As I am crouched, all I see is chest high grass. The wind whips it into a frenzy, making waves, currents, and eddies. The sun is high over head, a harsh reminder of the time I have left in the day. He heats up my head, causing rivulets of sweat to sting my eyes. My stomach knots. It is more from the fear then the ever present hunger.
    I can hear them, I can smell them, I can feel them. The whole earth is slightly rumbling. Their smell is in the air along with the chocking dust. And the lulling is almost deafening. My chest is moving like the ground beneath my feet.
    I know they are close, I know there are many, and I know that I am alone. The others are watching from a distance away, far enough not to help, but close enough to keep the work in the tracking from being a waste. I grip my atlatl in my hand, making sure a dart is nocked. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins. I have to do this myself. I have heard stories about great aurochs hunts. Standing over 6 feet at the shoulder with horns spanning almost as long, they could gore a man as easy as it could eat grass.
    I stand up. There, thirty feet away, a herd of about twenty. They look at me and I throw. My dart finds the place I wanted it to, making years of practice pay off as the stone tip slides between the ribs and punctures the lungs of a bull.
    The herd stampedes leaving a trail of trampled grass and blood. I take off running after them. One starts to slow, then staggers. It stops and lowers it head, breathing heavy. I come close waving my arms and yelling. It is said that they still have energy. The stories pay off as it charges at me. I miss it left horn by mere inches. It stops again. The end is near, red foam is coming out of its mouth. It gets down on its front knees, falls over and breaks my dart with a snap.