Mists of Dawn (44 page)

Tlaxcan
had
heard
him
coming,
and
Mark
once again
found
himself
with
one
of
Tlaxcan’s
deadly arrows
staring
him
in
the
face.
But
Tlaxcan
recognized him
at
once
and
lowered
his
bow.
He
smiled
feebly and
tried
to
get
up,
but
couldn’t
make
it.
His
tense
face was
white
beneath
its
tan,
and
Mark
could
see
that
he had
lost
a
lot
of
blood.

Mark
came
forward
and
knelt
beside
the
fallen
man. He
was
still
oppressed
by
the
fact
that
he
could
not speak
and
make
himself
understood,
but
Tlaxcan solved
this
problem
for
him
neatly.
He
put
his
right hand
on
Mark’s
shoulder
and
looked
searchingly
into his
eyes,
then
lowered
his
hand
and
sank
back.
Mark understood—Tlaxcan
was
putting
himself
in
Mark’s hands.
Facing
almost
certain
death
if
he
were
abandoned
on
the
plains,
he
was
trusting
a
stranger
to
save him.

Mark
examined
the
wound
in
Tlaxcan’s
shoulder.
It was
deep
and
undoubtedly
painful,
but
not
fatal
if
it could
be
properly
taken
care
of.
Mark
was
no
doctor, but
he
could
see
that
what
he
had
to
fear
was
the
danger
of
infection,
plus
weakness
that
would
result
if
the bleeding
was
not
stopped
in
a
hurry.
He
looked
around and
spotted
the
telltale
line
of
dense
vegetation
that indicated
one
of
the
many
postglacial
streams
flowing down
out
of
the
mountains
and
across
the
great
plain. Tlaxcan’s
wound
should
be
cleaned,
and
for
that
he would
need
water,
but
the
stream
was
at
least
half
a mile
away.
Mark
again
looked
closely
at
the
wound, and
saw
that
it
had
stopped
bleeding
for
the
present. He
signed
for
Tlaxcan
to
keep
still,
and
then
built
a quick
fire
that
caught
more
easily
than
had
his
first such
attempt.

Tlaxcan
watched
with
avid
interest,
taking
puzzled note
of
both
Mark’s
matches
and
his
sharp
metal
knife that
folded
so
miraculously
in
and
out
of
itself.
Mark cut
a
strip
from
the
flank
of
Tlaxcan’s
kill
and
broiled it
on
a
stick.
Acting
on
a
hunch,
he
also
collected some
of
the
wolf-thing’s
still-warm
blood
in
a
crude container
he
fashioned
out
of
skin
and
gave
it
to
Tlaxcan.
Tlaxcan
gulped
it
down
with
obvious
relish,
and then
ate
the
meat
that
Mark
had
cooked
for
him.

Mark
let
him
rest
a
few
minutes
and
then
judged that
he
was
strong
enough
to
make
it
to
the
stream.
He put
out
the
fire
and
got
himself
under
Tlaxcan’s
good right
shoulder,
lifting
him
up.
Not
a
sound
came
from

Tlaxcan’s
lips,
not
even
the
whisper
of
a
moan,
although
the
pain
must
have
been
terrific.
Taking
it
easy, Mark
supported
him
as
they
slowly
walked
the
long half-mile
and
then
lowered
him
to
the
ground
again
by the
banks
of
the
stream,
which
was
large
enough
to qualify
as
a
small
river.