Mists of Dawn (64 page)

All
through
the
day
the
colorful
procession
moved through
the
dawn
of
time.
The
men
were
painted, even
Mark
having
consented
to
a
couple
of
stripes
of green
across
his
forehead
and
arms.
In
fact,
he
remembered
with
a
smile,
he
had
been
grateful
to
Qualxen for
offering
to
paint
him—thus
quickly
did
his
values change.
He
even
wore
a
tiny
medicine
bundle
on
a string
around
his
neck.
There
was
nothing
in
it
but a
tooth
and
a
small
stone,
and
he
assured
himself
that he
did
not
believe
in
its
powers.
He
wore
it,
however.

When
in
Rome,
do
as
the
Romans
do.
He
had almost
gone
to
Rome—what
would
have
happened
to him
there?
Would
his
uncle
ever
see
that
fabled
city in
the
time
of
its
glory?
He
thrust
the
thought
from his
mind.

The
sun
drifted
down
to
the
rim
of
the
mountains, and
the
evening
shadows
crept
across
the
land.
Mark was
astounded
when
they
saw
a
herd
of
bison
in
the distance,
so
vast
that
it
was
like
a
black
flood
on
the land,
and
when
they
broke
into
a
run,
the
dark
waves were
set
into
motion.
There
must
have
been
thousands
upon
thousands
of
the
beasts,
and
now
Mark could
well
believe
the
stories
of
the
early
American West
about
herds
of
buffalo
that
stopped
trains.
But the
Danequa
were
not
after
buffalo
now—they
were out
after
bigger
game.

Just
at
nightfall,
they
saw
a
large
herd
of
horses galloping
across
the
grass,
racing
the
shadows.
Mark could
not
help
thinking
of
how
much
easier
life
would be
for
the
Danequa
if
they
could
just
see
the
possibilities
of
using
the
horse
as
a
riding
animal.
But
evidently
the
idea
had
never
occurred
to
them,
and
they marched
along
on
foot
within
a
hundred
yards
of
the finest
riding
animal
the
world
had
ever
known.
How many
other
such
opportunities,
Mark
wondered,
were under
our
very
eyes
in
1953,
obvious
enough
if
someone
could
only
put
two
and
two
together
in
the
right way?

Through
the
night
marched
the
Danequa,
under
the stars
and
under
the
moon.
They
seemed
to
have
an infallible
sense
of
direction;
there
were
no
landmarks that
Mark
could
see.
Somewhere
in
the
night,
he
knew, was
the
space-time
machine.
It
was
there,
to
the
west, to
his
left.
It
was
ready
to
go
now,
if
it
was
in
good condition
still.
All
he
needed
to
do
was
to
walk
to
it and
get
in.
But
that
was
the
catch—walking
to
it.
The Neanderthals
would
be
watching
from
their
valley
of death,
and
he
could
never
get
through
them
alive.

Almost,
he
fancied
that
he
felt
the
cold
eyes
of
the half-men
on
him
now,
as
he
walked
on
across
the plains.