Sunrise went away from No Foot’s cave, and his mind was full of the sparks which his arrow head had struck from the boulder.
“They were like stars,” he told She Wolf, “only more bright; yet when I went to pick them up there was nothing. Nor could old No Foot instruct me, tho’ he said that in working with flints he had often seen the like before.” But She Wolf was not interested and Sunrise told the tale of the stars to Dawn, and she lent him both her ears, and opened her mouth besides.
It befell after this, that often when Sunrise had a flint that was damaged he would shoot it into a rock, for joy of seeing the sparks. And it must be confessed that sometimes, when the desire of the sparks was too heavy to bear, he would sacrifice a perfectly good arrow on the flinty altar of his passion. But that did not matter much, because Sunrise was now a very wealthy young man, and could afford to pay for his pleasure.
He had one other greatest pleasure in life and that was the scratching of pictures on bone.
She Wolf had carried away many of the best examples by No Man from the old cave, and Sunrise had been brought up on this gallery. Many a rainy day he stayed at home imagining scenes and etching them into the bone, while She Wolf and Dawn looked on and admired.
In time he excelled his father, and made the most wonderful pictures of which there was any record.
And so matters went on until the summer of the big dryness. That was a terrible time. No rain fell during the birth, life and death of two moons. The grass turned yellow and brown, the little brooks dried up completely, the rivers sank and became chains of pools, the pools sank and retreated from each other, game became scarce, the wild raspberries and blackberries and strawberries did not come to full fruition because of the lack of water, and the struggle for existence became fierce and intolerable.
But Sunrise was quite happy, for he had just discovered that any two flints struck together with violence emitted stars, and wherever he went, he carried two flints to be his solace in the heat of the noon. It was no longer necessary to sacrifice good arrows. One day he halted for rest in a valley not far from the caves of his tribe, and taking his flints, one in each hand, fell to striking them lustily.
As luck would have it the sparks fell on a bed of tinder-dry, dusty white lichen, and made black marks on it.
This interested Sunrise and he struck again and again. Then he examined the black marks and wondered at the why and the wherefore.
Of a sudden he noticed that one of the marks was growing—it spread rapidly in all directions, and its edges curled upward and were red. Then a gust of wind whirled up the valley and the whole bed of lichen burst into flame. Sunrise tried to catch the flames in his hands, and sprang away with a yelp, for it seemed as if a snake had bitten him. The flames sprang into a bush and roared. Sunrise backed away holding his hands before his face. The wind and the flames seemed to increase together. The whole side of the valley began to burn, brightly and fiercely, the flames leaped up creepers and among the branches of trees, and the roaring of them increased in power. And Sunrise, held by wonder and driven by fear, backed slowly away; but fire and the fierce heat rushed at him and billows of smarting smoke swept over him and presently he turned and ran for his life. And the fire that he had kindled, snapped and roared on his trail.
