cry was drowned out by a blasting report. The charging bear lurched forward, struck head and shoulders on the ground and somersaulted.

Cabot, racing toward the time-tractor, saw Cameron and Pascal framed in the doorway, heavy elephant guns at their shoulders.

“Wait,” roared Cabot. “Make that second shot count!”

In three leaps he was beside the tractor door.

Pascal shoved the gun at him.

“Never shot one before in my life,” he told Cabot.

Cabot spun about, gun in hand.

The bear was on its feet, swaying heavily from side to side. Its small pig eyes gleamed balefully and red foam flecked its jaws and shoulders.

Deliberately Cabot brought the gun-barrel up, centered the sights squarely between the two eyes and squeezed the trigger. The bear coughed gently and rolled over.

Yancey wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

“Closest shave I’ve ever had,” he confessed.

“Cave bear,” said Pascal. “Just one of the big life-forms you will find here.”

Cameron stepped down from the tractor.

“You’ll find out these animals aren’t the gun-shy brutes you two have been hunting,” he stated. “These babies don’t fear man. They figure man isn’t dangerous, if in fact they’ve ever seen a man. The Neanderthalers that are living somewhere in this country right now are no match for a brute like that.”

Yancey wiped his brow again.

“This is the damnest place I ever saw,” he declared. “Jack and me just step out for a smoke and a look-around. We aren’t gone five minutes and a bear jumps us.”

Cameron guffawed.

“Picked you out for breakfast,” he said.

Yancey grimaced, but made no reply.

Suddenly Cabot hunched forward, finger pointing to a patch of tall grass beyond the dead bear.

“There’s something in there!” he whispered harshly.

A tawny shape raced from the grass, landed on top of the bear’s brown body. With glinting claws and powerful teeth it laid back the hide on the great shoulder. Then, seeing the men, it backed away, its face twisted into a blood stained snarl.

Yancey’s .45 leaped out of its holster and exploded almost as it cleared. One explosion blending with another, the gun set up a roll of thunder that beat against the ears of the four men.

Still snarling, the tawny beast jerked to the impact of the heavy slugs. Then it sprawled and tumbled as Yancey’s gun clicked on an empty cartridge.

But it was not dead. Snarling and spitting, it regained its feet, slunk low in a deadly slouch, razor-sharp, foot-long fangs bared in a murderous sneer.

Cabot whipped out his revolver as Yancey rapidly clicked new cartridges into the cylinder. Cameron snapped the elephant gun to his shoulder. The rifle bellowed and the cat rolled over. Cabot slid his gun back into the holster.

“Saber-tooth,” said Pascal coolly.

“He sure carries lead,” Yancey commented, breathing hard.

Cameron cradled the rifle in his arm and stared at the two animals.

“Hunting,” he said. “Hell, this isn’t hunting. This is an eternal Custer’s last stand—a continuous battle in self-defense.”

“Those critters sure are blood-thirsty,” agreed Yancey.

“And,” he added, “not afraid of us.”

Cameron blew smoke through the gun barrel.

“Wonder how cave bear steaks taste,” he mused.

Yancey looked the huge animal over.

“Probably tougher than hell,” he said appraisingly.