.dt The Race of the Swift, by Edwin Carlile Litsey—A Project Gutenberg eBook

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THE RACE OF THE SWIFT
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“The gray fox was leading bravely.” <i>Frontispiece</i>. <i>See page</i> 16.
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[Illustration: “The gray fox was leading bravely.”\
Frontispiece. See page 16]
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<xl>THE</xl>
<xxl>RACE OF THE SWIFT</xxl>
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<s>BY</s>
<l>EDWIN CARLILE LITSEY</l>
<s>AUTHOR OF “THE LOVE STORY OF ABNER STONE”</s>
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<s><I>Illustrated from Drawings by</I></s>
CHARLES LIVINGSTON BULL
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BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1905
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<I>Copyright</I>, 1903, 1904,
<sc>By Frank Leslie Publishing House</sc>.

<I>Copyright</I>, 1904,
<sc>By Field and Stream, Inc.</sc>

<I>Copyright</I>, 1905,
<sc>By Little, Brown, and Company</sc>.
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<I>All rights reserved</I>


Published October, 1905

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THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
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TO
CARRIE SELECMAN LITSEY

<s>I INSCRIBE THESE STORIES</s>

E. C. L.
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The author wishes to make public acknowledgment
to <i>Leslie’s Monthly Magazine</i> for permission
to use in this volume “The Race of the Swift,”
“The King of the Northern Slope,” and “The
Ghost Coon.” Thanks are also due <i>Field and
Stream</i> for their courtesy in allowing the use of
“The Fight on the Tree-Bridge.” The other
stories presented here have never appeared in
print before.
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CONTENTS
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<sc>The Race of the Swift</sc> | #1:ch01#

<sc>The Robber Baron</sc> | #21:ch02#

<sc>The Ghost Coon</sc> | #43:ch03#

<sc>The Spoiler of the Folds</sc> | #63:ch04#

<sc>The Fight on the Tree-Bridge</sc> | #83:ch05#

<sc>The Guardian of the Flock</sc> | #107:ch06#

<sc>The King of the Northern Slope</sc> | #129:ch07#
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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
<s>From drawings by Charles Livingston Bull</s>
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“The gray fox was leading bravely.” | #<i>Frontispiece</i>:i004#

“Zigzagging nimbly, he strove to elude his pursuer” | #41:i055#

“What was this upon his bridge!” | #102:i119#

“The King stopped long enough to throw back his head and\
give one terrifying scream of victory” | #143:i161#
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<xl>THE RACE OF THE SWIFT</xl>
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THE RACE OF THE SWIFT
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A HALVED moon was shedding a
faint glow over the rugged knob
country. The twisted, broken, distorted
ground, with its spasmodic growth
of blackberry, sassafras, and juniper bushes,
seemed the center of desolation. But
something was living, moving, in the midst
of this loneliness. Creeping along a ragged
fence line at the base of a knob went a
stealthy figure. Sharp-muzzled, keen-eyed,
lean of body and wiry of limb, the object
moved forward at a swift trot. The night
was young. Scarcely had the salmon tints
which the sun had left in the west disappeared.
Through the pure, lambent air
the rolling tones of the farmer could be
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heard as he called his pigs home. Above
the high hills gleamed the timid tapers of
the early stars. A low breeze was chanting
a gentle vesper among the pines and
oaks upon the knob-side. A blundering
rabbit butted blindly through the weeds
on the creek bank; a bullfrog, fat and
inert, bellowed forth his thunderous note;
a muskrat splashed softly from a half-sunken
log and spread his flat paddles to
propel him to his hidden home. A whip-poor-will’s
heart-broken tones came from
a point further down the hollow. Nature
was saying that the day was gone.

The she-fox trotting by the worm-eaten
fence stopped abruptly. The fence was
curving around the knob, and this did not
coincide with her purpose. She stopped
with one fore foot upheld, and ears pricked
attentively. The sounds she heard were
familiar, legitimate; a part of her nightly
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life. The she-fox was painfully attenuated.
Her tawny body was barred with bulging
ribs; there was a gaunt, starved look upon
her bony face. The two rows of teats
along her belly were clean and bare—even
moist, for ten minutes ago a half dozen
tiny tongues had striven vainly to draw
nourishment from them. But she had
none to give. For two days and nights
she had tasted food but once, and during
that time her hungry brood had insistently
drawn her very life from her hour after
hour. She had given it freely and without
grudge, licking caressingly first one baby
form and then another; had even borne
unflinchingly the sharp nips from little
teeth when the milk would not flow. The
night before she had ranged for miles,
though so weak that only the deathless
strength of her mother-love sustained her
in her quest. Not far from her home was
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a place where human-people lived. But
they were wary, and placed their hens and
chickens under lock and key at the going
down of every sun. Thither had she gone
first, because it was the closest, but not a
feather could she find. At the corner of
the hen-house she stopped and sniffed
eagerly. Beyond the white-washed planks
were scores of fat fowls, and the she-fox
knew it, but they were safe from her long,
white teeth. She listened. The sound of
rustling feathers and drowsy clucks smote
her ears, and the saliva of famine dripped
from the loose skin of her lower jaw. Emboldened
by desperation, she walked around
the building. At the bottom of the door a
hole had been cut, so that the fowls could
enter when the door was shut. But this
was secured by a plank, which in turn was
held in place by a heavy stone. She could
not move it, because she was weak from
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fasting. Thrusting her sharp, black nose
into a crack about an inch wide between
the planks, she drank in the ravishing odor
of many a choice pullet. Suddenly realizing
that this course was worse than futile,
she turned, vaulted the fence enclosing the
cow-lot, swerved around a prostrate, ponderous
figure sleepily chewing its cud, and
vanished in the direction of the stable.
Here, likewise, her investigation was fruitless,
so she gave up and turned her head
towards another farm-house, five miles
away.

The journey, which ordinarily would not
have caused the least fatigue, came near to
overcoming the dauntless forager. Near
her destination she tottered to a brook and
sank in the cool water, lapping it at intervals.
This brought back some of her
strength, and she essayed to complete her
task. Through the orchard she trailed;
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then suddenly her delicate nostrils conveyed
to her subtle brain some welcome
intelligence. Stopping about twenty feet
from the yard fence, she reconnoitred. A
big walnut tree grew close to the fence,
and upon the limbs of this tree were some
huge, shapeless knots; knots with convex
backs and drooping tails; turkeys! The
eyes of the starved raider glowed green
and blue. Here was a feast. Strength for
her, and life for her little ones back in their
rocky den, crawling blindly about and wailing
piteously for food. Softly as a moonbeam
she crept forward, then came to a
halt in dismay and sank upon her haunches.
The plank with strips nailed across it, by
the aid of which the turkeys gained their
roost, had been removed and lay there
upon the ground before her, to mock her
baffled hopes and her bitter despair. With
a keen sense of distances, she measured
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with her eye the height of the lowest limb
from the ground. It was not far; she had
made greater leaps time and again. But
now her leaden, paralyzed limbs could
scarcely carry her pinched body over the
ground. To make the effort would be suicide.
The dog-pack were sleeping somewhere
near by, and their sleep was light!
A cracking twig would rouse them, and
that night she could not lead them. There
were babies at home who needed her; she
dared not make the attempt. One of the
knots on a limb moved cautiously, then
toppled. The watcher sprang forward
eagerly, to again meet with disappointment.
The sleepy wings flapped once or
twice, a new footing was secured, and the
head of the restless turkey receded into the
neck feathers as the fowl relapsed into
slumber. After a few moments the dull
red shadow on the ground moved on again,
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hunger-mad, yet crafty. Into the confines
of the yard crept the fox—up to a long,
tall bench by the kitchen door. The scent
of something strangely like fresh meat had
reached her. There was a vessel of some
sort covered with a piece of wood on the
bench. To leap up and muzzle off the
cover was the work of a second. And
there was the dressed carcass of a chicken
soaking overnight to serve as a breakfast
for the human-people in the morning.
Quickly as a star twinkles she of the
forest-folk had the spoil in her strong jaws.
Softly as a shadow falling she dropped to
earth; swiftly as the wind she glided
through the long corn rows growing in
the garden back of the house, and was
soon a mile away, safe, because unpursued.
Then she sank upon her belly, and ate, and
ate. Crunched the tender bones and the
juicy flesh, impregnated as they were with
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salt, and gradually she felt the glad elation
of returning strength. Through her worn,
famished body renewed life was running,
although the edge of her hunger had barely
been removed. She lay quiet for a while,
gathering together the taxed forces of her
being, and thinking of the miles stretching
between her and the little ones. But before
the shadows upon the hill-tops turned
into the misty halos of morning, six tiny
forms lay at their mother’s breasts, well-fed
and asleep.

Now another day had come and gone,
and she was as bad off as before. Her
mate, who had bided with her until the
babies came, had tired of her and gone to
seek a fairer wench, leaving her unaided to
provide for the offsprings of their wild, free
love. She had planned and worked,
plotted and slain. The floor of the den
was covered with feathers and sprinkled
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with broken bones—dry bones which she
had cracked in desperation while searching
for sustenance. It was a fight all the
time. Fight for food; fight to live. So
when the night had barely come, and the
salmon tints in the west were yet a shadow,
the she-fox nosed her importunate progeny
into a whining heap at one side of the den
and slipped softly without and moved down
the hill-side, her waving tail like a smouldering
torch in the gloom of the woods.

Keeping in the shadow of the rickety rail
fence till it could no longer serve her, she
halted a moment for deliberation, then
twisted her supple body and half leaped,
half crawled through a crack near the bottom.
As she had stood with ears alert
before veering her course, the faintest kind
of tone had come to her. It was different
from the hill-voices. The forest-kind know
all the dozens of low noises which float
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along the knob-side at night. The voices
and sounds are all soft—peculiarly soft.
Only when a wild-cat is at bay, or the pack
swings mouthing over the lowlands and the
hills, is the wonderful silence of that region
disturbed after the sun has gone. If her
ear was not at fault—and privation had
sharpened all of her faculties—the she-fox
knew that a rich reward would soon be
hers. Skirting the creek till she came
to a place where it narrowed, she leaped
across, and moved on in the same steady
trot through the blackberry and sassafras
bushes. Behind a low tangle of weeds and
vines she crept at last, and crouched not
three feet from a narrow hog-path winding
on towards the farm-house half a mile
away. From the pond at the base of the
slight elevation over which the path led,
some belated geese were ambling homeward.
A half dozen or more; awkward,
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matronly, placid, moving in Indian file
with never a thought beyond dipping in
the hog-trough in the barnyard, or gobbling
up the food thrown to the chickens.
The webbed feet plodded on—straight to
death. One, two, three, four—six plump
bodies marched sedately by the low clump
of matted weeds. Destruction swift and
sure seized the last. Out of the shadows
sprang a shape; two sinewy forelegs glided
around the long white neck and skilful
fangs tore open the portals of death. It
was done almost without a sound. A
feather or two and a few drops of blood
were the only traces of the deed. Taking
the blood as it gushed from the gaping
wounds, the fox seized the neck firmly at a
point near the base, slung the heavy body
across her back with a dexterous jerk of
her head, and started for her den at a swift
lope. That night she feasted to repletion,
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and the next day she gorged herself on her
kill. Made indolent by gluttony, she did
not leave her lair for two whole days.
Then her old enemy, hunger, returned
again, and drove her to action.

During the days she had been lying inert
in her rocky chamber, some things had
happened which disturbed her not a little.
The morning following the night she had
brought in her prize, she had heard the
dread voices of the hounds on some far-off
range. All day, at intervals, the unwelcome
chant had come to her ears, and
so she knew that the human-people had
missed their goose, and were abroad with
the pack in quest of its destroyer. The
second day a more alarming thing had
happened. It was when the shadows of
the taller trees began to lengthen towards
the east, and twilight reigned in her cave
home, that she was roused once more by
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the determined notes of the pursuing pack.
Creeping to the entrance, she presently
saw the chase passing along the knob-side.
A great gray fox, nearly spent, was gliding,
falling down the incline, his red mouth
stretched for breath, and his bushy tail
drooping. After him raced the hated
friends of the human-people, loud-tongued
and tireless. The gray fox was leading
bravely, and hunters and hunted passed
from view to the accompaniment of rustling
leaves and snapping twigs and triumphant
bays.

The next morning, near midday, her
merciless offsprings teased and worried her
so that the she-fox crept forth in spite of
the warning of the day before, and set her
sharp muzzle towards the crest of the
range, with the intention of invading territory
which hitherto her feet had never
pressed. There were wild turkeys back in
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the hills, and wary and suspicious as she
knew them to be, they were no match for
her wily woodcraft. But scarcely had her
noiseless feet gone over the top of the
knob, when a sharp yelp immediately behind
her caused her to jump and turn
quickly. They were there—her enemies—and
their noses were smelling out her
trail, for as yet they had not seen her.
Even as she leaped for the nearest cover
like a yellow flash, her first thought was of
the little ones biding at home. She must
lead her foes away from that cleft in the
rocks where her love-children lay awaiting
her return. And though her life should
be given up, yet would she die alone, and
far away, before she would sacrifice her
young.

It was a hard and stubborn race which
she ran for the next six hours. At times
her loyal, loving heart seemed ready to
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burst from the strain she thrust upon it.
At times fleet feet were pattering almost
at her heels, and pitiless jaws were held
wide to grasp her; then again only the
echo of the stubborn cry of her pursuers
reached her. She had doubled time and
again. Once a brief respite was granted
her when she dashed up a slanting tree-trunk
which, in falling, had lodged in the
branches of another tree. Eight tawny
forms dashed hotly, furiously by, then she
descended and took the back track. Only
for a moment, however, were the cunning
dogs deceived. They discovered the artifice
almost as soon as it was perpetrated,
and came harking back themselves with
redoubled zeal. So the long hours of the
afternoon wore away. Not a moment that
was free from effort; not an instant that
death did not hover over the mother fox,
awaiting the least misstep to descend.
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Back and forth, around and across, and still
the subtlety of the fox eluded the haste and
fury of the hounds. All were tired to the
point of exhaustion, but none would give
up. The sun went down; tremulous
shadows, like curtains hung, were draped
among the trees. The timid stars came
out again and the halfed moon arose, a
little larger than the night before. And
still, with inveterate hate on the one side,
and the undying strength of despair on the
other, the grim chase swept through the
night. At last the blood-rimmed eyes of
the reeling quarry saw familiar landmarks.
Unconsciously, in her blind efforts, she had
come to the neighborhood of her den. Perhaps
the love within her heart had guided
her back. She found her strength quickly
failing, and with a realization of this her
scheming brain awoke as from a trance,
and drove her to deeper guile. Two rods
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away was the creek. To it she staggered,
splashed through the low water for a dozen
yards, and hid herself beneath the gnarled
roots of a tree from the base of which the
stream had eaten away the soil. She listened
intensely. She heard the pack lose
the scent, search half-heartedly for a few
minutes, for they, too, were weary to dropping,
then withdraw one at a time, beaten.
But for half an hour the brave animal lay
against the tree roots, waiting and resting.
Then she came out cautiously, looked
around her, and with difficulty gained the
mouth of her den. Casting one keen
glance over her shoulder through the
checkered spaces of the forest, she glided
softly within, and lying down, curled her
tired body protectingly around her sleeping
little ones.
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<xl>THE ROBBER BARON</xl>
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THE ROBBER BARON
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THE Robber Baron sat upon his
throne—for he was also a king.
No courtiers attended him; no
pages hung upon his slightest gesture. In
dignified solitude he sat, and watched, and
watched, and watched.

Part of the country through which
Green River runs is almost as it was when
the Master left it with the seal of completeness.
Its topography is unchanged
except for the natural changes brought
about by the primeval elements of wind
and water. There are vast stretches of
timbered country checkered with cultivated
acres, and rugged limestone cliffs
fringed with moss and garlanded with poison
ivy. The home of the Robber Baron
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was on the edge of one of these timbered
tracts, in an old oak tree. This was his
castle, and his alone. None of his feathered
cousins dared perch in the spreading
branches, even to rest for a moment.
That tree was the property of the Baron,
and he had proven his title to complete
ownership more than once with beak and
claws and beating wings. At the very top
of the tree a dead snag shot up a distance of
ten or twelve feet. This was the turret
of the castle—the watch-tower. On its
summit the old hen-hawk would perch,
and complacently view his wide domain
and his trembling subjects. And he was
indeed a king. He levied tribute from the
air, the earth, and the water alike, and
whenever he poised and swooped, a life
went out. One sound only caused his
warrior heart to quake, and that was the
solemn voice of the great horned owl, crying
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dismally in the night from the recesses
of the wood. Here was a foe worthy of
his steel; bigger, stronger, and bulldog-like
in his battles. But the hawk took
care not to pit his prowess against the
power of this night marauder. During
the day he was safe, for his one enemy
who could wage successful warfare with
him moped on a limb from sunrise till
after dusk. In the darkness he sat high
and safe, for the night-bird hunted low.
More than once the Baron, sleeping the
sleep of the gorged glutton, had awakened
to the sound of mighty wings winnowing
the air, and he would draw his fierce head
a little further down between his wing-shoulders,
shuddering and afraid. And if
the night was moonlit, and he happened to
look down, he would see a broad, black
shadow gliding swiftly between the trees—a
veritable spectre of death.
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Day after day the Robber Baron sat on
the top of the snag in the oak tree. This
was his home, his bed, his point of lookout,
and his banquet chamber. With almost
telescopic keenness of vision, he could see
what was going on for incredible distances
around him. A rabbit’s quiet movements
while feeding a half mile away on the young
clover in a brown stubble-field; the neutral
tints of the prim little quail as they scurried
over the saffron leaves and through
the yellow grass; a squirrel’s bark back
in the forest behind him; a leaping fish in
the stream which ran a good mile from his
gray snag—all this he saw and heard, as
well as many other things. If he had recently
dined and was well filled and comfortable,
he would ruffle his wings, preen
his breast feathers, and gaze calmly upon
the things which were his. When he
wanted them he would go and get them,
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and when once those needle-pointed talons
touched fur, feathers, or fins, they never let
go their hold until they reached the snag.
Then one foot would seek the familiar
grasp, while the other held the victim
down rigidly until the rending beak of the
spoiler had torn out the life of his prize.

Now years of rapine and plunder and
slaughter had not only schooled the Robber
Baron in the fine art of taking game of
every description, but it had made him an
epicure as well. For, sailing over a barnyard
one day, he saw a plump pullet dozing
in the warm dust by the side of a
stone wall. The instinct imparted by
some daintily fed ancestor awoke, and
hardly knowing it, the hawk swooped and
clutched. There was a terrible outcry
from the stricken pullet, and the barnyard
tribe joined in the row with one voice.
The pullet was fat and heavy and
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struggled desperately, but the sinewy pinions
of the attacker had never failed him,
and he slowly arose, with labored flapping,
taking his captive with him. But the
hubbub had reached indoors, where the
farmer and his sons were taking their
noonday meal, and to them the fuss outside
meant “Hawk! Hawk!” and nothing
else, for hens never cackle at any other
time as they do when a hawk or a mink
invades their midst. So a boy rushed out
with a gun, and there, barely clearing the
tops of the trees in the orchard, flew the
raider. The boy fired twice, but when he
ducked his head to gaze under the smoke,
the hawk was still going, and with him the
pullet. The shot had whistled about the
ears of the Baron, and a hot streak had run
up his back and across his neck, but no
shot struck him fairly, and he went grimly
on. When he at last sighted his tower his
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strength was giving down, for his burden
was heavy and the way had been long.
But he went up, up, bravely up, breasting
the clear air higher and higher, and finally
his feet rested on the old familiar place,
and he skilfully balanced himself with his
wings.

As he feasted, he realized that he had
made a great discovery. The tender, juicy
flesh which entered his greedy mouth in
tempting strips was far more suited to his
palate than was the meat of the wild things
upon which he had hitherto preyed. All
of the wild flesh was tainted, more or less,
with the exception of the luscious quail,
but here was something fit for even his
kingly beak. So as he ate, he planned,
and his thoughts boded ill for the farm
housewife.

Thus it happened that for a time a feeling
of peace and security reigned in the
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dominion of the king. In the rabbit world
the cotton-tails came more and more into
the open, venturing out from the brier
patches and the low-growing bushes which
were their natural protectors; but they
never failed to watch the air with one eye
while they ate, for the destroyer came
silently, and the first warning was the fatal
shadow falling upon them, followed by the
smothering swish of wings. Then woe to
the long-eared luckless one who was even
a few feet from cover. The descent of the
bold robber was like a lightning bolt—as
swift and as deadly. The quail began to
trot with more confidence between the
stubble-rows—for it was the autumn season—and
to hunt for berries and stray
grains of wheat with less fear. So with all
the different families over which the Robber
Baron held sway. Every day a broad,
thin shadow would pass over, but it never
.bn 045.png
.pn +1
dropped, and the timid ground-people
whispered to each other that their dreaded
enemy had found a new hunting-place, and
rejoiced accordingly. At times they saw
him returning, nearly always flying low
and heavily, with a cumbersome prey in
his clutches. What it was, they did not
know, but so long as he left them in peace
they were content not to question his
doings.

One golden afternoon the Robber Baron
sat upon his turret in majestic loneliness.
He was a royal bird. His head was flat;
his brow niched and frowning, and his
beak was curved like a boat-hook. His
mighty wings were folded closely to his
sides; his gray-white breast, flecked with
brown, bravely met the winds which blew
about his towering snag. His sturdy legs
were tufted to the second joint, and his
scaly talons, black and steel-like in their
.bn 046.png
.pn +1
powerful grasp, curved firmly around the
dead wood which formed his perch. He
was a type of strength and grace, and
the embodiment of rapacity and cruelty.
Calmly and proudly his bold eyes roamed
far and wide, resting for a moment upon
a waving, irregular line of sedge, caused
by the passage of some four-footed thing;
then being drawn to the glinting breast of
the river, where some constantly widening
circles showed the upward leap of a frolicsome
fish. But no heed at all did he pay
to these signs, which upon other days would
have lured him to pursuit. His aristocratic
taste would no longer admit of such petty
sacrifices and such poor food. Were not
the feathers of a plump hen even at that
moment littering the ground at the foot of
his castle, and had he not heard, the night
before, a prowling raccoon crunching the
bones which he had disdainfully cast aside?
.bn 047.png
.pn +1
The air was crisp with the tang of wild
leaves which the frost had bitten, and hazy
with the Indian summer glory of the season.
Back in the forest behind him some
maples were blazing in their crimson garments,
and the hardier leaves of the oak
and chestnut were tingeing. A creeper,
encircling with many a close embrace the
trunk of his own high tree, burned like
the fiery serpent of some magician. Emboldened
by the truce which their lord had
declared, the Bob Whites sent their inexpressibly
pure notes from different points
like the sounds of answering bells. In the
corn-field just across the river some men
were working. With long knives in their
hands they attacked the serried ranks of
yellow-uniformed soldiery, and wherever
they went they left a gap. Round pumpkins,
which the Midas hand of frost had
turned to purest gold, were being carried by
.bn 048.png
.pn +1
others to one huge pile, forming a pyramid
of plenty from the bountiful Giver. In a
hickory tree near his castle two old crows
were engaged in a very silly dispute, and
the Baron turned a disgusted gaze upon
the quarrelsome black things, who knew
nothing of dignity, and all of sly theft.
Far overhead a buzzard sailed along—that
dumb, faithful scavenger of the wild, who
was never known to utter a sound from
the beginning of time. Him the big hawk
respected. He attended to his affairs, and
never engaged in bickerings with his neighbors.
That he nested on the ground—in
the caves and in the hollows of rotten tree-trunks—was
no concern of the Baron,
who scorned the earth, and never touched
it but to rise again immediately.

The sun was slowly dipping towards a
line of hills far to the west. The watcher
on the snag took note of this, as he did of
.bn 049.png
.pn +1
everything that went on around him, and
he knew that if he was to have a feast that
day he must go about procuring it. The
barnyard which had been supplying him
with his daily meal for the past ten days
was not far away, but the wily robber had
become used to many things during his
predatory existence, and one of these
things was that every house possessed a
gun, and that a gun has a remarkably long
range when loaded for hawk. During his
last raid he had lost some feathers, and
there was a constant, itching pain in one of
his thighs, where a shot had lodged. He
had tried to pluck it out with his murderous
beak, but his efforts had only aggravated
the wound, with the result that he
was continually irritated. He would visit
that barnyard no more. Sweeping his
bold eyes in another direction, he beheld,
several miles away, a wavering column of
.bn 050.png
.pn +1
smoke ascending. This came from the
chimney of a farm-house. He made his
resolve quickly. The memory of countless
repasts forbade the idea of even a day’s fast.
The clamped toes unclasped, clasped, and
unclasped again; the graceful body leaned
forward, and the wing feathers quivered.
Squatting low, the big bird launched himself
in air and the broad wings shot out
and bore him up. Once again he was in
the element he loved.

The tiny hearts of the ground-people
shook with fear as the shadow of the destroyer
passed over the stubble-field, for
weeks of immunity from attack had not
lessened their fear of their bloodthirsty
ruler. But the shadow passed on and disappeared;
the river’s placid breast mirrored
his image as the great hawk sped on,
flying leisurely, for he would need his
strength upon his return. Then over the
.bn 051.png
.pn +1
corn-field, where the men were husking the
yellow grain. Just over the variegated
floor which the tree-tops of another forest
made he passed on his flight, for there was
no reason to mount high, and thus tire
himself. Very soon the farm-house came
in sight, and in the big yard was a grove of
locust trees. These afforded an excellent
shelter from which to spy, and presently
his feet gripped a limb, he tilted forward
from the momentum of his flight, but regained
his equilibrium instantly, and his
searching eyes turned this way and that in
quest of a victim. About the yard some
matronly hens were straying, with here
and there a strutting cock, self-conscious
and pompous. The daring robber did not
hesitate long. A particularly tempting
Plymouth Rock hen drew his eye, and
instantly he left his perch, arose in the air,
and prepared to swoop. Just as he closed
.bn 052.png
.pn +1
his wings for this purpose, a babel of twittering
arose which he had learned to dread,
and around the corner of the house sped
two martens with fluttering wings and
wild cries of anger. Dismayed, the marauder
spread his wings again and strove
to escape, while a fearful tumult began
among the fowls in the yard, followed
by a wild rush for cover. Swift of wing
and fearless, the tiny attackers vigorously
pursued the fleeing hawk, hovering over
him with their shrill cries, and now and
again dropping upon his back to deliver
a sharp peck. When they had chased the
invader from the yard they considered
their duty done, and came back in wild
curves to their box on the pole in the rear
of the house.

Enraged and smarting from the chastisement
which he had received, the hawk
sailed up in a white ash tree to rest and
.bn 053.png
.pn +1
consider the situation. As he debated
dusk came on, and he became aware that
he was desperately hungry. The yard was
guarded, and he could not enter there.
Disappointed and sore, he was preparing
to depart empty-handed, when his restless
eye caught sight of a dark spot moving
over the ground not far away. It was a
foraging hen coming home to roost. Five
seconds later his pinions hissed over the
head of the doomed fowl, the knife-like
talons caught and held, and he painfully
arose to begin his homeward flight. His
prey was a full-grown hen and was heavy
as lead, but when he arose with his spoil he
never let go his hold. So over the tops of
the trees he went again, the limp body in
his grip brushing some of the leaves, so
heavily did it sag. Back over the corn-field,
forsaken now by the harvesters, and
his flight was so low that a man with a
.bn 054.png
.pn +1
club might have struck him. Then the
river, in which the first stars were beginning
to gleam. How his legs ached, and
each motion of his wings wrenched his
body. He had never been so late returning
before, and the distance had never seemed
so long. On the other side of the stubble-field
rose his tower, waiting for him to
come home, as it had waited through all
his life. Would he ever reach it? He
would if it cost him his life, for he could
not sit on the earth and eat, like a filth-devouring
buzzard. His dragging flight
over the field was more than half completed,
when he heard a sound that turned
his blood to ice. It was the deep, solemn
note of the horned owl, boomed forth at
the edge of the wood. He had tarried too
long at his hunting, and his enemy was
coming on his night-hunt for food.

.if h
.il fn=i055.jpg w=430px id=i055
.ca
“Zigzagging nimbly, he strove to elude his pursuer.”
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
.in 8
.ti -4
[Illustration: “Zigzagging nimbly, he strove to elude his pursuer.”]
.in 0
.sp 2
.if-

Swiftly the hawk dipped and swerved,
.bn 055.png
.pn +1
.bn 056.png
.pn +1
.bn 057.png
.pn +1
but those big red-green eyes, to which
darkness was day, beheld him, and gave
chase. The wily robber dropped his burden,
hoping to bribe the spectre in his
wake. But with a rush the owl passed
over the cast-off carcass, and sped on.
The hen-hawk heard the soft, feathery
wing-swish coming nearer and nearer, and
though he was no coward he knew that his
hour was at hand, for he was worn and
spent, whereas his foe had fresh strength.
Zigzagging nimbly, he strove in this manner
to elude his pursuer. But the big owl
had waited long for this chance, and he was
resolved that it should not escape him.
Suddenly he struck out with beak and
claws, and the hawk careened wildly from
the shock, then righting himself, turned to
give battle—it was the last resort. And
so they clashed and clashed again. There
arose the rasping of beak on beak and the
.bn 058.png
.pn +1
dull thud of flesh propelled against flesh.
Feathers were torn out by clawfuls, and
the breast of each combatant was streaked
and dabbled with blood. At last the owl,
maddened and all-powerful in his might,
beat and smothered his antagonist to the
earth, and holding that kingly head on the
ground with the vise-like grip of one foot,
with his curved beak he prodded and tore
till life was gone from the Robber Baron.

The gray old snag which was his tower
waited for his coming that night in vain.
.bn 059.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.nf c
<xl>THE GHOST COON</xl>
.nf-
.sp 4
.bn 060.png
.pn +1
.bn 061.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch03
THE GHOST COON
.sp 2
.dc 0.3 0.7
SOMETHING white was moving
warily through the shadows of Beech
Hollow. It was near the turning of
night, and the heart of the wide, uncleared
knob area was quiet. Not the quiet of
sleep, indeed, for the wood-folk were
abroad in numbers, each bent upon a separate
errand whose aim and end was death.
But they moved without noise, from the
largest to the smallest. A brown mink
wriggled his serpentine way along the
erratic path which a field-mouse had made;
following him, perchance, with subtle cunning
and fell purpose, was a wild-cat. A
fox sniffed where a pheasant had passed,
and trailed hungrily and swiftly for a
dozen yards, to a point where the bird had
.bn 062.png
.pn +1
risen in the air. So through the night
they went, big and little, threading the
secret ways of the underbrush, and sooner
or later finding that for which they sought.
Few went beyond the limits which marked
Beech Hollow on every side. The lore of
the wood-kind taught that this place was
haunted by the ghost of a big coon, and
that death awaited the invader into his
precincts. By a secret telegraphic code,
by purrings and by barks, there was not a
denizen of the wild but knew the fact.
More than one had seen the spectre. It
was not the hallucination of a March-crazed
cotton-tail. The ghost coon ran
every night from the first cock-crow till
near dawn, and his hunting ground was
held inviolate by his four-footed flesh-and-blood
kindred.

It was an opulent night in autumn.
The half-naked beeches which gave the
.bn 063.png
.pn +1
hollow its name shivered in their scant
covering. The hillsides were heavy with
drifted leaves, russet and gold and poppy-veined.
Through the hollow purled a
small stream, sleepily. Along the trunk
of a long-dead beech, prostrate and blackened,
moved something white, a figure almost
ball-shaped. Its head was held low
to the surface of the log; its body rose up
in a peculiarly rounded hump, and its
snow-white, bushy tail trailed along behind.
It was the ghost coon of Beech
Hollow on his nightly quest for food.
His progress was most ungainly. The
fore feet would move forward a few
inches and the body would lengthen. Then
the hind feet would get in motion and the
back would assume an arc, and all the
time the busy nose would be smelling to
left and right. Reaching the end of the
tree at last the coon reared upon his
.bn 064.png
.pn +1
haunches, squirrel fashion, and gazed about
him keenly. Nothing was stirring beyond
a fluttering leaf; nothing was heard but
the low soughing of the wind. Suddenly
the triangular head went up a little higher,
and the nose pointed directly across the
hollow. Thus it was held rigidly for several
moments, while the beady eyes
glowed fiercely. Then a slender red
tongue curved swiftly around his upper
lip; he sank to the log again, and thence
to the ground, and moved down the
hillside with a shambling, awkward, yet
incredibly swift gait.

That very day, as he was sleeping in his
hollow tree at the end of the ravine, he
had been awakened by the shots of some
hunters in the corn-field bordering his valley
of refuge. Then he had stretched
himself and gone to sleep again, confident
of a rich banquet in the hours of the coming
.bn 065.png
.pn +1
night. He knew well—for he had
learned the lesson when half grown—that
frightened birds always take to the nearest
cover when annoyed too much by men and
dogs. Not long after sundown he had
crawled out of his hole and crouched on
the limb in front of it, and listened to the
rallying call of the quail as they gathered
together to squat for the night. Then,
when the night was far enough advanced,
he had slid down the tree like a patch of
moonlight, and gone in search of his prey.

In a direct line with the coon’s progress,
the stream below spread into a pool of
considerable breadth and some depth, and
as the soft-footed prowler gained its edge
he stopped, leaned over the water, and
eyed the surface intently. A born fisherman,
he could not let the opportunity pass
to land one of the small perch which had
their home in this pool. For a number of
.bn 066.png
.pn +1
minutes he stood as still as one of the
stones lining the bank. Then he burst
into action with the agility of one of the
cat tribe. One claw-rimmed foot shot forward
and downward, then up again all at
one stroke, and the star rays glittered on
a scaly body flying through the air. The
fish had scarcely touched the ground when
the nimble animal was beside it. Quickly
the faithful paws pounced upon the flopping
object and pinioned it to the earth.
Then just back of the neck the sharp fangs
crunched, and the ghostly ruler of the hollow
ate leisurely of the toothsome dainty
which his craft and skill had provided, spitting
and clawing out the bones when in his
greediness they stuck in his tongue. When
his supper was over, the coon, his hunger
appeased in a measure, did not at once
take up the air-trail which was still wafted
gently to him from the top of the other
.bn 067.png
.pn +1
slope. He moved around and around the
heap of bones and offal which marked his
late repast, sniffing and nibbling by turns.
Finally he veered about and started back
over the track which he had come. Just
then his nostrils were tickled by another
light gust, laden with the partridge smell.
It was too much to resist. He swerved
again, and began to climb the slope of his
temptation.

Nestling at the base of a rugged knob
not two miles distant from Beech Hollow
was a log-roller’s hut. Of its human inmates
we have no word to say, for our
story has naught to do with them. But of
a certain low, heavy-bodied, vengeful,
mongrel cur dog which harbored at this
hut in the day, it becomes necessary now
to speak. This dog feared nothing—absolutely
nothing. He would bite at the
thick sole of the shoe which kicked him;
.bn 068.png
.pn +1
he would fight anything that walked upon
two feet or four. He was totally wicked,
totally merciless in his battles, and he cherished
an inveterate hatred for coons.
Throughout the day he would hang around
the miserable shelter of the human-people—his
companions, but not his masters—and
when night sank down over the broad
wastes of forest and hill he would go trailing
through the dense passes of the wild,
sharp-nosed and vigilant; his stub tail moving
like the pendulum of a clock, and
keeping time to his rapid footsteps.
Once in his wanderings he had entered
Beech Hollow, and had run upon that
which the wood-folk feared. A large,
white, ghostly figure coming towards him
down the ravine. The cur yelped and fled.
Gaining the open to the south of the hollow,
the moonlight gave him courage, and
he warily circled the place, coming in at
.bn 069.png
.pn +1
the other end and running with his keen
nose not an inch above the ground. He
stumbled upon the scent quickly, and the
chase-yelp bubbled to his throat. But he
choked it back, for he was wiser than most
coon dogs, who give tongue as soon as the
trail is caught, and thus warn their quarry
of danger. The trail that night led him to
the base of a large beech tree, and there
was the coon smell on the bark as high as
he could reach by standing upon his hind
legs. From that night the hollow held no
terror for him. A coon had but one smell,
and though this one was white, whereas all
with whom he had drawn blood were gray
with black-ringed tails, still it was a coon,
and the one idea in his head now was to
harass and harry it into open fight.

So he began to stalk the lonely hollow
which was shunned by the forest-people,
inbred guile driving him to all the cunning
.bn 070.png
.pn +1
artifices known to the wood-dwellers. But
the ghost coon was his match in subtlety.
Never since that first night had the vindictive
cur laid eyes upon the phantom,
though two and three times a week he
would come with his fangs whetted for
fight. But upon that night in autumn
when the coon feasted upon the fish, and
subsequently started in quest of the huddled
quail, a dark, noiseless shape entered
the hollow from the north, and glided
down it as a cloud shadow glides over a
field. The cur struck the trail a few feet
from the point where the coon had dropped
from the prostrate tree, and instantly he
crouched and grew rigid. The odor was
fresh and strong, and he had waited long
and travelled far for this chance. Flattening
his body on the damp leaves, he looked
about him with glowing eyes. Nothing
was to be seen or heard. Which way was
.bn 071.png
.pn +1
he to go? Had his prey gone up hill or
down? Guided by that unerring instinct
which all animals possess, the dog arose
after an instant’s hesitation and moved
down the hill with his black muzzle brushing
the leaves.

At the top of the other slope the white
marauder was slowly closing in upon his
sleeping victims. Each step was taken
with painful deliberateness and extreme
care, for he knew that his journey would
end in a clump of huckleberry bushes just
at the edge of the wood. Onward he
glided, his tiny feet as noiseless in their
progress as the fall of a snowflake. Beneath
a bending, berry-laden spray he
stopped, and gazed gloatingly for a second
upon a dozen or more brown bodies
crowded together with their tails touching.
Then he pounced. A few sleepy
chirrups, a wild scramble, and the sound of
.bn 072.png
.pn +1
whirring wings followed. The chagrined
coon, cheated of his anticipated meal,
shook a few downy feathers from the claws
of his right fore foot, backed out of the
bushes, and took the return trail for his
tree of refuge. In his anger at failing in
his last adventure, he neglected to scan the
slope before him as he started down it.
Soon he realized that a strange stump had
taken root in his path since he had trodden
it a few moments before. A squat, black,
ugly thing, which he had not previously
noticed. He came on stubbornly, however,
and did not stop until he saw two
blazing eyes looking at him with an expression
of fiendish joy. There was nothing
to do but fight.

For a very perceptible time the two
glared at each other. The dog cruel,
mean, wicked; the coon angry, furtive, sly.
Then low sounds came from the throat of
.bn 073.png
.pn +1
each. The dog gave a deep, muttering
growl; the coon a succession of sharp
hisses, not unlike those made by a goose,
the while he withdrew into himself and
glanced about as if meditating flight,
though no tree grew near enough for him
to reach. The dog quickly assumed the
offensive, for his eager hate would not
countenance delay. His spring was like
the rebound of a cross-bow, but his enemy
knew how to fight. While the cur was
yet in air the ghost of the hollow had
reared and fallen prone upon his back, his
hind feet drawn close down upon his belly,
and his fore feet arched and ready. At
the right moment the hind feet shot up,
and ripped a half dozen streaming seams in
the flanks of the cur as he descended with
snapping jaws. A screech, a scuffle, a
howl of pain, and the dog leaped backward,
drew his tongue rapidly across the
.bn 074.png
.pn +1
stinging rents in his side, and bounded for
the second time upon his foe. Aiming at
the throat, his teeth found the loose skin
at one side of the neck instead; the coon
secured one of the stub ears of the attacker
in his mouth, and thus they grappled.
Strange sounds floated through the length
of Beech Hollow that night; sounds which
never before had disturbed its accustomed
quiet. There were the sounds of heavy
bodies threshing the earth, the rasping
snarl, the yelp of distress, and the clashing
of teeth. In the still night the noise carried
far, and the keen ears of some wood-dwellers
running on a near-by range heard
it, and the forest-folk stopped, listened, and
turned their faces from it, for it came from
the haunted hollow.

On the leaf-strewn slope one great ball
of intermingled black and white gradually
drew near the bottom of the hill. Neither
.bn 075.png
.pn +1
knew nor thought of the course the fight
was taking. Their hearts were inflamed
with the battle-lust, and with lightning-like
movements they fought for the death-hold.
After a time the level was reached, and
here, by mere chance, the jaws of the dog
found the throat of his enemy. The coon
realized his strait, and plied all four feet
with such good effect that the blood ran in
streams from the ragged wounds which he
inflicted. But his breath was shut off, and
nothing can live or fight without air. It
was then that he felt something cool clasp
his hind leg. With his remaining strength
he threw himself backward, dragging the
cur with him, and the water of the pool
closed over them both.

A coon can remain under water for a
marvelously long time. A dog knows it,
and will never attack them in or near a
stream. The ghost coon sank, taking his
.bn 076.png
.pn +1
enemy with him. In the foreign element
the cur, confused, strangled, and frightened,
loosed his hold, came to the surface and
struck out for the shore. But the tables
had turned, and the valiant old boar knew
it. Rising also, he received the grateful
rush of air into his strained lungs, and in
another moment he was on the back of his
opponent and forcing him under. Fastening
his teeth in the loose folds of skin at
the base of the skull he sank again, dragging
the cur down with him. The water
boiled like a caldron, and though a leg,
or even a shoulder at times appeared, no
head came into view. Soon the pool grew
quiet. Then, near the bank, a sharp muzzle
came up, slowly followed by the dripping
form of the victor. His den-tree
stood quite near the other end of the hollow,
and as he painfully began his march
towards it, leaving a trail of water and
.bn 077.png
.pn +1
blood behind him as he went, his body
swayed and his steps were uncertain. At
last he stood among the roots which he
knew so well, and with eyes which scarcely
saw, looked up the bare trunk which he
had been wont to climb with perfect ease.
Feebly he reared, and began the ascent.
Six feet from the ground he stopped, gently
let his head fall forward upon the bark,
quivered from end to end, and dropped to
the earth, dead.
.bn 078.png
.pn +1
.bn 079.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.nf c
<xl>THE SPOILER OF THE FOLDS</xl>
.nf-
.sp 4
.bn 080.png
.pn +1
.bn 081.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch04
THE SPOILER OF THE FOLDS
.sp 2
.dc 0.2 0.7
HIGH over the crest of Bald Knob
the storm clouds had gathered.
A dull, uncertain, ghostly light
lay upon the land, for the moon was at its
full, though hidden by the driving wrack.
Directly in the mouth of Devil’s Gorge,
where it debouched upon the low-lying
pastures of the hill-farmers, a gaunt figure
was standing. It was neither fox, nor
wild-cat, nor dog, for it was bigger than
any of these. In the fantastic shadows
which the wild night cast the figure seemed
monstrous, grisly. Its eyes burned with a
basilisk glare; its head was broad, with a
long, tapering muzzle; its shoulders were
strong, and its lean legs stood firmly upon
the earth. Moment by moment the storm
.bn 082.png
.pn +1
grew fiercer. It rushed among the great
trees on the knob-side, and tore the leaves
hissing from the tossing branches. A blinding
flash of lightning corkscrewed the
gloom, followed by a terrible peal of thunder.
Immediately there was a crash from
far up the slope. An oak tree had fallen
before the wind. The figure standing in
the mouth of Devil’s Gorge crouched as
under a blow, turned its head and glared
in the direction of the sound, then glided
out into the open with lowered muzzle and
drooping tail.

The gray wolf knew his mind and his
business well. Depending largely on guile
for success in his hunting, yet there were
times when wit and fleetness were of no
avail, and his great strength alone had won
him through. His ribbed sides bore many
a scar, black and hairless, where a dog’s
tooth had furrowed its way through his
.bn 083.png
.pn +1
hide. So, with added craft on account of
his many battles, he had come to skulk
more, holding meat won by stealth equally
as good as that fought for, and realizing
as he grew older that in time he would
be overcome. This was new territory he
was treading now; a virgin field wherein
he hoped to find rich harvest. Nor was
disappointment in store for him.

Guided by that precious instinct which
is the eternal heritage of all the wood-kind,
the spectre-like shape moved briskly across
some gullied foot-hills, climbing, slipping,
leaping, and crept through a brush-fence
just as the lowering clouds opened, and the
rain began to pour in driving torrents. As
the water beat upon his back and plastered
the hair to his lean sides, the old forager
began to move faster and with less desire
for concealment, for well he knew that
human beings would not dare thrust their
.bn 084.png
.pn +1
noses out on such a night. It was all
his own, and he could work his will unhampered.
Through coarse clumps of wire-grass
and stray patches of clover he went,
casting his sharp eyes neither to right nor
left, for he was fully aware that his gentle
prey would never wander around in an
open field on such a night as this. Near
a corner in the farther end of the pasture
rose a great black bulk; when the lightning
flashed the gray wolf could see it, and
something white at its base besides. It
was a straw rick, the result of last year’s
wheat harvest, and it afforded some protection
from the wrath of the elements.
Towards this the marauder went, relentlessly,
steadily. Some two rods from it he
stopped, crouched, and waited. Presently
a vivid glare lit up the drenched landscape,
and there, huddling in the lee of the rick,
was a flock of sheep, crowded together and
.bn 085.png
.pn +1
shivering from the wet. Dense darkness
followed the lightning’s flash, and under
its cover the robber drew nearer, nearer,
nearer. Now, through the gloom and the
sheets of rain he could make out the cowering
forms—for they had already scented
danger, though powerless to resist it. Closer
yet crept the shape of death, his empty
stomach dragging the ground so low had
his body sunk. The sheep pressed with
short, jerky movements against their straw
shelter, wild-eyed, helpless. They felt the
danger, but did not know how to combat
it. Then the climax came, as swiftly as a
bolt from the sky. A dim shape was projected
through the night; there was a bleat
choked short off and a wild scurry of feet
flying blindly from danger. One ewe alone
remained, prostrate upon the ground, while
at her soft throat keen fangs tore, and a
curved red tongue lapped up the warm
.bn 086.png
.pn +1
blood as it flowed. The gray wolf was
skilled in strategy. He knew that when
a sheep-dog turned traitor and began to
harry the flocks, he never went beyond the
throats of his victims, and took only one
a night. So the killer lay and drank the
rich life-current as it came; drank until
even his ravenous hunger was appeased.
Then gnawing tentatively at the draggled
wound he had made, he arose and turned
his besmeared visage towards the dark line
of knobs which was his hiding-place and
his home. A short time later, when the
summer storm was dying away in the east
and the thunder was but a growling echo,
a gaunt figure entered the mouth of Devil’s
Gorge and became engulfed in the black
shadows which hung over it.

Five hours later the sun came up into a
sky of purest blue. With it arose the hill-farmers,
strong from their long night’s rest
.bn 087.png
.pn +1
for the day of toil. One there was who
mounted his piebald saddle mare, with a
bucket balanced on his saddle-bow, and
went to salt his sheep. At the bars one
was missing; an unusual thing. He called
and called again, the cry which had never
failed to bring her before. But there was
no answer. Then the farmer urged his
horse forward and began the search.
Around the field he went, and at last drew
up at the straw rick. There lay the lost
one, dead. He dismounted and made an
examination. Her throat was woefully mangled
and torn, but there was no other hurt
upon her. “A sheep-dog’s gone wrong!”
was the man’s audible comment, as he
arose and mounted his horse again to
summon his fellow-farmers.

They came to the scene of the slaughter,
one and all, for sheep-raising was their
most paying industry, and sheep-murder
.bn 088.png
.pn +1
was a crime to which there was attached
one penalty and one only—death. The
ewe lay as the killer had left her, limbs
straight and stiffened, head back, and that
awful, damning wound in her white throat.
One by one they came and looked, those
rugged, gnarled, horny-handed hill-men.
One by one they shook their heads. “A
sheep-dog done it,” was the one remark;
“an’ be he mine, I’ll kill ’im myself!”
Then arose the question, how to detect
the culprit? Each dog had followed his
master and each was called up and examined,
but nothing was proven. Every
mouth was clean and fresh; there were no
clots of wool nor blood-stained noses. And
each man breathed a sigh of relief when
his favorite was exonerated, for “Love me,
love my dog” is never more exemplified
than in the sheep-raising districts, where,
with almost human intelligence, the four-footed
.bn 089.png
.pn +1
retainers care for the flocks entrusted
to their care. The meeting was
preparing to break up when some one discovered
a track in the rain-soaked ground.
It was fully four inches across, and the
claw to each toe was plainly marked. It
was useless to fit a dog’s foot to that colossal
track. Some strange animal had
assaulted the flock, and there was not a
heart but beat easier when they found this
out. For a farmer to kill his dog required
a sacrifice almost as great as that which
Abraham made when he prepared to offer
up Isaac.

So, amid wild conjectures and impossible
theories, the farmers dispersed. That
very night another flock was visited and
one taken from it. The raider left no clue.
He came, slew one sheep and drained its
blood, then went his way and the darkness
hid him. The farmers met again and held
.bn 090.png
.pn +1
council. It must be a dog, they said, for
it killed like a dog. Anything else would
do away with half a dozen sheep, or more.
But the meeting resulted in nothing, because
there was nothing to do except keep
a sharp lookout. The next night the same
thing happened, and the next, and the
next, and so on for a week. Always a
different flock, but always one sheep was
claimed, one only. Then it was the farmers
took to sitting up of nights and
gathering their flocks under shelter. This
invisible scourge bade fair to devastate
their folds, and strenuous action must
needs be taken. That first night of watching
one went to sleep at his post along
towards morning, and when the call of a
neighboring cock awakened him at sunrise,
it was to find one of his yearlings dead not
ten feet from him. The destroyer had
crept in while he slept and laughed at the
.bn 091.png
.pn +1
loaded gun across his knees, while proceeding
to feast on the choicest of his flock.
Then alarm changed to terror. What was
this dreadful thing which came at night
and which left no trace behind? No one
could answer, and the deeper the mystery
grew, the more the farmers quaked and
wondered.

But later, upon a night when the moon
was waning, another had seen a huge gray
object gliding towards the lot in which his
sheep were corralled. Then haste got the
better of judgment, and the man fired before
the marauder got within good range.
The result was only a handful of coarse
drab hair found upon the ground the next
morning. Then hounds were brought and
put upon the trail. They followed it,
mouthing, to the entrance of Devil’s
Gorge, and there lost the scent on the
boulders and the pebbly soil. But this
.bn 092.png
.pn +1
gave a clue to the men. Their enemy
dwelt somewhere within the gloomy recesses
of that mighty cleft in the hills. So
thither they came, night by night, and
watched the entrance of that dismal place.
But when they returned, unsuccessful, to
their homes in the morning, it was to discover
that one of their unguarded flocks
had been entered, and a member of it lifeless.
So dismay seized them, for it seemed
that they were helpless before the subtlety
of this mysterious assassin. Their nicest
plans were frustrated, and their schemes
brought to naught.

Then traps were laid, cunning devices of
wood, and pitfalls, screened with leaves
and dry limbs. Sometimes these were
found sprung, sometimes unmolested, but
sprung or set, they never claimed a prey.
Whatever it was that worried their sheep
seemed proof against all their wiles. Still
.bn 093.png
.pn +1
the nightly visits continued, and dead mutton
lay everywhere, and the buzzards darkened
the sky in their circling flight. It
was as though a plague had come upon the
land. Driven to desperation, the farmers
took their guns and fell to patrolling the
dark ravines, especially Devil’s Gorge,
whither it was surely known the destroyer
had at one time gone. They found nothing,
though day by day they went in numbers
and scoured the defiles of the knobs.
That for which they sought remained in
hiding, and came forth only when the generous
mantle of night covered his movements.

Among the many who had suffered from
the nocturnal prowler’s depredations was
one of sterner mould than his fellows. A
tall, bony-faced, austere man, who talked
little and thought much. And his thinking
led him to this. When, in the ceaseless
.bn 094.png
.pn +1
round of slaying, three of his sheep had
been taken, he mounted his horse one day
without a word to any one, and rode into
town. When he came back after nightfall,
he brought with him a huge steel trap,
big enough to hold a bear. The next
morning he arose while the stars were yet
shining, whistled his dog, and started on
foot to Devil’s Gorge, taking the trap with
him. The dog went in advance and after
him the man, struggling through the damp
hollow with his heavy burden over his
shoulder. Day dawned on the peaks above
them, and filtered faintly down into the
depths through which they toiled. Suddenly
the dog came rushing back to his
master, his bushy tail between his legs and
his whole body a-quiver from fright. The
man quickened his pace and pushed forward
grimly, drawing a large revolver from
his pocket at the same time. Rounding a
.bn 095.png
.pn +1
bend in the gorge, he came upon that
which had sent the shepherd dog cowering
back. Perched upon a large boulder was
a monstrous wolf, gray and grim in the
half light. Raising his arm the man fired,
but the wolf leaped just before the flash and
ran in the other direction. The man followed
as quickly as he could, and presently
saw the big form disappear in a hole up the
sloping side of the cliff. The entrance of
this den was worn as by the constant passing
of feet, and the man felt that he had
found the home of his enemy. So he set
his trap, right under the lip of the crevice,
cunningly hiding it with dead leaves and
the rubbish of the woods, and securing the
strong chain to the trunk of a dwarfed
black oak. The first step the monster
took on his next raid would make him a
prisoner; the steel gyves would hold him
fast until his foes came and killed him.
.bn 096.png
.pn +1

In the dead of night, when the moon
had climbed the towering peak of Bald
Knob, and the hill-farmers below kept silent
watch for the coming of the raider,
a face appeared in the cleft on the side of
Devil’s Gorge. There was the craft of a
lifetime in the burning eyes as they suspiciously
swept the ground immediately
in front of his den. There was nothing to
awaken distrust except the tumbled condition
of the earth, but the old wolf hesitated.
Then hunger, the one law which the wood-folk
know not how to disobey, drove him
out. He rested one foot gingerly upon a
bed of leaves, leant a little more weight to
it as he prepared to draw the other one forward,
and just then two bands of steel
arose up out of the ground and gripped
him nearly to the knee. With a deep
howl of wrath and terror the old warrior
fought for his freedom. Around and
.bn 097.png
.pn +1
around he tore, gnashing with impotent
teeth at that awful thing which held him
like a vise. For the space of an hour he
wrenched and struggled, then suddenly
realizing the futility of his efforts, he
crouched upon his belly to rest. It was
near morning when he accepted the last
resort, and began the heroic task of freeing
himself.

Before sunup, the man who had set the
trap came with exultation on his face, confident
of victory. He found the trampled
ground, the sprung trap, and fastened in it
the fore foot of a large wolf with part of
the leg, which had been gnawed in two
just below the knee. The spoiler of the
folds had baffled them to the end, but the
flocks were never more disturbed.
.bn 098.png
.pn +1
.bn 099.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.nf c
<xl>THE FIGHT ON THE TREE-BRIDGE</xl>
.nf-
.sp 4
.bn 100.png
.pn +1
.bn 101.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch05
THE FIGHT ON THE TREE-BRIDGE
.sp 2
.dc 0.2 0.7
THE forest lay black in the close
embrace of the odorous young
night. Soft, balsamic waves of air
rose strata above strata, stealing between
roughly corrugated boles and smooth
trunks, and the satin-soft stems of the
young saplings who had yet to win their
spurs as knights of the wood against the
mighty winds; permeating every dell and
dingle, every copse and tangled covert.
The nostrils which these air-waves touched
tingled with delight, and the lungs which
were bathed and invigorated by this life-giving
essence from nature’s laboratory expanded
with a conscious strength, and sent
.bn 102.png
.pn +1
the red blood bounding from them on its
ceaseless errand. The season was early
summer. Beneath the interlacing boughs
it was black—black as the night of
Egypt’s curse. A solid bank of gloom
which bore no outline and no shape. So
might it have been just before God uttered
his first command to things terrestrial.
Here and there a tree arose above its army
of fellows, and the delicate tracery of
spreading branch, and even of tapering
leaf, was etched upon the vastness overhead.
In the sky the faithful stars were
burning. Not the smallest speck of cloud
veiled their earnest faces, and the mellow
radiance which their united power shed fell
like a blessing upon the glad earth. But
the forest baffled the star rays—those
gentle messengers which came so timidly
upon their missions of light. The leaves
at the tops of the trees gleamed glossy and
.bn 103.png
.pn +1
green, but they were a numberless multitude
of shields to the solitude below.

The forest went off to the gullied hills
in one direction; in another it sloped
sharply down a bluff to the river, with
an accompaniment of running briers and
rotting, lichen-covered stumps and an occasional
fallen warrior of the wood which
some storm had overcome. The river was
not wide—a half-grown rabbit might
have swum it with ease had the water been
stagnant—but here it ran swift and deep
between its high, rock-bound banks. It
flowed silently, though, except for a low
purling where a drift had formed and a
sucking gurgle where a ledge let down
the bed.

This river was a source of much worry
and concern to the wood-people. All of
them could swim, some well and some
very badly, but more than one family
.bn 104.png
.pn +1
circle had been bereft by reason of the
treacherous stream, for in addition to the
velocity with which it wound its way
through the wood, shifting whirlpools
lurked within it, against which the strongest
swimmer’s power was as naught.
There was a second forest across the river,
not as large as the first, it is true, but still
wide enough to shelter many a tiny
dweller, as well as give him food. So
when friend wanted to visit friend, or
cousin to call upon cousin, there was this
black, whispering barrier stretching between,
mocking them with its insinuating
murmurs, and seeking to lure them to its
faithless and fatal bosom with low cooings
and shining, siren arms. And on certain
moonlit nights in spring there had been
those who heard the mating call wafted
through the stillness. Coming in answer,
they had suddenly found themselves standing
.bn 105.png
.pn +1
on the brink of that taunting river,
while from the other shore the cry would
come again, tender and appealing. Then
hot blood and the madness of the season
would have their way, and the young
buck, belong to what family he may,
would put discretion behind him and glide
out into the stream with the echo of his
mistress’ call as a beacon and a guide.
On rare occasions one would make the
passage safely. More often, as he battled
with the current, snaky fingers would
shoot up from beneath and grip him, whirl
him around and around in maddening
circles, and finally drag him down with a
hiss of victory, and his lifeless carcass
might have been seen afloat the next day,
miles away.

All this was before the great storm.
After that had come and gone things were
different with the forest-people.
.bn 106.png
.pn +1

It was at the close of a day in mid-summer.
For weeks there had been no
rain. Day after day the sun had come
up, had scorched and burned and seared,
and had gone down. The leaves curled
upon the trees; the grass blades became
brittle; the rabbit runs were so hot at
midday that they hurt the pads of the
cottontails, and they lay panting in their
burrows, waiting for night. Then it was
that the wood-people blessed the river, for
there was no water anywhere else. The
river sank foot by foot, leaving cracked,
baked stretches of yellow clay as it receded.
Still it ran doggedly, and breathed defiance.
It would take more than one dry
summer to rob it of its terror and strength.
At last there came a day which was born
with portents of some awful thing to come.
The sun rose hazy, like a ball of blood.
The air, which had been hot, became
.bn 107.png
.pn +1
stifling. It pressed on the chest and
burned in the throat. The chipmunks and
the squirrels sought their nests wildly; the
birds went deeper into the forest. By
noon all of the little people who had a
home were in it. But so far nothing had
happened. Mid-afternoon a growl of wrath
came from the west, and a long, leaden
band pushed its edge over the horizon.
A terrible silence hung over the forest;
the unnatural calm which precedes some
great calamity. Then a chill breath stirred
the upper leaves, followed by gusts of wind
almost icy. Night came long before its
time, and the sky which for weeks had
been a shining surface of blinding light became
a seething, tossing caldron of billowy
clouds and murky vapors, and threading
through all the tumbled mass was a vivid
network of flame. The chariots of the
storm came thundering down the slopes of
.bn 108.png
.pn +1
the sky, and the forest shivered, and bent,
and tossed its thousands of arms in agony.
Thick limbs were rent from writhing,
groaning bodies, and cast furiously down.
Some veteran giants, weakened by the natural
decay of years, mingled their death-cry
with the hoarse bellow of the destroying
wind and fell crashing and quivering
to the earth. Then came rain, and a cessation
of the demoniac fury.

It was a night which the wood-dwellers
never forgot. Birds were killed by the
dozens, and the lives of many of the four-footed
kind were given up as well. The
secret trails were obliterated and blocked,
and the runways of the weasel and the rabbit
became a trackless wilderness.

Long before the sun arose the next
morning, an old raccoon cautiously poked
his black nose out of a hole in a maple
tree, near the first fork. This raccoon was
.bn 109.png
.pn +1
the oldest and the wiliest of the wood-folk
that lived in the forest. An old boar coon
was he, and many years had passed over
his wise little head. Once before, in his
youth, such a storm as this had swept over
the forest. His mother had him out teaching
him how to stalk ground sparrows, and
the storm came so suddenly that they had
no time to reach home, so had taken shelter
under a shelving rock on the bluff by the
river. He had weathered that storm successfully,
and in later years had paid scant
heed to nature’s bursts of anger. A raccoon,
of all things, was surely smart
enough to keep out of the way of a falling
limb. The whiskers about the muzzle of
the old coon were gray; his eyes were
black and beady, and some wonderment
was expressed in them as he rolled them
around on the once familiar scene. He
had not slept the night before, for his
.bn 110.png
.pn +1
house had shook and creaked its warnings
hour after hour, and the hungry voice of
the wind had howled down at him from
the hole above his head. Everything was
changed outside. A neighbor tree lay
prostrate at the foot of his own; a broken
limb sagged at the side of his door, and
everywhere was disorder and destruction.
A trifle dazed by it all in spite of his superior
wisdom, the old fellow slid back into
his den and fell to crunching the bones of
a chicken he had captured two nights
before.

Though the storm had hopelessly tangled
the secret ways which had been nosed
out and trodden with so much care, and
had been the death of many of their kind,
yet it had brought its blessing, too, in that
it had conquered for the people of the wild
their enemy, the river. It was in this way.

At a certain point on the southern bank
.bn 111.png
.pn +1
of the river an old elm tree grew, quite
near the edge of the water. The bank had
crumbled and the tree had leaned, until at
length its top hung almost over the center
of the stream. Nothing but its great roots
twined about hidden rocks kept it from falling.
Directly across from the elm, close
to the shore on the other bank, an ancient
sycamore had stood, leaning very slightly
towards the river. Now when the storm
came down from the north the sycamore’s
roots gave way and it swayed and fell, its
top, by some strange freak, lodging in the
fork of the elm, and the force of its fall
wedged it in firmly and snugly. And
behold! here was a bridge for the feet of
the wood-folk, and they could pass high and
dry and laugh down at their baffled foe.

There was but one passageway for the
many members of the many tribes, and
naturally trouble arose sometimes, and
.bn 112.png
.pn +1
there were nights when the river smiled
placidly and opened its arms and waited.
Sometimes one victim came; sometimes
two, for the bridge became the scene of
many a midnight tragedy and moonlighted
fray, and in the end it was the river which
was the victor, after all. It did not have
to seek its prey. It simply waited, and
took its tribute very much as of old,
though in a different manner.

So the years went by. Mates were
chosen; families were born; battles were
fought. The strong devoured the weak,
much as the human folks do in another
way. The old raccoon still lived in his
maple. Though others of his kind often
harbored by threes, fours, or even sixes in
a single tree, this aristocrat was not sociable,
and preferred a hermit existence except
once a year, when the sap of spring
renewed his youth and sent him a-courting.
.bn 113.png
.pn +1
Then a sleek, mild-eyed little mate
would come and keep house for him until
the children were old enough to hear a dog
running half a mile away. Then quite abruptly,
upon the return of mother and offspring
some day, they would be met by a
white-fanged visage and ordered to go elsewhere
for a bed.

The forest was the abode of little people.
Nothing larger than the raccoon found a
home there. He was practically lord of
the demesne, partly because of his age and
sagacity, partly because of his might as
a warrior. His record was three dogs
whipped in single fight. He did not fear
any dog so long as the men did not come
poking around with their blinding lanterns
and their guns. And it might be told, further,
that when he set foot upon one end of
the tree-bridge, he usually went to the
other end.
.bn 114.png
.pn +1

In a field at the edge of the smaller forest
was a negro cabin, where lived the
black people with a horde of tattered children
and two dogs. One was a shepherd;
gentle, calm-eyed, intelligent. The other
was a coon-dog; little, muscular, aggressive.
A coon-dog is as distinctive a breed
as is the collie or the spaniel. It is true
he is an ignoble mixture of many, but it
takes the certain and correct blending of
various strains to make a coon-dog. He
must have the nose of a pointer, the speed
of a greyhound, the strength of a mastiff,
and the stubbornness of a bull-dog. The
model coon-dog is low, short, and heavy-set;
his back and sides are nearly black,
and his throat, belly, and feet are a reddish
brown. Such was the dog which hung
about the negro cabin till hunger sent him
nosing along the floor of the forest. He
had trailed coons long enough to know
.bn 115.png
.pn +1
that they never touch earth in the day,
and that the scent is freshest in the early
part of the night, just after a light rain.
So that night in spring when the soft, balsamic
odors rose strata above strata, the
coon-dog, impelled by the pain in his
stomach, which was like a hundred tearing
claws, set off at a smart trot through the
sassafras bushes and the dewberry vines,
heading for the smaller forest on the
southern side of the river. His keen nostrils
revealed a trail before he had gone a
dozen yards in the wood, and with a low
whine he followed it with amazing swiftness
and accuracy. In and out it led, and
the smell which the traitor feet had left
grew stronger. Almost the dog gave
tongue, so close he knew his quarry must
be, when he stopped, confused, with his
fore feet resting on the slanting trunk of a
tree. He had come to the bridge of the forest-people,
.bn 116.png
.pn +1
and the hot trail led up the incline
before him. Off in the shadows near
to one side something called—a sharp,
barking cry. The dog cocked his ears and
jerked his head around, but quickly decided
that he had nothing to do with
whatever it was that had temporarily engaged
his attention, and again turned to
the bridge, restless and eager. He had
never attempted its passage, but its surface
was broad and the bark rough, and hunger
is a stern master. Quickly he squatted
and leaped, thrust out his claws so that
they caught and held, and in another moment
he was creeping warily up the tree
with the scent still warm beneath his guiding
nostrils.

But other ears had heard that low mating
call which the dog had ignored. The
old boar coon of the maple tree, driven by
loneliness and the magic of the season, was
.bn 117.png
.pn +1
ambling in his humpbacked, awkward way
along a narrow path curving down the
bluff on the northern side of the river, bent
on securing a bride for perhaps the twentieth
time. He stopped and listened
alertly at the Circe-sound, then moved
swiftly towards the tree-bridge to respond
in person. With remarkable agility for
his years he gained a footing on the sycamore
trunk, showing his teeth with a low
growl of displeasure as the strong odor of
opossum told him that one had just passed
that way. A few feet further on his ears
detected a scratching sound on the other
end of the bridge. Some impudent cousin
had dared to risk his anger—for was not
this his bridge when he chose to set his
royal foot upon it? He would make him
give way and retreat, or cast him off, for
he had done the like before. On up the
ghostly white trunk of the fallen sycamore
.bn 118.png
.pn +1
he glided, his fur rising in wrath as the
scratching beyond grew louder and louder
and came closer and closer. Gaining the
apex of the bridge first, the raccoon thrust
his black muzzle over the fork where the
two trees touched, and not five feet away
came the coon-dog, timorously but steadily.
The ring-tailed warrior did not attempt
to choke the fierce snarl which
rasped between his white fangs. What
was this upon his bridge! A four-footed
thing which disgraced his shape by living
with and serving the human-people—a
dog!

.if h
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“What was this upon his bridge!”
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[Illustration: “What was this upon his bridge!”]
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The intruder stopped, sank on his belly,
and gave back a savage growl—his gage
of battle. Below the river dimpled in the
starlight and murmured joyfully along the
shores. Carefully the dog inched forward,
his mouth open, his upper lip curled back.
The coon waited, his beady eyes watching
.bn 119.png
.pn +1
.bn 120.png
.pn +1
.bn 121.png
.pn +1
the play of every muscle in the form of his
antagonist, and the curving claws on all
four feet shot out to their fullest length.
These were his main defence; his teeth
were secondary. Both animals were at a
disadvantage. The dog was out of his element,
and his footing was very precarious.
On the other hand the coon, while perfectly
at home, never waged his battles in
a tree. When he fought it was lying flat
on his back on the ground. But the guile
of many years was in his sly old brain, and
where the trees locked was a little hollow
safely bulwarked by the peculiar way in
which the branches had entwined. As the
dog leaped at his throat he threw himself
on his back and struck out with all four
feet at once. But the starved alien knew
his business well. Ignoring the stinging
rents which the hind claws made, he bore
the fore legs down with the force of his
.bn 122.png
.pn +1
fall, and his jaws gained the coveted hold
without which no coon can be conquered.
But that was not all the battle. Fiercely
the old boar wrestled, ripping the body of
his foe with lightning-like movements of
his strong legs, gnashing his teeth in a vain
effort to use them, and struggling for
breath. The dog bore his awful punishment
like a martyr, lying as closely as he
could so as to impede the other’s movements,
but never uttering a cry of pain and
wrenching and tugging at the furry throat
over which his jaws had closed. In the intensity
of their joint efforts neither had a
thought of caution. Presently the raccoon
was out of the hollow where he had
lain to receive the attack; there was a slip,
a scuffle, and through twenty feet of space
two writhing bodies, locked so closely as
to seem almost one, fell with a loud splash
into the liquid depths below. And so the
.bn 123.png
.pn +1
river received them both, and a whirlpool
sucked them down.

Now the bark on the tree-bridge is almost
worn away from the constant passing
of little feet, which before had been
afraid.
.bn 124.png
.pn +1
.bn 125.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
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<xl>THE GUARDIAN OF THE FLOCK</xl>
.nf-
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.pn +1
.bn 127.png
.pn +1
.pb
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.h2 id=ch06
THE GUARDIAN OF THE FLOCK
.sp 2
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IN a ravine where men seldom placed
their feet, a rod or more up a rocky,
bushy hillside, in a hole almost concealed
by an overhanging dewberry bush,
lay a dog. A big dog. His head, huge,
disfigured, terrible, rested upon the earth
between his paws, and the lids had fallen
over the fierce eyes, which glowed with
changing lights when open. The big dog
was asleep. His back-bone was a succession
of knots, with small depressions between.
It terminated in a tawny stump,
perhaps six inches long, which stood for a
tail. The bones above his hips jutted
out like door-knobs; his flanks were sunk
in cavernously, and palpitated with each
.bn 128.png
.pn +1
sharply indrawn breath. There were scars
on the ribbed body; old scars which had
healed bare and blackly; others where the
aggrieved flesh was beginning to join, and
still others which showed raw and red—almost
dripping, and about these tiny gnats
had gathered and sat in rows at their feast,
while their colorless bodies quickly took on
a crimson shade. A large green fly boomed
into the hole in the hill, zigzagged about over
the recumbent form, and then plumped his
spiked feet down in one of the rawest of
the wounds. A convulsive shiver passed
over the side of the dog and the green fly
lost his foothold; but, not to be cheated
out of his meal, he returned more cautiously,
and, standing among the scant,
scrubby hair at the edge of the moist fissure
he stretched out his neck and thrust
out his tongue. The muscles along the
bruised side moved again, but more slightly,
.bn 129.png
.pn +1
and the fly and the gnats ate and drank
their fill.

The dog’s high shoulder-blades seemed
ready to burst through their covering;
there was a deep hollow between them.
The neck was short, thick, bull-like. One
ear was bleeding—the other was gone,
and a tangled mass of gnarled flesh marked
where it had been. About the grim muzzle
were some patches of sheep wool, draggled
and red.

The dog had been out nearly all night,
and it was now early morning. He had
travelled many miles since the sun had set
the day before; ranging back and forth,
skulking, hiding, waiting. Before he returned
to his hiding-place he had battened
on blood and fought a battle.

The dog had no name, no lineage, no
friends, no home. He was simply the dog.
He bore within him the strains of a badly
.bn 130.png
.pn +1
mixed ancestry, and had been hated and
cuffed since puppyhood. Hanging to the
outskirts of a straying gypsy band, he had
come to the neighborhood where he now
abode. A farmer whose flocks were beginning
to multiply swiftly saw the uncouth,
bony frame and the defiant face,
and thought that here was a fitting guardian
for his ewes and lambs. He bought
him for a fifty-cent piece and set him to
watch over his sheep. But there came a
night when the farmer’s allowance of food
did not satisfy him; when the hard bread
and cold stuff flung to him only whetted
his appetite. That night he trotted to his
post with guile in his heart. But hour
after hour he held himself in check, though
at times almost rubbing shoulders with his
fleece-covered charges. It was past the
turning of night, and his stomach was
empty, and hurting him. The master was
.bn 131.png
.pn +1
asleep; the night was so still; he was
hungry, hungry, and had never known a
law! All around him sleeping patches of
white dotted the grass. He was lying
down, too, but his red-green eyes were
wide, for he was the guardian of the flock.
There is a point that marks the limit of
endurance. Directly the dog arose, swiftly,
silently, stood rigid for the briefest space
of time, then launched himself at the soft
throat of a half-grown lamb. A stifled
bleat; a struggle which ended with its inception,
and the traitor lay upon his belly
and lapped the warm blood and worried
at the tender neck of his victim. That
was the first. When the farmer came out
before sunup the next morning, he found
the mangled bodies of five of his lambs
that had been born that spring, and he
whom he had placed to watch over them
gone.
.bn 132.png
.pn +1

In this way was the dog accursed and
outlawed, and the heart of every person
and thing was set against him.

He, for his part, fostered hate by day
and wreaked it by night. Every step he
took was fraught with danger. Men were
against him, and men’s dogs were against
him. He soon learned that the men carried
long sticks that spat flame, and at one
time when the fire jumped out, and the
stick was pointed towards him, he felt a
sharp pain in the fleshy part of his thigh,
and blood ran down his leg. Then he
grew more cautious, and ventured out only
at night, when he had to smell and feel his
way. He could baffle the men in the
night, and his own blood-kind were a little
slow in chasing him. But they had fallen
upon him once unexpectedly, and he was a
sorry sight when he at last broke from
them and escaped to cover. His wounds
.bn 133.png
.pn +1
upon that occasion were long in healing,
for there is venom in a dog fang. He was
sick for many days, and ate nothing but
certain herbs which instinct told him would
counteract the poison in his system. He
grew well after a long period of pain and
weakness, and upon his next raid he came
too near the house and had one of his ears
shot off by a farmer’s boy. That night he
crept back without his spoil, staggering up
the ravine with a red trail behind him.
He scratched away the dirt on one side
of his den, and laid his wounded head on
the cool, black earth. This made the blood
to clot, and to finally stop running, but the
dog was so weak that he lay over on his side,
catching his breath in jerks. Thereafter
he fasted many days, because of his spent
strength, but at last he essayed to crawl to
the back of his hole and feebly excavate
some provender which he had hidden
.bn 134.png
.pn +1
against this very day a fortnight ago. When
he had eaten, new energy began to diffuse
itself through his worn body, and once
more he grew well, but more ugly than
ever, and in his heart was nothing but vindictive
hate, and treachery, and craft. He
was an outcast, hunted by every living
thing that was big enough to harass and
kill. He had skulked and run all his life.
Now things would change. He would
turn hunter, and harry and slay until they
made an end of him.

The big green fly, forgetting caution in
his hungry zeal, probed his lance-like tongue
a little too deep in the sensitive flesh. The
dog awoke and snapped viciously at his
tormentor, but the pop-eyes of the fly saw
the movement, and he escaped the cavernous
jaws projected towards him. The dog
fell to licking his new wounds. Between
the hours of twelve and four of the past
.bn 135.png
.pn +1
night he had sallied forth, and found the
flock in a pen near the barn, unguarded, as
he thought. To bring one down was play.
He gorged himself on the blood and was
turning to another victim, when a form
larger than his own leaped at his throat
from the shadows. The dog wheeled, and
the fangs of the attacker closed in his side.
For a while they wrestled silently, save for
deep-throated snarls. Then of a sudden
the dog broke away, leaped from the pen,
and ran. The wolf-hound attempted to
follow, but his feet slipped on the blood-soaked
ground as he made his jump, his
breast struck the top rail of the pen and
he fell back, and did not make the effort
again. The dog sought his den, resentful,
sore, desperate. That night he slept from
weariness; in the early morning the green
fly woke him. In his round, ugly, disfigured
head was born the thought that he
.bn 136.png
.pn +1
would turn hunter now, and wreak vengeance
on his persecutors.

Throughout the day he lay still and
rested, licking his sores at intervals, and
dozing from time to time. When the
black night came he arose, stretched himself
and yawned hugely, shook his big body
vigorously and stalked forth with the fell
intent in his heart to kill—kill—kill!

With his keen nostrils set to catch every
odor the breeze might bring; his one
macerated ear cocked for the slightest
sound, he trotted down the ravine and
soon emerged into the open country. He
had come to know the neighborhood
well. Who sat up late; who kept close
watch; who slumbered careless of his
stock. Past houses where lights burned
in the windows, making detours to avoid
possible detection, crouching low on his
haunches when he heard footsteps,—the
.bn 137.png
.pn +1
dog pursued his way through the night.
Mile after mile, over fences and ditches,
through the corn, along the roadside when
it ran parallel with his purpose. At last he
passed the boundary which had marked all
of his wanderings heretofore, and as he
entered this unexplored territory he moved
more freely and with less caution. His
trained muzzle scented a familiar smell.
Through a rail fence he dragged himself,
scratching his torn side cruelly on a splinter
as he did so, then started down a hill-slope
briskly. Soon he found them, alone,
sleeping, helpless. One by one he pulled
them down. As each fell, the survivors
would huddle closer together, dazed and
afraid. First the lambs, then the ewes,
then the bucks. The blood-lust grew in
the dog’s savage heart with each fresh massacre.
The first four had sated his appetite
and filled his maw to repletion, but his
.bn 138.png
.pn +1
mission was to kill without mercy. His
strong jaws snapped out their lives one by
one, and the bell-wether went last. He
was old, and had seen killers at work before.
He had always kept well in the background
until the bloodthirsty invader had got his
fill, and gone away. To-night he had
stayed on the further side of the flock,
expecting the killer to leave after each
victim. But he did not leave, and kept
drawing nearer to him instead. The end
of it was that the bell-wether ran, but there
was something that ran faster than his
shadow—something that pounced heavily
upon his back—and then it was all over;
the butchery was done.

Back over the path which he had come
went the murderer. His chops were gory,
his shoulders and fore legs were bloody,
his whole body was streaked and splashed
with the telltale red. But he did not care.
.bn 139.png
.pn +1
Everything was against him, he was against
everything. There would be no backsliding
nor capitulation until death closed the
scene. Back over the path which he had
come he went—a fearful figure, big, deformed
with wounds, drunken with blood.
He held to the highway now so long as it
did not run out of his course, for he was
possessed of a reckless bravery which took
into account neither friend nor foe. It was
the still hour of the night. The hour when
life ebbs lowest in the hearts of those who
sleep; the hour just before the roosters
smell the coming day and awake to give
the alarm. He met nothing, nothing opposed
him. Just when the darkness began
to quiver before the bare hint of encroaching
light the dog felt, rather than saw, some
object moving awkwardly in the road before
him. It was not large, and lay close
to earth. The pads of his feet bore him
.bn 140.png
.pn +1
noiselessly forward. The terrible jaws
opened, snapped, the head was flung contemptuously
to one side, there was a thud,
and a dead opossum lay in a patch of
huckleberry bushes by the old rock fence.
In a hollow tree in the woods, not far away,
some little opossums lay piled upon each
other, asleep. The mother’s supply of
milk had run low, and she had started in
quest of food. The youngsters would sleep
until hunger wakened them, and then
life’s tragedy would soon be over.

The dog quickened his pace, because
daylight abroad meant death for him.
Through the dim first-light of the coming
day he ran, easily. It is true he had
covered many miles that night, but his
stomach was full of the rich, hot life-blood
he had drained from palpitating throats,
and new strength had been imparted to
him. Misty cobwebs hung about his head
.bn 141.png
.pn +1
like a veil, gathered from his passage through
the bushes and underbrush. His tongue
lolled, dripping, from his deadly jaws. In
this way he came to the ravine just as the
gray dawn was beginning to be silvered by
the rising sun.

Across the hollow from his den, on the
opposite slope, where some hickorynut
trees were growing, a silent figure stood
with a gun in its hands. A half-grown
boy had come out after squirrels, knowing
that the bushy-tailed, active little creatures
sought their breakfast just before sunup,
when the air was fresh and moist from the
night dews. He had stood still for a long
time, as one must who hunts squirrels, and
presently his eyes were drawn by something
moving on the opposite side of the
hollow. He looked and saw a large, dark-brown
shape disappear, as it were, into the
earth. The boy rubbed his eyes and
.bn 142.png
.pn +1
looked again, and then he discovered the
orifice under the dewberry bush. He had
found the hiding-place of the scourge! A
squirrel barked in a tree not ten feet away,
and scampered about on a limb in plain
view. The boy did not shoot. He tucked
the gun under his arm instead and walked
on his toes for a quarter of a mile, then he
broke into a run, and arrived at home
breathless a few minutes later.

The dog, with a full stomach and a contented
mind, was sleeping. He had lain
down with his wounded side next to earth,
so that the flies could not annoy him.
But into his dreams of slaughter and feasting
crept some disturbing force. Something
insistent, alarming, if intangible and
vague. So strong was it that the dog
grudgingly opened his eyes a tiny slit, and
almost at the same time his ear cocked up,
the end of it hanging limply, because it
.bn 143.png
.pn +1
had been bitten through at some former
encounter. The eyes opened wider, and
rolled craftily towards the mouth of the
lair. A second more, and the big, round
head was raised quickly. There was a
sudden stiffening throughout the strong,
rugged frame, and the dog arose to his feet
and stole forward. He crouched low, and
peered out expectantly. Directly beneath
him was a mixed crowd of men and dogs.
All of the men carried those sticks which
he had learned to dread; they were all
looking towards his refuge, and some were
pointing. It had come at last. He had
tarried too long at his killing, and somehow
the daylight had betrayed him. But
not a tremor of fear passed over the dog.
He merely sank to the earth, and watched.

A succession of sharp clicks came to
his ear; the men swung their sticks forward
and started up the slope in a body,
.bn 144.png
.pn +1
calling the dogs with them. About half
way up the hill they halted. One picked
up a stone and flung it towards the hole in
the hill. One of the dogs detached himself
from the others and sped after it. He was
a coon-dog, small and venturesome. He
poked his head under the dewberry bush
inquisitively. The sunlight outside was
still in his eyes, and he thrust part of his
body in, too, catching a scent which warranted
investigation. The move was fatal.
Like a bolt of lightning some curved fangs
tore his throat open, and without a sound
and with scarcely a struggle the coon-dog
rolled back down the slope, dead at the
feet of his master. Above, the dog licked
his chops, and waited. The men tried to
urge the wolf-hound forward, but he slunk
back, afraid. Among those of his own
blood-kind who had come forth to take the
outcast was a half-breed—part bull, part
.bn 145.png
.pn +1
mastiff. He was a powerful fellow, and
sullen looking. His owner took him by
the collar and led him up the hill a few
feet, then spoke to him and pointed towards
the hole. The half-breed seemed to understand,
for his hackles rose bristling, and he
advanced slowly and warily. Just in front
of the overhanging bush he stopped, thrust
his head forward, and stood as a setter
stands when he holds a flock of birds. The
dog inside arose, and made ready for the
attack. It came speedily. Without sound
or warning the half-breed leaped, and they
closed. The dog had sprung forward to
meet his foe, and in the fearful struggle
that ensued they both appeared on the hill-side,
full in the open. Urged on by the
voices of the men the other dogs closed in
too, and the tawny shape of the outcast
became the centre of a whirling vortex of
animal fury. Down the slope they all
.bn 146.png
.pn +1
rolled together, the men cheering on their
allies, and trying to find an opportunity to
use their weapons. Down, down to the
little stream that ran through the ravine
the battle went, the half-breed never losing
the throat-hold which he took at the first
leap. There, on the bank of the rivulet,
the tragedy was played.

The men said they had never seen such
a fight.
.bn 147.png
.pn +1
.pb
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.nf c
<xl>THE KING OF THE NORTHERN SLOPE</xl>
.nf-
.sp 4
.bn 148.png
.pn +1
.bn 149.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch07
THE KING OF THE NORTHERN SLOPE
.sp 2
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ALONG a path which a man’s eye
could not have seen, but which, even
at night, was visible to the kind that
dwell in the hills, a long, lithe object
passed swiftly and without noise. It was
down a knob-slope, in a diagonal course,
the object came, and the night was only
star-bright, for the moon was late in coming.
This quiet figure, which glided serpent-like
on its way, was about three feet
in length; its slender, round body was
covered with short, thick hair, drab and
mottled brown in color, and had only a
stump of a tail about three inches long.
The head was bullet-round, the short,
.bn 150.png
.pn +1
stubby ears pricked and alert, and the nose
muscles distended and twitched with every
cautious step. The padded feet of this
night rambler were almost as noiseless as
the star rays’ fall. Scarcely a leaf was
overturned, scarcely a dead twig snapped.
His body, curving sinuously, would not
have brushed an ant from the stem of a
sapling. The King of the Northern Slope
was hungry, and his present errand was
to the sheepfold or pigsty of the nearest
farmer.

He was the biggest wild-cat in that part
of the country, and his reign on the northern
slope was respected and acknowledged
by all the four-footed things that harbored
and hunted in the hills. The mountains
far eastward had dwindled away here to a
chain of knobs, bisecting the country from
east to west. Miniature mountains they
were, indeed; wooded, rocky, untillable,
.bn 151.png
.pn +1
and lonely. Wild-cats, foxes, and the
smaller gentry of the forest, squirrels, raccoons,
and opossums, lived and throve
upon this chain of knobs. But gradually
those that had lived on the northern slope
went over the crest to the other side, and
left the field to the undisputed possession
of the big cat, who did not care to have
his preserves poached upon by the rag-tags
and bob-tails of creation. Once a year he
would go questing for a mate, boldly invading
the southern side of the range, and
not coming back until he had found the
lady of his choice. Then after a while a
brood of whelps would be born in the secret
lair of the King, and when these were
scarcely able to fall about the floor of their
birthplace in play, and bite at each other’s
sawed-off tails, the King would, one fine
day, hustle them and their mother, his
erstwhile bride, out of his home and over
.bn 152.png
.pn +1
the crest of the range, to fare good or ill,
as luck would send. At least this was the
story that the human-people told, and this
much goes to support the tale, that,
whereas those farmers living beyond the
line of knobs to the southward lost but
few hogs from nocturnal depredations,
those living to the north were in nightly
fear that morning would show a trail of
blood from barnyard or pen. And the
men-people had sat together night after
night in council, with heads bobbing and
tongues wagging, trying to evolve a plan
whereby to capture or destroy this scourge
of their fields and pastures. But they had
failed. The truest nosed hounds of the
various packs scattered around could not
keep his trail, but would lose the scent and
return crest-fallen and shame-faced. He
was never seen within gunshot, and they
could not find his lair. But one thing
.bn 153.png
.pn +1
they knew—that nothing else ran at
night on the northern slope.

Picking his way as daintily as a satin-shod
miss tips across a dirty street from carriage
door to house door, the King pursued
his diagonal course, which would eventually
bring him to a field adjoining the
garden of a farm-house. He had but little
more than half completed his journey,
when to his quick ears came a sharp snap,
and something struck him sharply on the
back just behind his shoulders. He bared
his teeth with a low growl of wrath, and
smote back blindly with one paw, which
was rimmed with five curving claws unsheathed
with lightning swiftness. At the
same time there came the sound of huge
wings beating the air to bear a heavy body
up, and a hoot owl laboriously made his
way through the trees, his perch, a dead
limb, having at last broken beneath his
.bn 154.png
.pn +1
weight. Low on the ground two fiery
eyes glared up in savage hate; then the
long, white claws slowly drew back out of
sight and the cushioned feet moved on
again.

It had been a hard and long winter for
the King, and the spring had been slow in
coming. There had been days when he
could not leave his den; when the leaden
clouds had unburdened themselves for
hours at a time, and the snow had piled
up, up, up over the very door of his home,
and all familiar landmarks were obliterated.
Then he must needs chafe inside his hiding-place,
and when hunger seized him the
cold nipped him the harder, and it was a
bitter battle to keep them both off. But
his fur had grown heavy and thick, and he
could curl up and sleep and forget that
hunger was gnawing within him. He had
lived through too many winters and seen
.bn 155.png
.pn +1
too many snows to venture out. For
tracks can be seen by the men-people, and
then it would be all over with him, for
they would come and smoke him out.
Once before, when he was younger, his life
had been thus jeopardized, and it was only
by finding another exit far off from the
one where his enemies sat waiting that he
escaped. The winter just passed had seen
his endurance tested to the utmost. Tortured
by starvation, he had at last determined
to scout around on the top of the
knob, when the half-covered entrance to
his den was darkened and a striped-tail
raccoon came ambling in. One swift blow
and then the King feasted royally, although
his victim was old and bony and
had but little blood in his carcass. But
this stayed his craving maw for a few days
longer, and then he crunched the dry bones
and licked the snow in lieu of water and
.bn 156.png
.pn +1
waited for a thaw. It came at last, and
the prisoned King sat just within his door
and watched the snow disappear with
gloating eyes. But even then there was
danger in every step he took, for the
soaked ground caught and held the scent
of his tracks, and there were ever roaming
the hills in search of him those lop-eared,
thin-flanked, tireless hounds, the only four-footed
things in all his kingdom that he
feared. And they never came alone to do
him fair battle, but always in overpowering
numbers with hereditary hate in their
hearts. And so it was incumbent upon
him to employ flight and wily woodcraft
when dealing with these arch-enemies, and
such had been his cunning that he had always
fooled them and shaken them from
his tracks ere he crept tired, yet victorious,
into his hidden chamber to rest.

The phantom-like figure trailing its way
.bn 157.png
.pn +1
down the knob-slope reached the timberline
without let or hindrance save the single
exception which we have seen. His back
was still beset by occasional sharp pains
where the limb had struck, and this fact
did not heighten the quality of mercy in
his heart, if, indeed, such a thing abode
there. He halted for a moment on the
edge of the cleared ground before trusting
himself to the open, and looked and listened
with painful intentness; then a
slender red tongue leaped from his mouth
and swept his chops hungrily, for a peculiar
odor was wafted to his nostrils across the
field—it came from the backs of a bunch
of sleeping shotes in a far-off corner of the
barnyard. Discretion immediately gave
place to the unsatisfied hunger of many
days and the insatiable lust for blood.
With swift bounds the King advanced
across the field, which had been sown in
.bn 158.png
.pn +1
wheat the fall before, and was now totally
bare of vegetation. He reached the rail
fence enclosing the garden and skirted it
warily, every nerve keyed to its highest
tension, for not a hundred feet away were
the pack, sleeping the light dog-sleep under
and about the house of their master,
and they had been taught from puppyhood—nay,
for generations even—to
rouse and give chase at the wild-cat smell.
The King knew this, but he had dared
the same thing before, and carried off a
prize while the guardians of the flock
slept. The mottled shape moved on with
soundless steps, and in the shadow of
the barn it stopped. But it was only to
glance about to see that everything was
still, and that none of his blood-enemies
had scented him in their slumbers. Again
he moved forward—to stop rigidly. A
fat fowl was roosting on the top of a stake
.bn 159.png
.pn +1
in the fence-corner three feet from him.
This was more delicate than hog meat, but
there was less of it, and the marauder was
half starved—he felt that he could have
eaten a full-grown ox, and then slept peacefully.
So the big rooster dreamed on, not
knowing how narrowly he had escaped, and
the sly cat resumed his creeping journey.
His trained and faultless nostrils had already
located the exact whereabouts of his
prey, and in a few moments he was as close
as he dared to go before the final move.

The fence was high and the rails were
placed too closely for even his sleek body
to squeeze through a crack. He could see
the half-grown shotes in the corner, sleeping
huddled together. They were very
still. At times one would flick an ear;
another would give a spasmodic kick at
some tormenting flea, and a third would
“Ugh! Ugh!” drowsily, and relapse into
.bn 160.png
.pn +1
unconsciousness. It was easy game for an
old hunter—and how juicy their sides
looked in the starlight! But the King
had hoped for a crack through which to
crawl. True, it would be no effort for
him to scale the highest fence ever built,
but top rails have a way of falling off with
a terrible clatter, and sometimes, if the
spoil be very heavy, it is not such an easy
matter to get back over the fence to freedom.
In the midst of his cogitations a
light wind sprang up, and he noted with
dismay that it blew from him to the house
yard—to the keen nostrils of the dog-pack.
Indecision vanished. With eyes
glowing like sulphurous coals he crouched
low, and swiftly inched his hind feet and
haunches up under his belly. But the
semi-darkness deceived him, and he miscalculated
the distance. The spring was
too strong, and he clutched wildly at the
.bn 161.png
.pn +1
.bn 162.png
.pn +1
.bn 163.png
.pn +1
top rail as he passed over, only to drag it
crashing from its place. With a quickness
found only in the tribe to which he belonged,
the great cat touched the ground
only to rise in another leap which landed
him in the midst of the half-awakened and
dazed pigs. The deadly claws were bare,
and they ripped at the throat of a victim
as the wicked teeth closed upon its neck
and snapped the <i>vertebrae</i>. With the gush
of hot blood in his face and the smell of it
deluging his nostrils, caution and secrecy
took wing, and the King stopped long
enough to throw back his head and give
one terrifying scream of victory. Then he
seized the limp form before him in his
powerful jaws, and with one gigantic bound
cleared the barrier before him and was
gone.

.if h
.il fn=i161.jpg w=491px id=i161
.ca
“The King stopped long enough to throw back his head and give one
terrifying scream of victory.”
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
.in 8
.ti -4
[Illustration: “The King stopped long enough to throw back his \
head and give one terrifying scream of victory.”]
.in 0
.sp 2
.if-

Almost instantly another sound went up
to the listening stars; the full-throated bay
.bn 164.png
.pn +1
of alarm from the gaunt leader of the dog-pack.
Then over the yard fence brown
shadows flitted; singly and in pairs, and a
score of swift feet passed hither and thither,
while sniffing noses searched for the trail.
They found the place of the slaughter, and
the tracks of the bold marauder smelled
fresh and strong. Then for a time the
circling forms were baffled. But quickly
one, leaner and wirier than the rest, had
wriggled through the fence, and his keen-voiced,
excited yelp told that the trail had
been found again. Leaping, climbing,
crawling, the whole pack were soon over,
and with waving tails and deep-mouthed
cries took up the pursuit. It was not the
first time that they had followed the King
of the Northern Slope, but now he was
close at hand, for his tracks were hot in
the soft soil of the wheat-field.

The wild-cat had barely reached the
.bn 165.png
.pn +1
timber line when his pursuers took up his
trail in earnest. His progress across the
field had been slow, for the ground was
yielding, and the burden which he carried
was almost half as large as himself. For a
while he ran parallel to the open, husbanding
his strength for greater need, then took
a course up the knob-side directly opposite
the way he had come and away from his
lair. He heard the dog-pack after him;
he heard them change their course at the
timber line, and he knew that they were
not to be lost by any simple ruse. The
enmity of years was in their hearts and
their teeth were whetted for his death.
They were drawing nearer every moment,
for they were fleet of foot and had nothing
to hold them back. The dead weight
in his vise-like teeth dragged at his neck,
and as he ran the King made up his mind.
He must leave his prize if he would escape,
.bn 166.png
.pn +1
for they were running two yards to
his one. He stopped for the shortest
instant by the side of a fallen tree, thrust
his muzzle into the torn neck of his kill
and drank of the blood, then, relieved of
his load, he sped up the hill with long,
quick bounds. His enemies were pressing
him hard. He could hear them crashing
through the twigs and bushes, and their
short, sharp cries told him that they were
straining every muscle to overtake him.
No matter; they had done it before, and
he was ahead of them now and still King
of the Northern Slope. Nearer and nearer
the top of the knob they came, and the cat
redoubled his efforts, for a cunning scheme
had crept into his subtle brain. He reached
the crest twenty yards in advance of the
closest hound, dashed across a small plateau
terminating in a cliff, then swerved to the
left, and was lost to sight as the pack
.bn 167.png
.pn +1
came panting on his heels with their noses
close to earth. The lead hound went sheer
over the cliff with a howl of dismay; the
one immediately behind him braced his
fore legs and ploughed two furrows in the
leafy loam, stopping with his dripping
tongue hanging over the chasm. In the
momentary confusion which followed the
hunted gained twenty more yards, and
then the chase swept on again hotter than
before. Along the crest of the range the
King led them, his eyes glowing like twin
headlights, and his muscles playing free
and strong under his loose skin. But his
strength was leaving him. The long
winter fasts, together with the weight
which he had carried that night for the
first mile of his flight, combined to weaken
that tenacious strength which was his
birthright. His blood-enemies were fresh
from sleep and strong from food, and their
.bn 168.png
.pn +1
tireless limbs were gradually overtaking
him. He did not know how desperately
near they were till the sharp clicking of
teeth at his hind-quarters told him that the
chase was nearly done. There was one
alternative now—the last, and he took it.
Before him rose a large oak tree. Gathering
his spent energies he leaped upon it,
ran half way up the trunk, then crouched
on a limb with the breath rasping in his
throat and a dreadful aching in his strained
lungs.

It had been a long, hard race, and he
was only half a victor. For beneath him
was the pack, gnawing at the bark in blind
frenzy, or patrolling the tree with lugubrious
howls expressive of baffled hate.
Throughout the long hours of the spring
night they remained thus—the King a
prisoner in his tower, his captors keeping
sleepless guard below. All knew what
.bn 169.png
.pn +1
the end would be. Especially did the silent
figure in the tree think on what the
dawn would bring. There was no escape,
but there were two deaths—the one fighting,
the other to be shot down like a skulking
fox or a cringing opossum. But life
was sweet to the big wild-cat, and as the
slow dawn broke it seemed that the balsam
of the forest had never come so sweet to
his nostrils, and he could feel the old-time
vigor coursing through his rested limbs.
He placed his bullet head on his paws, and
looked down. Through the misty vapor
of early morning he could see them, ten in
number, keeping wide-eyed watch over
him who had so long eluded their best
efforts. They had been quiet towards
morning, but none of them had slept.
Now one lifted up his head, and sent forth
his battle-call of victory. Others joined in,
and just as the sun was beginning to peep
.bn 170.png
.pn +1
over the edge of the world the answer
came—a fox-horn sounded not far away.
The men-people were coming, and there
were two deaths. There was no need to
wait. No two-footed thing should stand
laughing by and see him perish. Let the
four-footed kind wreak his death; but he
would not die alone.

Swiftly he raised himself and walked
along the limb for a few inches. Then he
lifted his back into an arch, reversed his fur
so that he looked like a great brown ball,
and sent forth one last, awful cry, which
echoed far and wide over the knob-range
and over the lowlands, causing the hate-eager
hounds to involuntarily draw back
in their tracks, and sending a shiver of
fear to the hearts of the denizens of the
southern slope. Then he launched his
body in mid-air, straight at the leader of
the dog-pack. The wily hound drew back,
.bn 171.png
.pn +1
and the wild-cat struck the earth. They
were on him before he could lift his paws
from the shock of the fall. Yet he shook
them off bravely and gave blow for blow,
and in a second the curving white claws
were dripping red drops. The pack leader
held off for a time, for he was old in war.
But when the right moment came he rushed
in for the throat-hold—and got it. Then
there was a confused medley of legs, tails,
teeth, claws, hair, and blood, all in a writhing
heap. When order was evolved from
this chaos, two hounds were dead, two
limped on three legs, another had but one
ear, and not one of the pack had a whole
skin. And in their midst was a shapeless,
lifeless ball of mottled brown.
.sp 4
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.ul
.it Transcriber’s Notes:
.ul indent=1
.it Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
.it Unbalanced quotation marks were left as the author intended.
.it Typographical errors were silently corrected.
.it Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a \
predominant form was found in this book.
.if t
.it Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
.if-
.ul-
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