{"collection":"folklore-oral-tradition","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_2284/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_2284","id":"gutenberg_2284","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2284","summary":null,"tags":["Animals -- Anecdotes","Animals -- Fiction","Animals -- Folklore","Category: Nature/Gardening/Animals","Category: Short Stories","Children's Instructional Books"],"text":"Produced by Bill Stoddard.  HTML version by Al Haines.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAnimal Heroes\n\n\nby\n\nErnest Thompson Seton\n\n\n\n\nNote to Reader\n\nA hero is an individual of unusual gifts and achievements. Whether it\nbe man or animal, this definition applies; and it is the histories of\nsuch that appeal to the imagination and to the hearts of those who hear\nthem.\n\nIn this volume every one of the stories, though more or less composite,\nis founded on the actual life of a veritable animal hero. The most\ncomposite is the White Reindeer. This story I wrote by Utrovand in\nNorway during the summer of 1900, while the Reindeer herds grazed in\nsight on the near uplands.\n\nThe Lynx is founded on some of my own early experiences in the\nbackwoods.\n\nIt is less than ten years since the 'Jack Warhorse' won his hero-crown.\nThousands of \"Kaskadoans\" will remember him, and by the name Warhorse\nhis coursing exploits are recorded in several daily papers.\n\nThe least composite is Arnaux. It is so nearly historical that several\nwho knew the bird have supplied additional items of information.\n\nThe nest of the destroying Peregrines, with its owners and their young,\nis now to be seen in the American Museum of Natural History of New\nYork. The Museum authorities inform me that Pigeon badges with the\nfollowing numbers were found in the nest: 9970-S, 1696, U. 63, 77, J.\nF. 52, Ex. 705, 6-1894, C 20900. Perhaps some Pigeon-lover may learn\nfrom these lines the fate of one or other wonderful flier that has long\nbeen recorded \"never returned.\"\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n  THE SLUM CAT\n  ARNAUX--The Chronicle of a Homing Pigeon\n  BADLANDS BILLY--The Wolf that Won\n  THE BOY AND THE LYNX\n  LITTLE WARHORSE--The History of a Jack-rabbit\n  SNAP--The Story of a Bull-Terrier\n  THE WINNIPEG WOLF\n  THE LEGEND OF THE WHITE REINDEER\n\n\n\n\nTHE SLUM CAT\n\nLIFE I\n\nI\n\n\"M-e-a-t! M-e-a-t!\" came shrilling down Scrimper's Alley. Surely the\nPied Piper of Hamelin was there, for it seemed that all the Cats in the\nneighborhood were running toward the sound, though the Dogs, it must be\nconfessed, looked scornfully indifferent.\n\n\"Meat! Meat!\" and louder; then the centre of attraction came in view--a\nrough, dirty little man with a push-cart; while straggling behind him\nwere a score of Cats that joined in his cry with a sound nearly the\nsame as his own. Every fifty yards, that is, as soon as a goodly throng\nof Cats was gathered, the push-cart stopped. The man with the magic\nvoice took out of the box in his cart a skewer on which were pieces of\nstrong-smelling boiled liver. With a long stick he pushed the pieces\noff. Each Cat seized on one, and wheeling, with a slight depression of\nthe ears and a little tiger growl and glare, she rushed away with her\nprize to devour it in some safe retreat.\n\n\"Meat! Meat!\" And still they came to get their portions. All were well\nknown to the meat-man. There was Castiglione's Tiger; this was Jones's\nBlack; here was Pralitsky's \"Torkershell,\" and this was Madame Danton's\nWhite; there sneaked Blenkinshoff's Maltee, and that climbing on the\nbarrow was Sawyer's old Orange Billy, an impudent fraud that never had\nhad any financial backing,--all to be remembered and kept in account.\nThis one's owner was sure pay, a dime a week; that one's doubtful.\nThere was John Washee's Cat, that got only a small piece because John\nwas in arrears. Then there was the saloon-keeper's collared and\nribboned ratter, which got an extra lump because the 'barkeep' was\nliberal; and the rounds-man's Cat, that brought no cash, but got\nunusual consideration because the meat-man did. But there were others.\nA black Cat with a white nose came rushing confidently with the rest,\nonly to be repulsed savagely. Alas! Pussy did not understand. She had\nbeen a pensioner of the barrow for months. Why this unkind change? It\nwas beyond her comprehension. But the meat-man knew. Her mistress had\nstopped payment. The meat-man kept no books but his memory, and it\nnever was at fault.\n\nOutside this patrician 'four hundred' about the barrow, were other\nCats, keeping away from the push-cart because they were not on the\nlist, the Social Register as it were, yet fascinated by the heavenly\nsmell and the faint possibility of accidental good luck. Among these\nhangers-on was a thin gray Slummer, a homeless Cat that lived by her\nwits--slab-sided and not over-clean. One could see at a glance that she\nwas doing her duty by a family in some out-of-the-way corner. She kept\none eye on the barrow circle and the other on the possible Dogs.\n\nShe saw a score of happy Cats slink off with their delicious 'daily'\nand their tiger-like air, but no opening for her, till a big Tom of her\nown class sprang on a little pensioner with intent to rob. The victim\ndropped the meat to defend herself against the enemy, and before the\n'all-powerful' could intervene, the gray Slummer saw her chance, seized\nthe prize, and was gone.\n\nShe went through the hole in Menzie's side door and over the wall at\nthe back, then sat down and devoured the lump of liver, licked her\nchops, felt absolutely happy, and set out by devious ways to the\nrubbish-yard, where, in the bottom of an old cracker-box, her family\nwas awaiting her. A plaintive mewing reached her ears. She went at\nspeed and reached the box to see a huge Black Tom-cat calmly destroying\nher brood. He was twice as big as she, but she went at him with all her\nstrength, and he did as most animals will do when caught wrong-doing,\nhe turned and ran away. Only one was left, a little thing like its\nmother, but of more pronounced color--gray with black spots, and a\nwhite touch on nose, ears, and tail-tip. There can be no question of\nthe mother's grief for a few days; but that wore off, and all her care\nwas for the survivor. That benevolence was as far as possible from the\nmotives of the murderous old Tom there can be no doubt; but he proved a\nblessing in deep disguise, for both mother and Kit were visibly\nbettered in a short time. The daily quest for food continued. The\nmeat-man rarely proved a success, but the ash-cans were there, and if\nthey did not afford a meat-supply, at least they were sure to produce\npotato-skins that could be used to allay the gripe of hunger for\nanother day.\n\nOne night the mother Cat smelt a wonderful smell that came from the\nEast River at the end of the alley. A new smell always needs\ninvestigating, and when it is attractive as well as new, there is but\none course open. It led Pussy to the docks a block away, and then out\non a wharf, away from any cover but the night. A sudden noise, a growl\nand a rush, were the first notice she had that she was cut off by her\nold enemy, the Wharf Dog. There was only one escape. She leaped from\nthe wharf to the vessel from which the smell came. The Dog could not\nfollow, so when the fish-boat sailed in the morning Pussy unwillingly\nwent with her and was seen no more.\n\n\nII\n\nThe Slum Kitten waited in vain for her mother. The morning came and\nwent. She became very hungry. Toward evening a deep-laid instinct drove\nher forth to seek food. She slunk out of the old box, and feeling her\nway silently among the rubbish, she smelt everything that seemed\neatable, but without finding food. At length she reached the wooden\nsteps leading down into Jap Malee's bird-store underground. The door\nwas open a little. She wandered into a world of rank and curious smells\nand a number of living things in cages all about her. A negro was\nsitting idly on a box in a corner. He saw the little stranger enter and\nwatched it curiously. It wandered past some Rabbits. They paid no heed.\nIt came to a wide-barred cage in which was a Fox. The gentleman with\nthe bushy tail was in a far corner. He crouched low; his eyes glowed.\nThe Kitten wandered, sniffing, up to the bars, put its head in, sniffed\nagain, then made toward the feed-pan, to be seized in a flash by the\ncrouching Fox. It gave a frightened \"mew,\" but a single shake cut that\nshort and would have ended Kitty's nine lives at once, had not the\nnegro come to the rescue. He had no weapon and could not get into the\ncage, but he spat with such copious vigor in the Fox's face that he\ndropped the Kitten and returned to the corner, there to sit blinking\nhis eyes in sullen fear.\n\nThe negro pulled the Kitten out. The shake of the beast of prey seemed\nto have stunned the victim, really to have saved it much suffering. The\nKitten seemed unharmed, but giddy. It tottered in a circle for a time,\nthen slowly revived, and a few minutes later was purring in the negro's\nlap, apparently none the worse, when Jap Malee, the bird-man, came home.\n\nJap was not an Oriental; he was a full-blooded Cockney, but his eyes\nwere such little accidental slits aslant in his round, flat face, that\nhis first name was forgotten in the highly descriptive title of \"Jap.\"\nHe was not especially unkind to the birds and beasts whose sales were\nsupposed to furnish his living, but his eye was on the main chance; he\nknew what he wanted. He didn't want the Slum Kitten.\n\nThe negro gave it all the food it could eat, then carried it to a\ndistant block and dropped it in a neighboring iron-yard.\n\n\nIII\n\nOne full meal is as much as any one needs in two or three days, and\nunder the influence of this stored-up heat and power, Kitty was very\nlively. She walked around the piled-up rubbish, cast curious glances on\nfar-away Canary-birds in cages that hung from high windows; she peeped\nover fences, discovered a large Dog, got quietly down again, and\npresently finding a sheltered place in full sunlight, she lay down and\nslept for an hour. A slight 'sniff' awakened her, and before her stood\na large Black Cat with glowing green eyes, and the thick neck and\nsquare jaws that distinguish the Tom; a scar marked his cheek, and his\nleft ear was torn. His look was far from friendly; his ears moved\nbackward a little, his tail twitched, and a faint, deep sound came from\nhis throat. The Kitten innocently walked toward him. She did not\nremember him. He rubbed the sides of his jaws on a post, and quietly,\nslowly turned and disappeared. The last that she saw of him was the end\nof his tail twitching from side to side; and the little Slummer had no\nidea that she had been as near death to-day, as she had been when she\nventured into the fox-cage.\n\nAs night came on the Kitten began to feel hungry. She examined\ncarefully the long invisible colored stream that the wind is made of.\nShe selected the most interesting of its strands, and, nose-led,\nfollowed. In the corner of the iron-yard was a box of garbage. Among\nthis she found something that answered fairly well for food; a bucket\nof water under a faucet offered a chance to quench her thirst.\n\nThe night was spent chiefly in prowling about and learning the main\nlines of the iron-yard. The next day she passed as before, sleeping in\nthe sun. Thus the time wore on. Sometimes she found a good meal at the\ngarbage-box, sometimes there was nothing. Once she found the big Black\nTom there, but discreetly withdrew before he saw her. The water-bucket\nwas usually at its place, or, failing that, there were some muddy\nlittle pools on the stone below. But the garbage-box was very\nunreliable. Once it left her for three days without food. She searched\nalong the high fence, and seeing a small hole, crawled through that and\nfound herself in the open street. This was a new world, but before she\nhad ventured far, there was a noisy, rumbling rush--a large Dog came\nbounding, and Kitty had barely time to run back into the hole in the\nfence. She was dreadfully hungry, and glad to find some old\npotato-peelings, which gave a little respite from the hunger-pang. In\nthe morning she did not sleep, but prowled for food. Some Sparrows\nchirruped in the yard. They were often there, but now they were viewed\nwith new eyes. The steady pressure of hunger had roused the wild hunter\nin the Kitten; those Sparrows were game--were food. She crouched\ninstinctively and stalked from cover to cover, but the chirpers were\nalert and flew in time. Not once, but many times, she tried without\nresult except to confirm the Sparrows in the list of things to be eaten\nif obtainable.\n\nOn the fifth day of ill luck the Slum Kitty ventured forth into the\nstreet, desperately bent on finding food. When far from the haven hole\nsome small boys opened fire at her with pieces of brick. She ran in\nfear. A Dog joined in the chase, and Kitty's position grew perilous;\nbut an old-fashioned iron fence round a house-front was there, and she\nslipped in between the rails as the Dog overtook her. A woman in a\nwindow above shouted at the Dog. Then the boys dropped a piece of\ncat-meat down to the unfortunate; and Kitty had the most delicious meal\nof her life. The stoop afforded a refuge. Under this she sat patiently\ntill nightfall came with quiet, then sneaked back like a shadow to her\nold iron-yard.\n\nThus the days went by for two months. She grew in size and strength and\nin an intimate knowledge of the immediate neighborhood. She made the\nacquaintance of Downey Street, where long rows of ash-cans were to be\nseen every morning. She formed her own ideas of their proprietors. The\nbig house was to her, not a Roman Catholic mission, but a place whose\ngarbage-tins abounded in choicest fish scrapings. She soon made the\nacquaintance of the meat-man, and joined in the shy fringe of Cats that\nformed the outer circle. She also met the Wharf Dog as well as two or\nthree other horrors of the same class. She knew what to expect of them\nand how to avoid them; and she was happy in being the inventor of a new\nindustry. Many thousand Cats have doubtless hung, in hope, about the\ntempting milk-cans that the early milk-man leaves on steps and\nwindow-ledges, and it was by the merest accident that Kitty found one\nwith a broken lid, and so was taught to raise it and have a satisfying\ndrink. Bottles, of course, were beyond her, but many a can has a misfit\nlid, and Kitty was very painstaking in her efforts to discover the\nloose-jointed ones. Finally she extended her range by exploration till\nshe achieved the heart of the next block, and farther, till once more\namong the barrels and boxes of the yard behind the bird-man's cellar.\n\nThe old iron-yard never had been home, she had always felt like a\nstranger there; but here she had a sense of ownership, and at once\nresented the presence of another small Cat. She approached this\nnewcomer with threatening air. The two had got as far as snarling and\nspitting when a bucket of water from an upper window drenched them both\nand effectually cooled their wrath. They fled, the newcomer over the\nwall, Slum Kitty under the very box where she had been born. This whole\nback region appealed to her strongly, and here again she took up her\nabode. The yard had no more garbage food than the other and no water at\nall, but it was frequented by stray Rats and a few Mice of the finest\nquality; these were occasionally secured, and afforded not only a\npalatable meal, but were the cause of her winning a friend.\n\n\nIV\n\nKitty was now fully grown. She was a striking-looking Cat of the tiger\ntype. Her marks were black on a very pale gray, and the four\nbeauty-spots of white on nose, ears, and tail-tip lent a certain\ndistinction. She was very expert at getting a living, and yet she had\nsome days of starvation and failed in her ambition of catching a\nSparrow. She was quite alone, but a new force was coming into her life.\n\nShe was lying in the sun one August day, when a large Black Cat came\nwalking along the top of a wall in her direction. She recognized him at\nonce by his torn ear. She slunk into her box and hid. He picked his way\ngingerly, bounded lightly to a shed that was at the end of the yard,\nand was crossing the roof when a Yellow Cat rose up. The Black Torn\nglared and growled, so did the Yellow Tom. Their tails lashed from side\nto side. Strong throats growled and yowled. They approached each other\nwith ears laid back, with muscles a-tense.\n\n\"Yow-yow-ow!\" said the Black One.\n\n\"Wow-w-w!\" was the slightly deeper answer.\n\n\"Ya-wow-wow-wow!\" said the Black One, edging up half an inch nearer.\n\n\"Yow-w-w!\" was the Yellow answer, as the blond Cat rose to full height\nand stepped with vast dignity a whole inch forward. \"Yow-w!\" and he\nwent another inch, while his tail went swish, thump, from one side to\nthe other.\n\n\"Ya-wow-yow-w!\" screamed the Black in a rising tone, and he backed the\neighth of an inch, as he marked the broad, unshrinking breast before\nhim.\n\nWindows opened all around, human voices were heard, but the Cat scene\nwent on.\n\n\"Yow-yow-ow!\" rumbled the Yellow Peril, his voice deepening as the\nother's rose.\n\n\"Yow!\" and he advanced another step.\n\nNow their noses were but three inches apart; they stood sidewise, both\nready to clinch, but each waiting for the other. They glared for three\nminutes in silence and like statues, except that each tail-tip was\ntwisting.\n\nThe Yellow began again. \"Yow-ow-ow!\" in deep tone.\n\n\"Ya-a-a--a-a!\" screamed the Black, with intent to strike terror by his\nyell; but he retreated one sixteenth of an inch. The Yellow walked up a\nlong half-inch; their whiskers were mixing now; another advance, and\ntheir noses almost touched.\n\n\"Yo-w-w!\" said Yellow, like a deep moan.\n\n\"Y-a-a-a-a-a-a!\" screamed the Black, but he retreated a thirty-second\nof an inch, and the Yellow Warrior closed and clinched like a demon.\n\nOh, how they rolled and bit and tore, especially the Yellow One!\n\nHow they pitched and gripped and hugged, but especially the Yellow One!\n\nOver and over, sometimes one on top, sometimes another, but mostly the\nYellow One; and farther till they rolled off the roof, amid cheers from\nall the windows. They lost not a second in that fall to the junk-yard;\nthey tore and clawed all the way down, but especially the Yellow One.\nAnd when they struck the ground, still fighting, the one on top was\nchiefly the Yellow One; and before they separated both had had as much\nas they wanted, especially the Black One! He scaled a wall and,\nbleeding and growling, disappeared, while the news was passed from\nwindow to window that Cayley's Nig had been licked at last by Orange\nBilly.\n\nEither the Yellow Cat was a very clever seeker, or else Slum Kitty did\nnot hide very hard; but he discovered her among the boxes, and she made\nno attempt to get away, probably because she had witnessed the fight.\nThere is nothing like success in warfare to win the female heart, and\nthereafter the Yellow Tom and Kitty became very good friends, not\nsharing each other's lives or food,--Cats do not do that way much,--but\nrecognizing each other as entitled to special friendly privileges.\n\n\nV\n\nSeptember had gone. October's shortening days were on when an event\ntook place in the old cracker-box. If Orange Billy had come he would\nhave seen five little Kittens curled up in the embrace of their mother,\nthe little Slum Cat. It was a wonderful thing for her. She felt all the\nelation an animal mother can feel, all the delight, and she loved them\nand licked them with a tenderness that must have been a surprise to\nherself, had she had the power to think of such things.\n\nShe had added a joy to her joyless life, but she had also added a care\nand a heavy weight to her heavy load. All her strength was taken now to\nfind food. The burden increased as the offspring grew up big enough to\nscramble about the boxes, which they did daily during her absence after\nthey were six weeks old. That troubles go in flocks and luck in\nstreaks, is well known in Slumland. Kitty had had three encounters with\nDogs, and had been stoned by Malee's negro during a two days' starve.\nThen the tide turned. The very next morning she found a full milk-can\nwithout a lid, successfully robbed a barrow pensioner, and found a big\nfish-head, all within two hours. She had just returned with that\nperfect peace which comes only of a full stomach, when she saw a little\nbrown creature in her junk-yard. Hunting memories came back in\nstrength; she didn't know what it was, but she had killed and eaten\nseveral Mice, and this was evidently a big Mouse with bob-tail and\nlarge ears. Kitty stalked it with elaborate but unnecessary caution;\nthe little Rabbit simply sat up and looked faintly amused. He did not\ntry to run, and Kitty sprang on him and bore him off. As she was not\nhungry, she carried him to the cracker-box and dropped him among the\nKittens. He was not much hurt. He got over his fright, and since he\ncould not get out of the box, he snuggled among the Kittens, and when\nthey began to take their evening meal he very soon decided to join\nthem. The old Cat was puzzled. The hunter instinct had been dominant,\nbut absence of hunger had saved the Rabbit and given the maternal\ninstinct a chance to appear. The result was that the Rabbit became a\nmember of the family, and was thenceforth guarded and fed with the\nKittens.\n\nTwo weeks went by. The Kittens romped much among the boxes during their\nmother's absence. The Rabbit could not get out of the box. Jap Malee,\nseeing the Kittens about the back yard, told the negro to shoot them.\nThis he was doing one morning with a 22-calibre rifle. He had shot one\nafter another and seen them drop from sight into the crannies of the\nlumber-pile, when the old Cat came running along the wall from the\ndock, carrying a small Wharf Rat. He had been ready to shoot her, too,\nbut the sight of that Rat changed his plans: a rat-catching Cat was\nworthy to live. It happened to be the very first one she had ever\ncaught, but it saved her life. She threaded the lumber-maze to the\ncracker-box and was probably puzzled to find that there were no Kittens\nto come at her call, and the Rabbit would not partake of the Rat. Pussy\ncurled up to nurse the Rabbit, but she called from time to time to\nsummon the Kittens. Guided by that call, the negro crawled quietly to\nthe place, and peering down into the cracker-box, saw, to his intense\nsurprise, that it contained the old Cat, a live Rabbit, and a dead Rat.\n\nThe mother Cat laid back her ears and snarled. The negro withdrew, but\na minute later a board was dropped on the opening of the cracker-box,\nand the den with its tenants, dead and alive, was lifted into the\nbird-cellar.\n\n\"Say, boss, look a-hyar--hyar's where de little Rabbit got to wot we\nlost. Yo' sho t'ought Ah stoled him for de 'tater-bake.\"\n\nKitty and Bunny were carefully put in a large wire cage and exhibited\nas a happy family till a few days later, when the Rabbit took sick and\ndied.\n\nPussy had never been happy in the cage. She had enough to eat and\ndrink, but she craved her freedom--would likely have gotten 'death or\nliberty' now, but that during the four days' captivity she had so\ncleaned and slicked her fur that her unusual coloring was seen, and Jap\ndecided to keep her.\n\n\n\nLIFE II\n\nVI\n\nJap Malee was as disreputable a little Cockney bantam as ever sold\ncheap Canary-birds in a cellar. He was extremely poor, and the negro\nlived with him because the 'Henglish-man' was willing to share bed and\nboard, and otherwise admit a perfect equality that few Americans\nconceded. Jap was perfectly honest according to his lights, but he\nhadn't  any lights; and it was well known that his chief revenue was\nderived from storing and restoring stolen Dogs and Cats. The half-dozen\nCanaries were mere blinds. Yet Jap believed in himself. \"Hi tell you,\nSammy, me boy, you'll see me with 'orses of my own yet,\" he would say,\nwhen some trifling success inflated his dirty little chest. He was not\nwithout ambition, in a weak, flabby, once-in-a-while way, and he\nsometimes wished to be known as a fancier. Indeed, he had once gone the\nwild length of offering a Cat for exhibition at the Knickerbocker High\nSociety Cat and Pet Show, with three not over-clear objects: first, to\ngratify his ambition; second, to secure the exhibitor's free pass; and,\nthird, \"well, you kneow, one 'as to kneow the valuable Cats, you kneow,\nwhen one goes a-catting.\" But this was a society show, the exhibitor\nhad to be introduced, and his miserable alleged half-Persian was\nscornfully rejected. The 'Lost and Found' columns of the papers were\nthe only ones of interest to Jap, but he had noticed and saved a\nclipping about 'breeding for fur.' This was stuck on the wall of his\nden, and under its influence he set about what seemed a cruel\nexperiment with the Slum Cat. First, he soaked her dirty fur with stuff\nto kill the two or three kinds of creepers she wore; and, when it had\ndone its work, he washed her thoroughly in soap and warm water, in\nspite of her teeth, claws, and yowls. Kitty was savagely indignant, but\na warm and happy glow spread over her as she dried off in a cage near\nthe stove, and her fur began to fluff out with wonderful softness and\nwhiteness. Jap and his assistant were much pleased with the result, and\nKitty ought to have been. But this was preparatory: now for the\nexperiment. \"Nothing is so good for growing fur as plenty of oily food\nand continued exposure to cold weather,\" said the clipping. Winter was\nat hand, and Jap Malee put Kitty's cage out in the yard, protected only\nfrom the rain and the direct wind, and fed her with all the oil-cake\nand fish-heads she could eat. In a week a change began to show. She was\nrapidly getting fat and sleek--she had nothing to do but get fat and\ndress her fur. Her cage was kept clean, and nature responded to the\nchill weather and the oily food by making Kitty's coat thicker and\nglossier every day, so that by midwinter she was an unusually beautiful\nCat in the fullest and finest of fur, with markings that were at least\na rarity. Jap was much pleased with the result of the experiment, and\nas a very little success had a wonderful effect on him, he began to\ndream of the paths of glory. Why not send the Slum Cat to the show now\ncoming on? The failure of the year before made him more careful as to\ndetails. \"'T won't do, ye kneow, Sammy, to henter 'er as a tramp Cat,\nye kneow,\" he observed to his help; \"but it kin be arranged to suit the\nKnickerbockers. Nothink like a good noime, ye kneow. Ye see now it had\norter be 'Royal' somethink or other--nothink goes with the\nKnickerbockers like 'Royal' anythink. Now 'Royal Dick,' or 'Royal Sam,'\n'ow's that? But 'owld on; them's Tom names. Oi say, Sammy, wot's the\nnoime of that island where ye wuz born?\"\n\n\"Analostan Island, sah, was my native vicinity, sah.\"\n\n\"Oi say, now, that's good, ye kneow. 'Royal Analostan,' by Jove! The\nonliest pedigreed 'Royal Analostan' in the 'ole sheow, ye kneow. Ain't\nthat foine?\" and they mingled their cackles.\n\n\"But we'll 'ave to 'ave a pedigree, ye kneow.\" So a very long fake\npedigree on the recognized lines was prepared. One dark afternoon Sam,\nin a borrowed silk hat, delivered the Cat and the pedigree at the show\ndoor. The darkey did the honors. He had been a Sixth Avenue barber, and\nhe could put on more pomp and lofty hauteur in five minutes than Jap\nMalee could have displayed in a lifetime, and this, doubtless, was one\nreason for the respectful reception awarded the Royal Analostan at the\nCat Show.\n\nJap was very proud to be an exhibitor; but he had all a Cockney's\nreverence for the upper class, and when on the opening day he went to\nthe door, he was overpowered to see the array of carriages and silk\nhats. The gate-man looked at him sharply, but passed him on his ticket,\ndoubtless taking him for stable-boy to some exhibitor. The hall had\nvelvet carpets before the long rows of cages. Jap, in his small\ncunning, was sneaking down the side rows, glancing at the Cats of all\nkinds, noting the blue ribbons and the reds, peering about but not\ndaring to ask for his own exhibit, inly trembling to think what the\ngorgeous gathering of fashion would say if they discovered the trick he\nwas playing on them. He had passed all around the outer aisles and seen\nmany prize-winners, but no sign of Slum Kitty. The inner aisles were\nmore crowded. He picked his way down them, but still no Kitty, and he\ndecided that it was a mistake; the judges had rejected the Cat later.\nNever mind; he had his exhibitor's ticket, and now knew where several\nvaluable Persians and Angoras were to be found.\n\nIn the middle of the centre aisle were the high-class Cats. A great\nthrong was there. The passage was roped, and two policemen were in\nplace to keep the crowd moving. Jap wriggled in among them; he was too\nshort to see over, and though the richly gowned folks shrunk from his\nshabby old clothes, he could not get near; but he gathered from the\nremarks that the gem of the show was there.\n\n\"Oh, isn't  she a beauty!\" said one tall woman.\n\n\"What distinction!\" was the reply.\n\n\"One cannot mistake the air that comes only from ages of the most\nrefined surroundings.\"\n\n\"How I should like to own that superb creature!\"\n\n\"Such dignity--such repose!\"\n\n\"She has an authentic pedigree nearly back to the Pharaohs, I hear\";\nand poor, dirty little Jap marvelled at his own cheek in sending his\nSlum Cat into such company.\n\n\"Excuse me, madame.\" The director of the show now appeared, edging his\nway through the crowd. \"The artist of the 'sporting Element' is here,\nunder orders to sketch the 'pearl of the show' for immediate use. May I\nask you to stand a little aside? That's it; thank you.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Director, cannot you persuade him to sell that beautiful\ncreature?\"\n\n\"Hm, I don't know,\" was the reply. \"I understand he is a man of ample\nmeans and not at all approachable; but I'll try, I'll try, madame. He\nwas quite unwilling to exhibit his treasure at all, so I understand\nfrom his butler. Here, you, keep out of the way,\" growled the director,\nas the shabby little man eagerly pushed between the artist and the\nblue-blooded Cat. But the disreputable one wanted to know where\nvaluable Cats were to be found. He came near enough to get a glimpse of\nthe cage, and there read a placard which announced that \"The blue\nribbon and gold medal of the Knickerbocker High Society Cat and Pet\nShow\" had been awarded to the \"thoroughbred, pedigreed Royal Analostan,\nimported and exhibited by J. Malee, Esq., the well-known fancier. (Not\nfor sale.)\" Jap caught his breath and stared again. Yes, surely; there,\nhigh in a gilded cage, on velvet cushions, with four policemen for\nguards, her fur bright black and pale gray, her bluish eyes slightly\nclosed, was his Slum Kitty, looking the picture of a Cat bored to death\nwith a lot of fuss that she likes as little as she understands it.\n\n\nVII\n\nJap Malee lingered around that cage, taking in the remarks, for\nhours--drinking a draught of glory such as he had never known in life\nbefore and rarely glimpsed in his dreams. But he saw that it would be\nwise for him to remain unknown; his \"butler\" must do all the business.\n\nIt was Slum Kitty who made that show a success. Each day her value went\nup in her owner's eyes. He did not know what prices had been given for\nCats, and thought that he was touching a record pitch when his \"butler\"\ngave the director authority to sell the Analostan for one hundred\ndollars.\n\nThis is how it came about that the Slum Cat found herself transferred\nfrom the show to a Fifth Avenue mansion. She evinced a most\nunaccountable wildness at first. Her objection to petting, however, was\nexplained on the ground of her aristocratic dislike of familiarity. Her\nretreat from the Lap-dog onto the centre of the dinner-table was\nunderstood to express a deep-rooted though mistaken idea of avoiding a\ndefiling touch. Her assaults on a pet Canary were condoned for the\nreason that in her native Orient she had been used to despotic example.\nThe patrician way in which she would get the cover off a milk-can was\nespecially applauded. Her dislike of her silk-lined basket, and her\nfrequent dashes against the plate-glass windows, were easily\nunderstood: the basket was too plain, and plate-glass was not used in\nher royal home. Her spotting of the carpet evidenced her Eastern modes\nof thought. The failure of her several attempts to catch Sparrows in\nthe high-walled back yard was new proof of the royal impotency of her\nbringing up; while her frequent wallowings in the garbage-can were\nunderstood to be the manifestation of a little pardonable high-born\neccentricity. She was fed and pampered, shown and praised; but she was\nnot happy. Kitty was homesick! She clawed at that blue ribbon round her\nneck till she got it off; she jumped against the plate-glass because\nthat seemed the road to outside; she avoided people and Dogs because\nthey had always proved hostile and cruel; and she would sit and gaze on\nthe roofs and back yards at the other side of the window, wishing she\ncould be among them for a change.\n\nBut she was strictly watched, was never allowed outside--so that all\nthe happy garbage-can moments occurred while these receptacles of joy\nwere indoors. One night in March, however, as they were set out a-row\nfor the early scavenger, the Royal Analostan saw her chance, slipped\nout of the door, and was lost to view.\n\nOf course there was a grand stir; but Pussy neither knew nor cared\nanything about that--her one thought was to go home. It may have been\nchance that took her back in the direction of Gramercy Grange Hill, but\nshe did arrive there after sundry small adventures. And now what? She\nwas not at home, and she had cut off her living. She was beginning to\nbe hungry, and yet she had a peculiar sense of happiness. She cowered\nin a front garden for some time. A raw east wind had been rising, and\nnow it came to her with a particularly friendly message; man would have\ncalled it an unpleasant smell of the docks, but to Pussy it was welcome\ntidings from home. She trotted down the long Street due east, threading\nthe rails of front gardens, stopping like a statue for an instant, or\ncrossing the street in search of the darkest side, and came at length\nto the docks and to the water. But the place was strange. She could go\nnorth or south. Something turned her southward; and, dodging among\ndocks and Dogs, carts and Cats, crooked arms of the bay and straight\nboard fences, she got, in an hour or two, among familiar scenes and\nsmells; and, before the sun came up, she had crawled back--weary and\nfoot-sore through the same old hole in the same old fence and over a\nwall to her junk-yard back of the bird-cellar--yes, back into the very\ncracker-box where she was born.\n\nOh, if the Fifth Avenue family could only have seen her in her native\nOrient!\n\nAfter a long rest she came quietly down from the cracker-box toward the\nsteps leading to the cellar, engaged in her old-time pursuit of seeking\nfor eatables. The door opened, and there stood the negro. He shouted to\nthe bird-man inside:\n\n\"Say, boss, come hyar. Ef dere ain't dat dar Royal Ankalostan am comed\nback!\"\n\nJap came in time to see the Cat jumping the wall. They called loudly\nand in the most seductive, wheedling tones: \"Pussy, Pussy, poor Pussy!\nCome, Pussy!\" But Pussy was not prepossessed in their favor, and\ndisappeared to forage in her old-time haunts.\n\nThe Royal Analostan had been a windfall for Jap--had been the means of\nadding many comforts to the cellar and several prisoners to the cages.\nIt was now of the utmost importance to recapture her majesty. Stale\nmeat-offal and other infallible lures were put out till Pussy, urged by\nthe reestablished hunger-pinch, crept up to a large fish-head in a\nbox-trap; the negro, in watching, pulled the string that dropped the\nlid, and, a minute later, the Analostan was once more among the\nprisoners in the cellar. Meanwhile Jap had been watching the 'Lost and\nFound' column. There it was, \"$25 reward,\" etc. That night Mr. Malee's\nbutler called at the Fifth Avenue mansion with the missing cat. \"Mr.\nMalee's compliments, sah. De Royal Analostan had recurred in her recent\nproprietor's vicinity and residence, sah. Mr. Malee had pleasure in\nrecuperating the Royal Analostan, sah.\" Of course Mr. Malee could not\nbe rewarded, but the butler was open to any offer, and plainly showed\nthat he expected the promised reward and something more.\n\nKitty was guarded very carefully after that; but so far from being\ndisgusted with the old life of starving, and glad of her ease, she\nbecame wilder and more dissatisfied.\n\n\nVIII\n\nThe spring was doing its New York best. The dirty little English\nSparrows were tumbling over each other in their gutter brawls, Cats\nyowled all night in the areas, and the Fifth Avenue family were\nthinking of their country residence. They packed up, closed house and\nmoved off to their summer home, some fifty miles away, and Pussy, in a\nbasket, went with them.\n\n\"Just what she needed: a change of air and scene to wean her away from\nher former owners and make her happy.\"\n\nThe basket was lifted into a Rumble-shaker. New sounds and passing\nsmells were entered and left. A turn in the course was made. Then a\nroaring of many feet, more swinging of the basket; a short pause,\nanother change of direction, then some clicks, some bangs, a long\nshrill whistle, and door-bells of a very big front door; a rumbling, a\nwhizzing, an unpleasant smell, a hideous smell, a growing horrible,\nhateful choking smell, a deadly, griping, poisonous stench, with\nroaring that drowned poor Kitty's yowls, and just as it neared the\npoint where endurance ceased, there was relief. She heard clicks and\nclacks. There was light; there was air. Then a man's voice called, \"All\nout for 125th Street,\" though of course to Kitty it was a mere human\nbellow. The roaring almost ceased--did cease. Later the rackety-bang\nwas renewed with plenty of sounds and shakes, though not the poisonous\ngas; a long, hollow, booming roar with a pleasant dock smell was\nquickly passed, and then there was a succession of jolts, roars, jars,\nstops, clicks, clacks, smells, jumps, shakes, more smells, more\nshakes,--big shakes, little shakes,--gases, smokes, screeches,\ndoor-bells, tremblings, roars, thunders, and some new smells, raps,\ntaps, heavings, rumblings, and more smells, but all without any of the\nfeel that the direction is changed. When at last it stopped, the sun\ncame twinkling through the basket-lid. The Royal Cat was lifted into a\nRumble-shaker of the old familiar style, and, swerving aside from their\npast course, very soon the noises of its wheels were grittings and\nrattlings; a new and horrible sound was added--the barking of Dogs, big\nand little and dreadfully close. The basket was lifted, and Slum Kitty\nhad reached her country home.\n\nEvery one was officiously kind. They wanted to please the Royal Cat,\nbut somehow none of them did, except, possibly, the big, fat cook that\nKitty discovered on wandering into the kitchen. This unctuous person\nsmelt more like a slum than anything she had met for months, and the\nRoyal Analostan was proportionately attracted. The cook, when she\nlearned that fears were entertained about the Cat staying, said:\n\"Shure, she'd 'tind to thot; wanst a Cat licks her futs, shure she's at\nhome.\" So she deftly caught the unapproachable royalty in her apron,\nand committed the horrible sacrilege of greasing the soles of her feet\nwith pot-grease. Of course Kitty resented it--she resented everything\nin the place; but on being set down she began to dress her paws and\nfound evident satisfaction in that grease. She licked all four feet for\nan hour, and the cook triumphantly announced that now \"shure she'd be\napt to shtay.\" And stay she did, but she showed a most surprising and\ndisgusting preference for the kitchen, the cook, and the garbage-pail.\n\nThe family, though distressed by these distinguished peculiarities,\nwere glad to see the Royal Analostan more contented and approachable.\nThey gave her more liberty after a week or two. They guarded her from\nevery menace. The Dogs were taught to respect her. No man or boy about\nthe place would have dreamed of throwing a stone at the famous\npedigreed Cat. She had all the food she wanted, but still she was not\nhappy. She was hankering for many things, she scarcely knew what. She\nhad everything--yes, but she wanted something else. Plenty to eat and\ndrink--yes, but milk does not taste the same when you can go and drink\nall you want from a saucer; it has to be stolen out of a tin pail when\nyou are belly-pinched with hunger and thirst, or it does not have the\ntang--it isn't milk.\n\nYes, there was a junk-yard back of the house and beside it and around\nit too, a big one, but it was everywhere poisoned and polluted with\nroses. The very Horses and Dogs had the wrong smells; the whole country\nround was a repellent desert of lifeless, disgusting gardens and\nhay-fields, without a single tenement or smoke-stack in sight. How she\ndid hate it all! There was only one sweet-smelling shrub in the whole\nhorrible place, and that was in a neglected corner. She did enjoy\nnipping that and rolling in the leaves; it was a bright spot in the\ngrounds; but the only one, for she had not found a rotten fish-head nor\nseen a genuine garbage-can since she came, and altogether it was the\nmost unlovely, unattractive, unsmellable spot she had ever known. She\nwould surely have gone that first night had she had the liberty. The\nliberty was weeks in coming, and, meanwhile, her affinity with the cook\nhad developed as a bond to keep her; but one day after a summer of\ndiscontent a succession of things happened to stir anew the slum\ninstinct of the royal prisoner.\n\nA great bundle of stuff from the docks had reached the country mansion.\nWhat it contained was of little moment, but it was rich with a score of\nthe most piquant and winsome of dock and slum smells. The chords of\nmemory surely dwell in the nose, and Pussy's past was conjured up with\ndangerous force. Next day the cook 'left' through some trouble over\nthis very bundle. It was the cutting of cables, and that evening the\nyoungest boy of the house, a horrid little American with no proper\nappreciation of royalty, was tying a tin to the blue-blooded one's\ntail, doubtless in furtherance of some altruistic project, when Pussy\nresented the liberty with a paw that wore five big fish-hooks for the\noccasion. The howl of downtrodden America roused America's mother. The\ndeft and womanly blow that she aimed with her book was miraculously\navoided, and Pussy took flight, up-stairs, of course. A hunted Rat runs\ndown-stairs, a hunted Dog goes on the level, a hunted Cat runs up. She\nhid in the garret, baffled discovery, and waited till night came. Then,\ngliding down-stairs, she tried each screen-door in turn, till she found\none unlatched, and escaped into the black August night. Pitch-black to\nman's eyes, it was simply gray to her, and she glided through the\ndisgusting shrubbery and flower-beds, took a final nip at that one\nlittle bush that had been an attractive spot in the garden, and boldly\ntook her back track of the spring.\n\nHow could she take a back track that she never saw? There is in all\nanimals some sense of direction. It is very low in man and very high in\nHorses, but Cats have a large gift, and this mysterious guide took her\nwestward, not clearly and definitely, but with a general impulse that\nwas made definite simply because the road was easy to travel. In an\nhour she had covered two miles and reached the Hudson River. Her nose\nhad told her many times that the course was true. Smell after smell\ncame back, just as a man after walking a mile in a strange street may\nnot recall a single feature, but will remember, on seeing it again,\n\"Why, yes, I saw that before.\" So Kitty's main guide was the sense of\ndirection, but it was her nose that kept reassuring her, \"Yes, now you\nare right--we passed this place last spring.\"\n\nAt the river was the railroad. She could not go on the water; she must\ngo north or south. This was a case where her sense of direction was\nclear; it said, \"Go south,\" and Kitty trotted down the foot-path\nbetween the iron rails and the fence.\n\n\n\n\nLIFE III\n\nIX\n\nCats can go very fast up a tree or over a wall, but when it comes to\nthe long steady trot that reels off mile after mile, hour after hour,\nit is not the cat-hop, but the dog-trot, that counts. Although the\ntravelling was good and the path direct, an hour had gone before two\nmore miles were put between her and the Hades of roses. She was tired\nand a little foot-sore. She was thinking of rest when a Dog came\nrunning to the fence near by, and broke out into such a horrible\nbarking close to her ear that Pussy leaped in terror. She ran as hard\nas she could down the path, at the same time watching to see if the Dog\nshould succeed in passing the fence. No, not yet! but he ran close by\nit, growling horribly, while Pussy skipped along on the safe side. The\nbarking of the Dog grew into a low rumble--a louder rumble and\nroaring--a terrifying thunder. A light shone. Kitty glanced back to\nsee, not the Dog, but a huge Black Thing with a blazing red eye coming\non, yowling and spitting like a yard full of Cats. She put forth all\nher powers to run, made such time as she had never made before, but\ndared not leap the fence. She was running like a Dog, was flying, but\nall in vain; the monstrous pursuer overtook her, but missed her in the\ndarkness, and hurried past to be lost in the night, while Kitty\ncrouched gasping for breath, half a mile nearer home since that Dog\nbegan to bark.\n\nThis was her first encounter with the strange monster, strange to her\neyes only; her nose seemed to know him and told her this was another\nlandmark on the home trail. But Pussy lost much of her fear of his\nkind. She learned that they were very stupid and could not find her if\nshe slipped quietly under a fence and lay still. Before morning she had\nencountered several of them, but escaped unharmed from all.\n\nAbout sunrise she reached a nice little slum on her home trail, and was\nlucky enough to find several unsterilized eatables in an ash-heap. She\nspent the day around a stable where were two Dogs and a number of small\nboys, that between them came near ending her career. It was so very\nlike home; but she had no idea of staying there. She was driven by the\nold craving, and next evening set out as before. She had seen the\none-eyed Thunder-rollers all day going by, and was getting used to\nthem, so travelled steadily all that night. The next day was spent in a\nbarn where she caught a Mouse, and the next night was like the last,\nexcept that a Dog she encountered drove her backward on her trail for a\nlong way. Several times she was misled by angling roads, and wandered\nfar astray, but in time she wandered back again to her general\nsouthward course. The days were passed in skulking under barns and\nhiding from Dogs and small boys, and the nights in limping along the\ntrack, for she was getting foot-sore; but on she went, mile after mile,\nsouthward, ever southward--Dogs, boys, Roarers, hunger--Dogs, boys,\nRoarers, hunger--yet on and onward still she went, and her nose from\ntime to time cheered her by confidently reporting, \"There surely is a\nsmell we passed last spring.\"\n\n\nX\n\nSo a week went by, and Pussy, dirty, ribbon-less, foot-sore, and weary,\narrived at the Harlem Bridge. Though it was enveloped in delicious\nsmells, she did not like the look of that bridge. For half the night\nshe wandered up and down the shore without discovering any other means\nof going south, excepting some other bridges, or anything of interest\nexcept that here the men were as dangerous as the boys. Somehow she had\nto come back to it; not only its smells were familiar, but from time to\ntime, when a One-eye ran over it, there was that peculiar rumbling roar\nthat was a sensation in the springtime trip. The calm of the late night\nwas abroad when she leaped to the timber stringer and glided out over\nthe water. She had got less than a third of the way across when a\nthundering One-eye came roaring at her from the opposite end. She was\nmuch frightened, but knowing their stupidity and blindness, she dropped\nto a low side beam and there crouched in hiding. Of course the stupid\nMonster missed her and passed on, and all would have been well, but it\nturned back, or another just like it came suddenly spitting behind her.\nPussy leaped to the long track and made for the home shore. She might\nhave got there had not a third of the Red-eyed Terrors come screeching\nat her from that side. She was running her hardest, but was caught\nbetween two foes. There was nothing for it but a desperate leap from\nthe timbers into-she didn't know what. Down, down, down-plop, splash,\nplunge into the deep water, not cold, for it was August, but oh, so\nhorrible! She spluttered and coughed when she came to the top, glanced\naround to see if the Monsters were swimming after her, and struck out\nfor shore. She had never learned to swim, and yet she swam, for the\nsimple reason that a Cat's position and actions in swimming are the\nsame as her position and actions in walking. She had fallen into a\nplace she did not like; naturally she tried to walk out, and the result\nwas that she swam ashore. Which shore? The home-love never fails: the\nsouth side was the only shore for her, the one nearest home. She\nscrambled out all dripping wet, up the muddy bank and through\ncoal-piles and dust-heaps, looking as black, dirty, and unroyal as it\nwas possible for a Cat to look.\n\nOnce the shock was over, the Royal-pedigreed Slummer began to feel\nbetter for the plunge. A genial glow without from the bath, a genial\nsense of triumph within, for had she not outwitted three of the big\nTerrors?\n\nHer nose, her memory, and her instinct of direction inclined her to get\non the track again; but the place was infested with those\nThunder-rollers, and prudence led her to turn aside and follow the\nriver-bank with its musky home-reminders; and thus she was spared the\nunspeakable horrors of the tunnel.\n\nShe was over three days learning the manifold dangers and complexities\nof the East River docks. Once she got by mistake on a ferryboat and was\ncarried over to Long Island; but she took an early boat back. At length\non the third night she reached familiar ground, the place she had\npassed the night of her first escape. From that her course was sure and\nrapid. She knew just where she was going and how to get there. She knew\neven the more prominent features in the Dog-scape now. She went faster,\nfelt happier. In a little while surely she would be curled up in her\nnative Orient--the old junk-yard. Another turn, and the block was in\nsight.\n\nBut--what! It was gone! Kitty couldn't believe her eyes; but she must,\nfor the sun was not yet up. There where once had stood or leaned or\nslouched or straggled the houses of the block, was a great broken\nwilderness of stone, lumber, and holes in the ground.\n\nKitty walked all around it. She knew by the bearings and by the local\ncolor of the pavement that she was in her home, that there had lived\nthe bird-man, and there was the old junk-yard; but all were gone,\ncompletely gone, taking their familiar odors with them, and Pussy\nturned sick at heart in the utter hopelessness of the case. Her\nplace-love was her master-mood. She had given up all to come to a home\nthat no longer existed, and for once her sturdy little heart was cast\ndown. She wandered over the silent heaps of rubbish and found neither\nconsolation nor eatables. The ruin had taken in several of the blocks\nand reached back from the water. It was not a fire; Kitty had seen one\nof those things. This looked more like the work of a flock of the\nRed-eyed Monsters. Pussy knew nothing of the great bridge that was to\nrise from this very spot.\n\nWhen the sun came up she sought for cover. An adjoining block still\nstood with little change, and the Royal Analostan retired to that. She\nknew some of its trails; but once there, was unpleasantly surprised to\nfind the place swarming with Cats that, like herself, were driven from\ntheir old grounds, and when the garbage-cans came out there were\nseveral Slummers at each. It meant a famine in the land, and Pussy,\nafter standing it a few days, was reduced to seeking her other home on\nFifth Avenue. She got there to find it shut up and deserted. She waited\nabout for a day; had an unpleasant experience with a big man in a blue\ncoat, and next night returned to the crowded slum.\n\nSeptember and October wore away. Many of the Cats died of starvation or\nwere too weak to escape their natural enemies. But Kitty, young and\nstrong, still lived.\n\nGreat changes had come over the ruined blocks. Though silent on the\nnight when she first saw them, they were crowded with noisy workmen all\nday. A tall building, well advanced on her arrival, was completed at\nthe end of October, and Slum Kitty, driven by hunger, went sneaking up\nto a pail that a negro had set outside. The pail, unfortunately, was\nnot for garbage; it was a new thing in that region: a scrubbing-pail. A\nsad disappointment, but it had a sense of comfort--there were traces of\na familiar touch on the handle. While she was studying it, the negro\nelevator-boy came out again. In spite of his blue clothes, his odorous\nperson confirmed the good impression of the handle. Kitty had retreated\nacross the street. He gazed at her.\n\n\"Sho ef dat don't look like de Royal Ankalostan! Hyar, Pussy, Pussy,\nPu-s-s-s-s-y! Co-o-o-o-m-e, Pu-u-s-s-sy, hyar! I 'spec's she's sho\nhungry.\"\n\nHungry! She hadn't  had a real meal for months. The negro went into the\nbuilding and reappeared with a portion of his own lunch.\n\n\"Hyar, Pussy, Puss, Puss, Puss!\" It seemed very good, but Pussy had her\ndoubts of the man. At length he laid the meat on the pavement, and went\nback to the door. Slum Kitty came forward very warily; sniffed at the\nmeat, seized it, and fled like a little Tigress to eat her prize in\npeace.\n\n\n\n\nLIFE IV\n\nXI\n\nThis was the beginning of a new era. Pussy came to the door of the\nbuilding now whenever pinched by hunger, and the good feeling for the\nnegro grew. She had never understood that man before. He had always\nseemed hostile. Now he was her friend, the only one she had.\n\nOne week she had a streak of luck. Seven good meals on seven successive\ndays; and right on the top of the last meal she found a juicy dead Rat,\nthe genuine thing, a perfect windfall. She had never killed a\nfull-grown Rat in all her lives, but seized the prize and ran off to\nhide it for future use. She was crossing the street in front of the new\nbuilding when an old enemy appeared,--the Wharf Dog,--and Kitty\nretreated, naturally enough, to the door where she had a friend. Just\nas she neared it, he opened the door for a well-dressed man to come\nout, and both saw the Cat with her prize.\n\n\"Hello! Look at that for a Cat!\"\n\n\"Yes, sah,\" answered the negro. \"Dat's ma Cat, sah; she's a terror on\nRats, sah! hez 'em about cleaned up, sah; dat's why she's so thin.\"\n\n\"Well, don't let her starve,\" said the man with the air of the\nlandlord. \"Can't you feed her?\n\n\"De liver meat-man comes reg'lar, sah; quatah dollar a week, sah,\" said\nthe negro, fully realizing that he was entitled to the extra fifteen\ncents for \"the idea.\"\n\n\"That's all right. I'll stand it.\"\n\n\nXII\n\n\"M-e-a-t! M-e-a-t!\" is heard the magnetic, cat-conjuring cry of the old\nliver-man, as his barrow is pushed up the glorified Scrimper's Alley,\nand Cats come crowding, as of yore, to receive their due.\n\nThere are Cats black, white, yellow, and gray to be remembered, and,\nabove all, there are owners to be remembered. As the barrow rounds the\ncorner near the new building it makes a newly scheduled stop.\n\n\"Hyar, you, get out o' the road, you common trash,\" cries the\nliver-man, and he waves his wand to make way for the little gray Cat\nwith blue eyes and white nose. She receives an unusually large portion,\nfor Sam is wisely dividing the returns evenly; and Slum Kitty retreats\nwith her 'daily' into shelter of the great building, to which she is\nregularly attached. She has entered into her fourth life with prospects\nof happiness never before dreamed of. Everything was against her at\nfirst; now everything seems to be coming her way. It is very doubtful\nthat her mind was broadened by travel, but she knew what she wanted and\nshe got it. She has achieved her long-time great ambition by catching,\nnot a Sparrow, but two of them, while they were clinched in mortal\ncombat in the gutter.\n\nThere is no reason to suppose that she ever caught another Rat; but the\nnegro secures a dead one when he can, for purposes of exhibition, lest\nher pension be imperilled. The dead one is left in the hall till the\nproprietor comes; then it is apologetically swept away. \"Well, drat dat\nCat, sah; dat Royal Ankalostan blood, sah, is terrors on Rats.\"\n\nShe has had several broods since. The negro thinks the Yellow Tom is\nthe father of some of them, and no doubt the negro is right.\n\nHe has sold her a number of times with a perfectly clear conscience,\nknowing quite well that it is only a question of a few days before the\nRoyal Analostan comes back again. Doubtless he is saving the money for\nsome honorable ambition. She has learned to tolerate the elevator, and\neven to ride up and down on it. The negro stoutly maintains that once,\nwhen she heard the meat-man, while she was on the top floor, she\nmanaged to press the button that called the elevator to take her down.\n\nShe is sleek and beautiful again. She is not only one of the four\nhundred that form the inner circle about the liver-barrow, but she is\nrecognized as the star pensioner among them. The liver-man is\npositively respectful. Not even the cream-and-chicken fed Cat of the\npawn-broker's wife has such a position as the Royal Analostan. But in\nspite of her prosperity, her social position, her royal name and fake\npedigree, the greatest pleasure of her life is to slip out and go\na-slumming in the gloaming, for now, as in her previous lives, she is\nat heart, and likely to be, nothing but a dirty little Slum Cat.\n\n\n\n\nARNAUX\n\nTHE CHRONICLE OF A HOMING PIGEON\n\nWe passed through the side door of a big stable on West Nineteenth\nStreet. The mild smell of the well-kept stalls was lost in the sweet\nodor of hay, as we mounted a ladder and entered the long garret. The\nsouth end was walled off, and the familiar \"Coo-oo, cooooo-oo,\nruk-at-a-coo,\" varied with the \"whirr, whirr, whirr\" of wings, informed\nus that we were at the  pigeon-loft.\n\nThis was the home of a famous lot of birds, and to-day there was to be\na race among fifty of the youngsters. The owner of the loft had asked\nme, as an unprejudiced outsider, to be judge in the contest.\n\nIt was a training race of the young birds. They had been taken out for\nshort distances with their parents once or twice, then set free to\nreturn to the loft. Now for the first time they were to be flown\nwithout the old ones. The point of start, Elizabeth, N. J., was a long\njourney for their first unaided attempt. \"But then,\" the trainer\nremarked, \"that's how we weed out the fools; only the best birds make\nit, and that's all we want back.\"\n\nThere was another side to the flight. It was to be a race among those\nthat did return. Each of the men about the loft as well as several\nneighboring fanciers were interested in one or other of the Homers.\nThey made up a purse for the winner, and on me was to devolve the\nimportant duty of deciding which should take the stakes. Not the first\nbird back, but the first bird into the loft, was to win, for one that\nreturns to his neighborhood merely, without immediately reporting at\nhome, is of little use as a letter-carrier.\n\nThe Homing Pigeon used to be called the Carrier because it carried\nmessages, but here I found that name restricted to the show bird, the\ncreature with absurdly developed wattles; the one that carries the\nmessages is now called the Homer, or Homing Pigeon--the bird that\nalways comes home. These Pigeons are not of any special color, nor have\nthey any of the fancy adornments of the kind that figure in Bird shows.\nThey are not bred for style, but for speed and for their mental gifts.\nThey must be true to their home, able to return to it without fail. The\nsense of direction is now believed to be located in the bony labyrinth\nof the ear. There is no creature with finer sense of locality and\ndirection than a good Homer, and the only visible proofs of it are the\ngreat bulge on each side of the head over the ears, and the superb\nwings that complete his equipment to obey the noble impulse of\nhome-love. Now the mental and physical equipments of the last lot of\nyoung birds were to be put to test.\n\nAlthough there were plenty of witnesses, I thought it best to close all\nbut one of the pigeon-doors and stand ready to shut that behind the\nfirst arrival.\n\nI shall never forget the sensations of that day. I had been warned:\n\"They start at 12; they should be here at 12:30; but look out, they\ncome like a whirlwind. You hardly see them till they're in.\"\n\nWe were ranged along the inside of the loft, each with an eye to a\ncrack or a partly closed pigeon-door, anxiously scanning the\nsouthwestern horizon, when one shouted: \"Look out--here they come!\"\nLike a white cloud they burst into view, low skimming over the city\nroofs, around a great chimney pile, and in two seconds after first\nbeing seen they were back. The flash of white, the rush of pinions,\nwere all so sudden, so short, that, though preparing, I was unprepared.\nI was at the only open door. A whistling arrow of blue shot in, lashed\nmy face with its pinions, and passed. I had hardly time to drop the\nlittle door, as a yell burst from the men, \"Arnaux! Arnaux! I told you\nhe would. Oh, he's a darling; only three months old and a winner--he's\na little darling!\" and Arnaux's owner danced, more for joy in his bird\nthan in the purse he had won.\n\nThe men sat or kneeled and watched him in positive reverence as he\ngulped a quantity of water, then turned to the food-trough.\n\n\"Look at that eye, those wings, and did you ever see such a breast? Oh,\nbut he's the real grit!\" so his owner prattled to the silent ones whose\nbirds had been defeated.\n\nThat was the first of Arnaux's exploits. Best of fifty birds from a\ngood loft, his future was bright with promise.\n\nHe was invested with the silver anklet of the Sacred Order of the High\nHomer. It bore his number, 2590 C, a number which to-day means much to\nall men in the world of the Homing Pigeon.\n\nIn that trial flight from Elizabeth only forty birds had returned. It\nis usually so. Some were weak and got left behind, some were foolish\nand strayed. By this simple process of flight selection the\npigeon-owners keep improving their stock. Of the ten, five were seen no\nmore, but five returned later that day, not all at once, but straggling\nin; the last of the loiterers was a big, lubberly Blue Pigeon. The man\nin the loft at the time called: \"Here comes that old sap-headed Blue\nthat Jakey was betting on. I didn't suppose he would come back, and I\ndidn't care, neither, for it's my belief he has a streak of Pouter.\"\n\nThe Big Blue, also called \"Corner-box\" from the nest where he was\nhatched, had shown remarkable vigor from the first. Though all were\nabout the same age, he had grown faster, was bigger, and incidentally\nhandsomer, though the fanciers cared little for that. He seemed fully\naware of his importance, and early showed a disposition to bully his\nsmaller cousins. His owner prophesied great things of him, but Billy,\nthe stable-man, had grave doubts over the length of his neck, the\nbigness of his crop, his carriage, and his over-size. \"A bird can't\nmake time pushing a bag of wind ahead of him. Them long legs is dead\nweight, an' a neck like that ain't got no gimp in it,\" Billy would\ngrunt disparagingly as he cleaned out the loft of a morning.\n\n\nII\n\nThe training of the birds went on after this at regular times. The\ndistance from home, of the start, was \"jumped\" twenty-five or thirty\nmiles farther each day, and its direction changed till the Homers knew\nthe country for one hundred and fifty miles around New York. The\noriginal fifty birds dwindled to twenty, for the rigid process weeds\nout not only the weak and ill-equipped, but those also who may have\ntemporary ailments or accidents, or who may make the mistake of\nover-eating at the start. There were many fine birds in that flight,\nbroad-breasted, bright-eyed, long-winged creatures, formed for swiftest\nflight, for high unconscious emprise, for these were destined to be\nmessengers in the service of man in times of serious need. Their colors\nwere mostly white, blue, or brown. They wore no uniform, but each and\nall of the chosen remnant had the brilliant eye and the bulging ears of\nthe finest Homer blood; and, best and choicest of all, nearly always\nfirst among them was little Arnaux. He had not much to distinguish him\nwhen at rest, for now all of the band had the silver anklet, but in the\nair it was that Arnaux showed his make, and when the opening of the\nhamper gave the order \"Start,\" it was Arnaux that first got under way,\nsoared to the height deemed needful to exclude all local influence,\ndivined the road to home, and took it, pausing not for food, drink, or\ncompany.\n\nNotwithstanding Billy's evil forecasts, the Big Blue of the Corner-box\nwas one of the chosen twenty. Often he was late in returning; he never\nwas first, and sometimes when he came back hours behind the rest, it\nwas plain that he was neither hungry nor thirsty, sure signs that he\nwas a loiterer by the way. Still he had come back; and now he wore on\nhis ankle, like the rest, the sacred badge and a number from the roll\nof possible fame. Billy despised him, set him in poor contrast with\nArnaux, but his owner would reply: \"Give him a chance;'soon ripe, soon\nrotten,' an' I always notice the best bird is the slowest to show up at\nfirst.\"\n\nBefore a year little Arnaux had made a record. The hardest of all work\nis over the sea, for there is no chance of aid from landmarks; and the\nhardest of all times at sea is in fog, for then even the sun is blotted\nout and there is nothing whatever for guidance. With memory, sight, and\nhearing unavailable, the Homer has one thing left, and herein is his\ngreat strength, the inborn sense of direction. There is only one thing\nthat can destroy this, and that is fear, hence the necessity of a stout\nlittle heart between those noble wings.\n\nArnaux, with two of his order, in course of training, had been shipped\non an ocean steamer bound for Europe. They were to be released out of\nsight of land, but a heavy fog set in and forbade the start. The\nsteamer took them onward, the intention being to send them back with\nthe next vessel. When ten hours out the engine broke down, the fog\nsettled dense over the sea, and the vessel was adrift and helpless as a\nlog. She could only whistle for assistance, and so far as results were\nconcerned, the captain might as well have wigwagged. Then the Pigeons\nwere thought of. Starback, 2592 C, was first selected. A message for\nhelp was written on waterproof paper, rolled up, and lashed to his\ntail-feathers on the under side. He was thrown into the air and\ndisappeared. Half an hour later, a second, the Big Blue Corner-box,\n2600 C, was freighted with a letter. He flew up, but almost immediately\nreturned and alighted on the rigging. He was a picture of pigeon fear;\nnothing could induce him to leave the ship. He was so terrorized that\nhe was easily caught and ignominiously thrust back into the coop.\n\nNow the third was brought out, a small, chunky bird. The shipmen did\nnot know him, but they noted down from his anklet his name and number,\nArnaux, 2590 C. It meant nothing to them. But the officer who held him\nnoted that his heart did not beat so wildly as that of the last bird.\nThe message was taken from the Big Blue. It ran:\n\n\n10 A.M., Tuesday.\n\nWe broke our shaft two hundred and ten miles out from New York; we are\ndrifting helplessly in the fog. Send out a tug as soon as possible. We\nare whistling one long, followed at once by one short, every sixty\nseconds.\n\n(Signed)  THE CAPTAIN.\n\n\nThis was rolled up, wrapped in waterproof film, addressed to the\nSteamship Company, and lashed to the under side of Arnaux's middle\ntail-feather.\n\nWhen thrown into the air, he circled round the ship, then round again\nhigher, then again higher in a wider circle, and he was lost to view;\nand still higher till quite out of sight and feeling of the ship. Shut\nout from the use of all his senses now but one, he gave himself up to\nthat. Strong in him it was, and untrammelled of that murderous despot\nFear. True as a needle to the Pole went Arnaux now, no hesitation, no\ndoubts; within one minute of leaving the coop he was speeding straight\nas a ray of light for the loft where he was born, the only place on\nearth where he could be made content.\n\nThat afternoon Billy was on duty when the whistle of fast wings was\nheard; a blue Flyer flashed into the loft and made for the\nwater-trough. He was gulping down mouthful after mouthful, when Billy\ngasped: \"Why, Arnaux, it's you, you beauty.\" Then, with the quick habit\nof the pigeon-man, he pulled out his watch and marked the time, 2:40\nP.M. A glance showed the tie string on the tail. He shut the door and\ndropped the catching-net quickly over Arnaux's head. A moment later he\nhad the roll in his hand; in two minutes he was speeding to the office\nof the Company, for there was a fat tip in view. There he learned that\nArnaux had made the two hundred and ten miles in fog, over sea, in four\nhours and forty minutes, and within one hour the needful help had set\nout for the unfortunate steamer.\n\nTwo hundred and ten miles in fog over sea in four hours and forty\nminutes! This was a noble record. It was duly inscribed in the rolls of\nthe Homing Club. Arnaux was held while the secretary, with rubber stamp\nand indelible ink, printed on a snowy primary of his right wing the\nrecord of the feat, with the date and reference number.\n\nStarback, the second bird, never was heard of again. No doubt he\nperished at sea.\n\nBlue Corner-box came back on the tug.\n\n\nIII\n\nThat was Arnaux's first public record; but others came fast, and\nseveral curious scenes were enacted in that old pigeon-loft with Arnaux\nas the central figure. One day a carriage drove up to the stable; a\nwhite-haired gentleman got out, climbed the dusty stairs, and sat all\nmorning in the loft with Billy. Peering from his gold-rimmed glasses,\nfirst at a lot of papers, next across the roofs of the city, waiting,\nwatching, for what? News from a little place not forty miles away--news\nof greatest weight to him, tidings that would make or break him,\ntidings that must reach him before it could be telegraphed: a telegram\nmeant at least an hour's delay at each end. What was faster than that\nfor forty miles? In those days there was but one thing--a high-class\nHomer. Money would count for nothing if he could win. The best, the\nvery best at any price he must have, and Arnaux, with seven indelible\nrecords on his pinions, was the chosen messenger. An hour went by,\nanother, and a third was begun, when with whistle of wings, the blue\nmeteor flashed into the loft. Billy slammed the door and caught him.\nDeftly he snipped the threads and handed the roll to the banker. The\nold man turned deathly pale, fumbled it open, then his color came back.\n\"Thank God!\" he gasped, and then went speeding to his Board meeting,\nmaster of the situation. Little Arnaux had saved him.\n\nThe banker wanted to buy the Homer, feeling in a vague way that he\nought to honor and cherish him; but Billy was very clear about it.\n\"What's the good? You can't buy a Homer's heart. You could keep him a\nprisoner, that's all; but nothing on earth could make him forsake the\nold loft where he was hatched.\" So Arnaux stayed at 211 West Nineteenth\nStreet. But the banker did not forget.\n\nThere is in our country a class of miscreants who think a flying Pigeon\nis fair game, because it is probably far from home, or they shoot him\nbecause it is hard to fix the crime. Many a noble Homer, speeding with\na life or death message, has been shot down by one of these wretches\nand remorselessly made into a pot-pie. Arnaux's brother Arnolf, with\nthree fine records on his wings, was thus murdered in the act of\nbearing a hasty summons for the doctor. As he fell dying at the\ngunner's feet, his superb wings spread out displayed his list of\nvictories. The silver badge on his leg was there, and the gunner was\nsmitten with remorse. He had the message sent on; he returned the dead\nbird to the Homing Club, saying that he \"found it.\" The owner came to\nsee him; the gunner broke down under cross-examination, and was forced\nto admit that he himself had shot the Homer, but did so in behalf of a\npoor sick neighbor who craved a pigeon-pie.\n\nThere were tears in the wrath of the pigeon-man. \"My bird, my beautiful\nArnolf, twenty times has he brought vital messages, three times has he\nmade records, twice has he saved human lives, and you'd shoot him for a\npot-pie. I could punish you under the law, but I have no heart for such\na poor revenge. I only ask you this, if ever again you have a sick\nneighbor who wants a pigeon-pie, come, we'll freely supply him with\npie-breed squabs; but if you have a trace of manhood about you, you\nwill never, never again shoot, or allow others to shoot, our noble and\npriceless messengers.\"\n\nThis took place while the banker was in touch with the loft, while his\nheart was warm for the Pigeons. He was a man of influence, and the\nPigeon Protective legislation at Albany was the immediate fruit of\nArnaux's exploit.\n\n\nIV\n\nBilly had never liked the Corner-box Blue (2600 C); notwithstanding the\nfact that he still continued in the ranks of the Silver Badge, Billy\nbelieved he was poor stuff. The steamer incident seemed to prove him\ncoward; he certainly was a bully.\n\nOne morning when Billy went in there was a row, two Pigeons, a large\nand a small, alternately clinching and sparring all over the floor,\nfeathers flying, dust and commotion everywhere. As soon as they were\nseparated Billy found that the little one was Arnaux and the big one\nwas the Corner-box Blue. Arnaux had made a good fight, but was\novermatched, for the Big Blue was half as heavy again.\n\nSoon it was very clear what they had fought over--a pretty little lady\nPigeon of the bluest Homing blood. The Big Blue cock had kept up a\nstate of bad feeling by his bullying, but it was the Little Lady that\nhad made them close in mortal combat. Billy had no authority to wring\nthe Big Blue's neck, but he interfered as far as he could in behalf of\nhis favorite Arnaux.\n\nPigeon marriages are arranged somewhat like those of mankind.\nPropinquity is the first thing: force the pair together for a time and\nlet nature take its course. So Billy locked Arnaux and the Little Lady\nup together in a separate apartment for two weeks, and to make doubly\nsure he locked Big Blue up with an Available Lady in another apartment\nfor two weeks.\n\nThings turned out just as was expected. The Little Lady surrendered to\nArnaux and the Available Lady to the Big Blue. Two nests were begun and\neverything shaped for a \"lived happily ever after.\" But the Big Blue\nwas very big and handsome. He could blow out his crop and strut in the\nsun and make rainbows all round his neck in a way that might turn the\nheart of the staidest Homerine.\n\nArnaux, though sturdily built, was small and except for his brilliant\neyes, not especially good-looking. Moreover, he was often away on\nimportant business, and the Big Blue had nothing to do but stay around\nthe loft and display his unlettered wings.\n\nIt is the custom of moralists to point to the lower animals, and\nespecially to the Pigeon, for examples of love and constancy, and\nproperly so, but, alas there are exceptions. Vice is not by any means\nlimited to the human race.\n\nArnaux's wife had been deeply impressed with the Big Blue, at the\noutset, and at length while her spouse was absent the dreadful thing\ntook place.\n\nArnaux returned from Boston one day to find that the Big Blue, while he\nretained his own Available Lady in the corner-box, had also annexed the\nbox and wife that belonged to himself, and a desperate battle followed.\nThe only spectators were the two wives, but they maintained an\nindifferent aloofness. Arnaux fought with his famous wings, but they\nwere none the better weapons because they now bore twenty records. His\nbeak and feet were small, as became his blood, and his stout little\nheart could not make up for his lack of weight. The battle went against\nhim. His wife sat unconcernedly in the nest, as though it were not her\naffair, and Arnaux might have been killed but for the timely arrival of\nBilly. He was angry enough to wring the Blue bird's neck, but the bully\nescaped from the loft in time. Billy took tender care of Arnaux for a\nfew days. At the end of a week he was well again, and in ten days he\nwas once more on the road. Meanwhile he had evidently forgiven his\nfaithless wife, for, without any apparent feeling, he took up his\nnesting as before. That month he made two new records. He brought a\nmessage ten miles in eight minutes, and he came from Boston in four\nhours. Every moment of the way he had been impelled by the\nmaster-passion of home-love. But it was a poor home-coming if his wife\nfigured at all in his thoughts, for he found her again flirting with\nthe Big Blue cock. Tired as he was, the duel was renewed, and again\nwould have been to a finish but for Billy's interference. He separated\nthe fighters, then shut the Blue cock up in a coop, determined to get\nrid of him in some way. Meanwhile the \"Any Age Sweepstakes\" handicap\nfrom Chicago to New York was on, a race of nine hundred miles. Arnaux\nhad been entered six months before. His forfeit-money was up, and\nnotwithstanding his domestic complications, his friends felt that he\nmust not fail to appear.\n\nThe birds were sent by train to Chicago, to be liberated at intervals\nthere according to their handicap, and last of the start was Arnaux.\nThey lost no time, and outside of Chicago several of these prime Flyers\njoined by common impulse into a racing flock that went through air on\nthe same invisible track. A Homer may make a straight line when\nfollowing his general sense of direction, but when following a familiar\nback track he sticks to the well-remembered landmarks. Most of the\nbirds had been trained by way of Columbus and Buffalo. Arnaux knew the\nColumbus route, but also he knew that by Detroit, and after leaving\nLake Michigan, he took the straight line for Detroit. Thus he caught up\non his handicap and had the advantage of many miles. Detroit, Buffalo,\nRochester, with their familiar towers and chimneys, faded behind him,\nand Syracuse was near at hand. It was now late afternoon; six hundred\nmiles in twelve hours he had flown and was undoubtedly leading the\nrace; but the usual thirst of the Flyer had attacked him. Skimming over\nthe city roofs, he saw a loft of Pigeons, and descending from his high\ncourse in two or three great circles, he followed the ingoing Birds to\nthe loft and drank greedily at the water-trough, as he had often done\nbefore, and as every pigeon-lover hospitably expects the messengers to\ndo. The owner of the loft was there and noted the strange Bird. He\nstepped quietly to where he could inspect him. One of his own Pigeons\nmade momentary opposition to the stranger, and Arnaux, sparring\nsidewise with an open wing in Pigeon style, displayed the long array of\nprinted records. The man was a fancier. His interest was aroused; he\npulled the string that shut the flying door, and in a few minutes\nArnaux was his prisoner.\n\nThe robber spread the much-inscribed wings, read record after record,\nand glancing at the silver badge--it should have been gold--he read his\nname--Arnaux; then exclaimed: \"Arnaux! Arnaux! Oh, I've heard of you,\nyou little beauty, and it's glad I am to trap you.\" He snipped the\nmessage from his tail, unrolled it, and read: \"Arnaux left Chicago this\nmorning at 4 A.M., scratched in the Any Age Sweepstakes for New York.\"\n\n\"Six hundred miles in twelve hours! By the powers, that's a\nrecord-breaker.\" And the pigeon-stealer gently, almost reverently, put\nthe fluttering Bird safely into a padded cage. \"Well,\" he added, \"I\nknow it's no use trying to make you stay, but I can breed from you and\nhave some of your strain.\"\n\nSo Arnaux was shut up in a large and comfortable loft with several\nother prisoners. The man, though a thief, was a lover of Homers; he\ngave his captive everything that could insure his comfort and safety.\nFor three months he left him in that loft. At first Arnaux did nothing\nall day but walk up and down the wire screen, looking high and low for\nmeans of escape; but in the fourth month he seemed to have abandoned\nthe attempt, and the watchful jailer began the second part of his\nscheme. He introduced a coy young lady Pigeon. But it did not seem to\nanswer; Arnaux was not even civil to her. After a time the jailer\nremoved the female, and Arnaux was left in solitary confinement for a\nmonth. Now a different female was brought in, but with no better luck;\nand thus it went on--for a year different charmers were introduced.\nArnaux either violently repelled them or was scornfully indifferent,\nand at times the old longing to get away, came back with twofold power,\nso that he darted up and down the wire front or dashed with all his\nforce against it.\n\nWhen the storied feathers of his wings began their annual moult, his\njailer saved them as precious things, and as each new feather came he\nreproduced on it the record of its owner's fame.\n\nTwo years went slowly by, and the jailer had put Arnaux in a new loft\nand brought in another lady Pigeon. By chance she closely resembled the\nfaithless one at home. Arnaux actually heeded the newcomer. Once the\njailer thought he saw his famous prisoner paying some slight attention\nto the charmer, and, yes, he surely saw her preparing a nest. Then\nassuming that they had reached a full understanding, the jailer, for\nthe first time, opened the outlet, and Arnaux was free. Did he hang\naround in doubt? Did he hesitate? No, not for one moment. As soon as\nthe drop of the door left open the way, he shot through, he spread\nthose wonderful blazoned wings, and, with no second thought for the\nlatest Circe, sprang from the hated prison loft--away and away.\n\n\nV\n\nWe have no means of looking into the Pigeon's mind; we may go wrong in\nconjuring up for it deep thoughts of love and welcome home; but we are\nsafe in this, we cannot too strongly paint, we cannot too highly praise\nand glorify that wonderful God-implanted, mankind-fostered home-love\nthat glows unquenchably in this noble bird. Call it what you like, a\nmere instinct deliberately constructed by man for his selfish ends,\nexplain it away if you will, dissect it, misname it, and it still is\nthere, in overwhelming, imperishable master-power, as long as the brave\nlittle heart and wings can beat.\n\nHome, home, sweet home! Never had mankind a stronger love of home than\nArnaux. The trials and sorrows of the old pigeon-loft were forgotten in\nthat all-dominating force of his nature. Not years of prison bars, not\nlater loves, nor fear of death, could down its power; and Arnaux, had\nthe gift of song been his, must surely have sung as sings a hero in his\nhighest joy, when sprang he from the 'lighting board, up-circling free,\nsoaring, drawn by the only impulse that those glorious wings would\nhonor,--up, up, in widening, heightening circles of ashy blue in the\nblue, flashing those many-lettered wings of white, till they seemed\nlike jets of fire--up and on, driven by that home-love, faithful to his\nonly home and to his faithless mate; closing his eyes, they say;\nclosing his ears, they tell; shutting his mind,--we all believe,--to\nnearer things, to two years of his life, to one half of his prime, but\nsoaring in the blue, retiring, as a saint might do, into his inner\nself, giving himself up to that inmost guide. He was the captain of the\nship, but the pilot, the chart and compass, all, were that\ndeep-implanted instinct. One thousand feet above the trees the\ninscrutable whisper came, and Arnaux in arrowy swiftness now was\npointing for the south-southeast. The little flashes of white fire on\neach side were lost in the low sky, and the reverent robber of Syracuse\nsaw Arnaux nevermore.\n\nThe fast express was steaming down the valley. It was far ahead, but\nArnaux overtook and passed it, as the flying wild Duck passes the\nswimming Muskrat. High in the valleys he went, low over the hills of\nChenango, where the pines were combing the breezes.\n\nOut from his oak-tree eyrie a Hawk came wheeling and sailing, silent,\nfor he had marked the Flyer, and meant him for his prey. Arnaux turned\nneither right nor left, nor raised nor lowered his flight, nor lost a\nwing-beat. The Hawk was in waiting in the gap ahead, and Arnaux passed\nhim, even as a Deer in his prime may pass by a Bear in his pathway.\nHome! home! was the only burning thought, the blinding impulse.\n\nBeat, beat, beat, those flashing pinions went with speed unslacked on\nthe now familiar road. In an hour the Catskills were at hand. In two\nhours he was passing over them. Old friendly places, swiftly coming\nnow, lent more force to his wings. Home! home! was the silent song that\nhis heart was singing. Like the traveller dying of thirst, that sees\nthe palm-trees far ahead, his brilliant eyes took in the distant smoke\nof Manhattan.\n\nOut from the crest of the Catskills there launched a Falcon. Swiftest\nof the race of rapine, proud of his strength, proud of his wings, he\nrejoiced in a worthy prey. Many and many a Pigeon had been borne to his\nnest, and riding the wind he came, swooping, reserving his strength,\nawaiting the proper time. Oh, how well he knew the very moment! Down,\ndown like a flashing javelin; no wild Duck, no Hawk could elude him,\nfor this was a Falcon. Turn back now, O Homer, and save yourself; go\nround the dangerous hills. Did he turn? Not a whit! for this was\nArnaux. Home! home! home! was his only thought. To meet the danger, he\nmerely added to his speed; and the Peregrine stooped; stooped at\nwhat?--a flashing of color, a twinkling of whiteness--and went back\nempty. While Arnaux cleft the air of the valley as a stone from a\nsling, to be lost--a white-winged bird--a spot with flashing halo--and,\nquickly, a speck in the offing. On down the dear valley of Hudson, the\nwell-known highway; for two years he had not seen it! Now he dropped\nlow as the noon breeze came north and ruffled the river below him.\nHome! home! home! and the towers of a city are coming in view! Home!\nhome! past the great spider-bridge of Poughkeepsie, skimming, skirting\nthe river-banks. Low now by the bank as the wind arose. Low, alas! too\nlow!\n\nWhat fiend was it tempted a gunner in June to lurk on that hill by the\nmargin? what devil directed his gaze to the twinkling of white that\ncame from the blue to the northward? Oh, Arnaux, Arnaux, skimming low,\nforget not the gunner of old! Too low, too low you are clearing that\nhill. Too low--too late!  Flash--bang! and the death-hail has reached\nhim; reached, maimed, but not downed him. Out of the flashing pinions\nbroken feathers printed with records went fluttering earthward. The\n\"naught\" of his sea record was gone. Not two hundred and ten, but\ntwenty-one miles it now read. Oh, shameful pillage! A dark stain\nappeared on his bosom, but Arnaux kept on. Home, home, homeward bound.\nThe danger was past in an instant. Home, homeward he steered straight\nas before, but the wonderful speed was diminished; not a mile a minute\nnow; and the wind made undue sounds in his tattered pinions. The stain\nin his breast told of broken force; but on, straight on, he flew. Home,\nhome was in sight, and the pain in his breast was forgotten. The tall\ntowers of the city were in clear view of his far-seeing eye as he\nskimmed by the high cliffs of Jersey. On, on--the pinion might flag,\nthe eye might darken, but the home-love was stronger and stronger.\n\nUnder the tall Palisades, to be screened from the wind, he passed, over\nthe sparkling water, over the trees, under the Peregrines' eyrie, under\nthe pirates' castle where the great grim Peregrines sat; peering like\nblack-masked highwaymen they marked the on-coming Pigeon. Arnaux knew\nthem of old. Many a message was lying undelivered in that nest, many a\nrecord-bearing plume had fluttered away from its fastness. But Arnaux\nhad faced them before, and now he came as before--on, onward, swift,\nbut not as he had been; the deadly gun had sapped his force, had\nlowered his speed. On, on; and the Peregrines, biding their time, went\nforth like two bow-bolts; strong and lightning-swift they went against\none weak and wearied.\n\nWhy tell of the race that followed? Why paint the despair of a brave\nlittle heart in sight of the home he had craved in vain? in a minute\nall was over. The Peregrines screeched in their triumph. Screeching and\nsailing, they swung to their eyrie, and the prey in their claws was the\nbody, the last of the bright little Arnaux. There on the rocks the\nbeaks and claws of the bandits were red with the life of the hero. Torn\nasunder were those matchless wings, and their records were scattered\nunnoticed. In sun and in storm they lay till the killers themselves\nwere killed and their stronghold rifled. And none knew the fate of the\npeerless Bird till deep in the dust and rubbish of that pirate-nest the\navenger found, among others of its kind, a silver ring, the sacred\nbadge of the High Homer, and read upon it the pregnant inscription:\n\"ARNAUX, 2590 C.\"\n\n\n\n\nBADLANDS BILLY\n\nThe Wolf that Won\n\nI\n\nTHE HOWL BY NIGHT\n\nDo you know the three calls of the hunting Wolf:--the long-drawn deep\nhowl, the muster, that tells of game discovered but too strong for the\nfinder to manage alone; and the higher ululation that ringing and\nswelling is the cry of the pack on a hot scent; and the sharp bark\ncoupled with a short howl that, seeming least of all, is yet a gong of\ndoom, for this is the cry \"Close in\"--this is the finish?\n\nWe were riding the Badland Buttes, King and I, with a pack of various\nhunting Dogs stringing behind or trotting alongside. The sun had gone\nfrom the sky, and a blood-streak marked the spot where he died, away\nover Sentinel Butte. The hills were dim, the valleys dark, when from\nthe nearest gloom there rolled a long-drawn cry that all men recognize\ninstinctively--melodious, yet with a tone in it that sends a shudder up\nthe spine, though now it has lost all menace for mankind. We listened\nfor a moment. It was the Wolf-hunter who broke silence: \"That's\nBadlands Billy; ain't it a voice? He's out for his beef to-night.\"\n\n\nII\n\nANCIENT DAYS\n\nIn pristine days the Buffalo herds were followed by bands of Wolves\nthat preyed on the sick, the weak, and the wounded. When the Buffalo\nwere exterminated the Wolves were hard put for support, but the Cattle\ncame and solved the question for them by taking the Buffaloes' place.\nThis caused the wolf-war. The ranchmen offered a bounty for each Wolf\nkilled, and every cowboy out of work, was supplied with traps and\npoison for wolf-killing. The very expert made this their sole business\nand became known as wolvers. King Ryder was one of these. He was a\nquiet, gentlespoken fellow, with a keen eye and an insight into animal\nlife that gave him especial power over Broncos and Dogs, as well as\nWolves and Bears, though in the last two cases it was power merely to\nsurmise where they were and how best to get at them. He had been a\nwolver for years, and greatly surprised me by saying that \"never in all\nhis experience had he known a Gray-wolf to attack a human being.\"\n\nWe had many camp-fire talks while the other men were sleeping, and then\nit was I learned the little that he knew about Badlands Billy. \"Six\ntimes have I seen him and the seventh will be Sunday, you bet. He takes\nhis long rest then.\" And thus on the very ground where it all fell out,\nto the noise of the night wind and the yapping of the Coyote,\ninterrupted sometimes by the deep-drawn howl of the hero himself, I\nheard chapters of this history which, with others gleaned in many\nfields, gave me the story of the Big Dark Wolf of Sentinel Butte.\n\n\nIII\n\nIN THE CA\u00d1ON\n\nAway back in the spring of '92 a wolver was \"wolving\" on the east side\nof the Sentinel Mountain that so long was a principal landmark of the\nold Plainsmen. Pelts were not good in May, but the bounties were high,\nfive dollars a head, and double for She-wolves. As he went down to the\ncreek one morning he saw a Wolf coming to drink on the other side. He\nhad an easy shot, and on killing it found it was a nursing She-wolf.\nEvidently her family were somewhere near, so he spent two or three days\nsearching in all the likely places, but found no clue to the den.\n\nTwo weeks afterward, as the wolver rode down an adjoining ca\u00f1on, he saw\na Wolf come out of a hole. The ever-ready rifle flew up, and another\nten-dollar scalp was added to his string. Now he dug into the den and\nfound the litter, a most surprising one indeed, for it consisted not of\nthe usual five or six Wolf-pups, but of eleven, and these, strange to\nsay, were of two sizes, five of them larger and older than the other\nsix. Here were two distinct families with one mother, and as he added\ntheir scalps to his string of trophies the truth dawned on the hunter.\nOne lot was surely the family of the She-wolf he had killed two weeks\nbefore. The case was clear: the little ones awaiting the mother that\nwas never to come, had whined piteously and more loudly as their\nhunger-pangs increased; the other mother passing had heard the Cubs;\nher heart was tender now, her own little ones had so recently come, and\nshe cared for the orphans, carried them to her own den, and was\nproviding for the double family when the rifleman had cut the gentle\nchapter short.\n\nMany a wolver has dug into a wolf-den to find nothing. The old Wolves\nor possibly the Cubs themselves often dig little side pockets and off\ngalleries, and when an enemy is breaking in they hide in these. The\nloose earth conceals the small pocket and thus the Cubs escape. When\nthe wolver retired with his scalps he did not know that the biggest of\nall the Cubs, was still in the den, and even had he waited about for\ntwo hours, he might have been no wiser. Three hours later the sun went\ndown and there was a slight scratching afar in the hole; first two\nlittle gray paws, then a small black nose appeared in a soft sand-pile\nto one side of the den. At length the Cub came forth from his hiding.\nHe had been frightened by the attack on the den; now he was perplexed\nby its condition.\n\nIt was thrice as large as it had been and open at the top now. Lying\nnear were things that smelled like his brothers and sisters, but they\nwere repellent to him. He was filled with fear as he sniffed at them,\nand sneaked aside into a thicket of grass, as a Night-hawk boomed over\nhis head. He crouched all night in that thicket. He did not dare to go\nnear the den, and knew not where else he could go. The next morning\nwhen two Vultures came swooping down on the bodies, the Wolf-cub ran\noff in the thicket, and seeking its deepest cover, was led down a\nravine to a wide valley. Suddenly there arose from the grass a big\nShe-wolf, like his mother, yet different, a stranger, and instinctively\nthe stray Cub sank to the earth, as the old Wolf bounded on him. No\ndoubt the Cub had been taken for some lawful prey, but a whiff set that\nright. She stood over him for an instant. He grovelled at her feet. The\nimpulse to kill him or at least give him a shake died away. He had the\nsmell of a young Cub. Her own were about his age, her heart was\ntouched, and when he found courage enough to put his nose up and smell\nher nose, she made no angry demonstration except a short half-hearted\ngrowl. Now, however, he had smelled something that he sorely needed. He\nhad not fed since the day before, and when the old Wolf turned to leave\nhim, he tumbled after her on clumsy puppy legs. Had the Mother-wolf\nbeen far from home he must soon have been left behind, but the nearest\nhollow was the chosen place, and the Cub arrived at the den's mouth\nsoon after the Mother-wolf.\n\nA stranger is an enemy, and the old one rushing forth to the defense,\nmet the Cub again, and again was restrained by something that rose in\nher responsive to the smell. The Cub had thrown himself on his back in\nutter submission, but that did not prevent his nose reporting to him\nthe good thing almost within reach. The She-wolf went into the den and\ncurled herself about her brood; the Cub persisted in following. She\nsnarled as he approached her own little ones, but disarming wrath each\ntime by submission and his very cubhood, he was presently among her\nbrood, helping himself to what he wanted so greatly, and thus he\nadopted himself into her family. In a few days he was so much one of\nthem that the mother forgot about his being a stranger. Yet he was\ndifferent from them in several ways--older by two weeks, stronger, and\nmarked on the neck and shoulders with what afterward grew to be a dark\nmane.\n\nLittle Duskymane could not have been happier in his choice of a\nfoster-mother, for the Yellow Wolf was not only a good hunter with a\nfund of cunning, but she was a Wolf of modern ideas as well. The old\ntricks of tolling a Prairie Dog, relaying for Antelope, houghing a\nBronco or flanking a Steer she had learned partly from instinct and\npartly from the example of her more experienced relatives, when they\njoined to form the winter bands. But, just as necessary nowadays, she\nhad learned that all men carry guns, that guns are irresistible, that\nthe only way to avoid them is by keeping out of sight while the sun is\nup, and yet that at night they are harmless. She had a fair\ncomprehension of traps, indeed she had been in one once, and though she\nleft a toe behind in pulling free, it was a toe most advantageously\ndisposed of; thenceforth, though not comprehending the nature of the\ntrap, she was thoroughly imbued with the horror of it, with the idea\nindeed that iron is dangerous, and at any price it should be avoided.\n\nOn one occasion, when she and five others were planning to raid a Sheep\nyard, she held back at the last minute because some newstrung wires\nappeared. The others rushed in to find the Sheep beyond their reach,\nthemselves in a death-trap.\n\nThus she had learned the newer dangers, and while it is unlikely that\nshe had any clear mental conception of them she had acquired a\nwholesome distrust of all things strange, and a horror of one or two in\nparticular that proved her lasting safeguard. Each year she raised her\nbrood successfully and the number of Yellow Wolves increased in the\ncountry. Guns, traps, men and the new animals they brought had been\nlearned, but there was yet another lesson before her--a terrible one\nindeed.\n\nAbout the time Duskymane's brothers were a month old his foster-mother\nreturned in a strange condition. She was frothing at the mouth, her\nlegs trembled, and she fell in a convulsion near the doorway of the\nden, but recovering, she came in. Her jaws quivered, her teeth rattled\na little as she tried to lick the little ones; she seized her own front\nleg and bit it so as not to bite them, but at length she grew quieter\nand calmer. The Cubs had retreated in fear to a far pocket, but now\nthey returned and crowded about her to seek their usual food. The\nmother recovered, but was very ill for two or three days, and those\ndays with the poison in her system worked disaster for the brood. They\nwere terribly sick; only the strongest could survive, and when the\ntrial of strength was over, the den contained only the old one and the\nBlack-maned Cub, the one she had adopted. Thus little Duskymane became\nher sole charge; all her strength was devoted to feeding him, and he\nthrived apace.\n\nWolves are quick to learn certain things. The reactions of smell are\nthe greatest that a Wolf can feel, and thenceforth both Cub and\nfoster-mother experienced a quick, unreasoning sense of fear and hate\nthe moment the smell of strychnine reached them.\n\n\nIV\n\nTHE RUDIMENTS OF WOLF TRAINING\n\nWith the sustenance of seven at his service the little Wolf had every\nreason to grow, and when in the autumn he began to follow his mother on\nher hunting trips he was as tall as she was. Now a change of region was\nforced on them, for numbers of little Wolves were growing up. Sentinel\nButte, the rocky fastness of the plains, was claimed by many that were\nbig and strong; the weaker must move out, and with them Yellow Wolf and\nthe Dusky Cub.\n\nWolves have no language in the sense that man has; their vocabulary is\nprobably limited to a dozen howls, barks, and grunts expressing the\nsimplest emotions; but they have several other modes of conveying\nideas, and one very special method of spreading information--the\nWolf-telephone. Scattered over their range are a number of recognized\n\"centrals.\" Sometimes these are stones, sometimes the angle of\ncross-trails, sometimes a Buffalo-skull--indeed, any conspicuous object\nnear a main trail is used. A Wolf calling here, as a Dog does at a\ntelegraph post, or a Muskrat at a certain mud-pie point, leaves his\nbody-scent and learns what other visitors have been there recently to\ndo the same. He learns also whence they came and where they went, as\nwell as something about their condition, whether hunted, hungry,\ngorged, or sick. By this system of registration a Wolf knows where his\nfriends, as well as his foes, are to be found. And Duskymane, following\nafter the Yellow Wolf, was taught the places and uses of the many\nsignal-stations without any conscious attempt at teaching on the part\nof his foster-mother. Example backed by his native instincts was indeed\nthe chief teacher, but on one occasion at least there was something\nvery like the effort of a human parent to guard her child in danger.\n\nThe Dark Cub had learned the rudiments of Wolf life: that the way to\nfight Dogs is to run, and to fight as you run, never grapple, but snap,\nsnap, snap, and make for the rough country where Horses cannot bring\ntheir riders.\n\nHe learned not to bother about the Coyotes that follow for the pickings\nwhen you hunt; you cannot catch them and they do you no harm.\n\nHe knew he must not waste time dashing after Birds that alight on the\nground; and that he must keep away from the little black and white\nAnimal with the bushy tail. It is not very good to eat, and it is very,\nvery bad to smell.\n\nPoison! Oh, he never forgot that smell from the day when the den was\ncleared of all his foster-brothers.\n\nHe now knew that the first move in attacking Sheep was to scatter them;\na lone Sheep is a foolish and easy prey; that the way to round up a\nband of Cattle was to frighten a Calf.\n\nHe learned that he must always attack a Steer behind, a Sheep in front,\nand a Horse in the middle, that is, on the flank, and never, never\nattack a man at all, never even face him. But an important lesson was\nadded to these, one in which the mother consciously taught him of a\nsecret foe.\n\n\nV\n\nTHE LESSON ON TRAPS\n\nA Calf had died in branding-time and now, two weeks later, was in its\nbest state for perfect taste, not too fresh, not over-ripe--that is, in\na Wolf's opinion--and the wind carried this information afar. The\nYellow Wolf and Duskymane were out for supper, though not yet knowing\nwhere, when the tidings of veal arrived, and they trotted up the wind.\nThe Calf was in an open place, and plain to be seen in the moonlight. A\nDog would have trotted right up to the carcass, an  old-time Wolf might\nhave done so, but constant war had developed constant vigilance in the\nYellow Wolf, and trusting nothing and no one but her nose, she slacked\nher speed to a walk. On coming in easy view she stopped, and for long\nswung her nose, submitting the wind to the closest possible chemical\nanalysis. She tried it with her finest tests, blew all the membranes\nclean again and tried it once more; and this was the report of the\ntrusty nostrils, yes, the unanimous report. First, rich and racy smell\nof Calf, seventy per cent.; smells of grass, bugs, wood, flowers,\ntrees, sand, and other uninteresting negations, fifteen per cent.;\nsmell of her Cub and herself, positive but ignorable, ten per cent.;\nsmell of human tracks, two per cent.; smell of smoke, one per cent.; of\nsweaty leather smell, one per cent.; of human body-scent (not\ndiscernible in some samples), one-half per cent.; smell of iron, a\ntrace.\n\nThe old Wolf crouched a little but sniffed hard with swinging nose; the\nyoung Wolf imitatively did the same. She backed off to a greater\ndistance; the Cub stood. She gave a low whine; he followed unwillingly.\nShe circled around the tempting carcass; a new smell was\nrecorded--Coyote trail-scent, soon followed by Coyote body-scent. Yes,\nthere they were sneaking along a near ridge, and now as she passed to\none side the samples changed, the wind had lost nearly every trace of\nCalf; miscellaneous, commonplace, and uninteresting smells were there\ninstead. The human track-scent was as before, the trace of leather was\ngone, but fully one-half per cent, of iron-odor, and body smell of man\nraised to nearly two per cent.\n\nFully alarmed, she conveyed her fear to the Cub, by her rigid pose, her\nair intent, and her slightly bristling mane.\n\nShe continued her round. At one time on a high place the human body\nscent was doubly strong, then as she dropped it faded. Then the wind\nbrought the full calf-odor with several track-scents of Coyotes and\nsundry Birds. Her suspicions were lulling as in a smalling circle she\nneared the tempting feast from the windward side. She had even advanced\nstraight toward it for a few steps when the sweaty leather sang loud\nand strong again, and smoke and iron mingled like two strands of a\nparti-colored yarn. Centring all her attention on this, she advanced\nwithin two leaps of the Calf. There on the ground was a scrap of\nleather, telling also of a human touch, close at hand the Calf, and now\nthe iron and smoke on the full vast smell of Calf were like a snake\ntrail across the trail of a whole Beef herd. It was so slight that the\nCub, with the appetite and impatience of youth, pressed up against his\nmother's shoulder to go past and eat without delay. She seized him by\nthe neck and flung him back. A stone struck by his feet rolled forward\nand stopped with a peculiar clink. The danger smell was greatly\nincreased at this, and the Yellow Wolf backed slowly from the feast,\nthe Cub unwillingly following.\n\nAs he looked wistfully he saw the Coyotes drawing nearer, mindful\nchiefly to avoid the Wolves. He watched their really cautious advance;\nit seemed like heedless rushing compared with his mother's approach.\nThe Calf smell rolled forth in exquisite and overpowering excellence\nnow, for they were tearing the meat, when a sharp clank was heard and a\nyelp from a Coyote. At the same time the quiet night was shocked with a\nroar and a flash of fire. Heavy shots spattered Calf and Coyotes, and\nyelping like beaten Dogs they scattered, excepting one that was killed\nand a second struggling in the trap set here by the ever-active\nwolvers. The air was charged with the hateful smells redoubled now, and\nhorrid smells additional. The Yellow Wolf glided down a hollow and led\nher Cub away in flight, but, as they went, they saw a man rush from the\nbank near where the mother's nose had warned her of the human scent.\nThey saw him kill the caught Coyote and set the traps for more.\n\n\n\nVI\n\nTHE BEGUILING OF THE YELLOW WOLF\n\nThe life game is a hard game, for we may win ten thousand times, and if\nwe fail but once our gain is gone. How many hundred times had the\nYellow Wolf scorned the traps; how many Cubs she had trained to do the\nsame! Of all the dangers to her life she best knew traps.\n\nOctober had come; the Cub was now much taller than the mother. The\nwolver had seen them once--a Yellow Wolf followed by another, whose\nlong, awkward legs, big, soft feet, thin neck, and skimpy tail\nproclaimed him this year's Cub. The record of the dust and sand said\nthat the old one had lost a right front toe, and that the young one was\nof giant size.\n\nIt was the wolver that thought to turn the carcass of the Calf to\nprofit, but he was disappointed in getting Coyotes instead of Wolves.\nIt was the beginning of the trapping season, for this month fur is\nprime. A young trapper often fastens the bait on the trap; an\nexperienced one does not. A good trapper will even put the bait at one\nplace and the trap ten or twenty feet away, but at a spot that the Wolf\nis likely to cross in circling. A favorite plan is to hide three or\nfour traps around an open place, and scatter some scraps of meat in the\nmiddle. The traps are buried out of sight after being smoked to hide\nthe taint of hands and iron. Sometimes no bait is used except a little\npiece of cotton or a tuft of feathers that may catch the Wolf's eye or\npique its curiosity and tempt it to circle on the fateful, treacherous\nground. A good trapper varies his methods continually so that the\nWolves cannot learn his ways. Their only safeguards are perpetual\nvigilance and distrust of all smells that are known to be of man.\n\nThe wolver, with a load of the strongest steel traps, had begun his\nautumn work on the 'Cottonwood.'\n\nAn old Buffalo trail crossing the river followed a little draw that\nclimbed the hills to the level upland. All animals use these trails,\nWolves and Foxes as well as Cattle and Deer: they are the main\nthoroughfares. A cottonwood stump not far from where it plunged to the\ngravelly stream was marked with Wolf signs that told the wolver of its\nuse. Here was an excellent place for traps, not on the trail, for\nCattle were here in numbers, but twenty yards away on a level, sandy\nspot he set four traps in a twelve-foot square. Near each he scattered\ntwo or three scraps of meat; three or four white feathers on a spear of\ngrass in the middle completed the setting. No human eye, few animal\nnoses, could have detected the hidden danger of that sandy ground, when\nthe sun and wind and the sand itself had dissipated the man-track taint.\n\nThe Yellow Wolf had seen and passed, and taught her giant son to pass,\nsuch traps a thousand times before.\n\nThe Cattle came to water in the heat of the day. They strung down the\nBuffalo path as once the Buffalo did. The little Vesper-birds flitted\nbefore them, the Cowbirds rode on them, and the Prairie-dogs chattered\nat them, just as they once did at the Buffalo.\n\nDown from the gray-green mesa with its green-gray rocks, they marched\nwith imposing solemnity, importance, and directness of purpose. Some\nfrolicsome Calves, playing along-side the trail, grew sober and walked\nbehind their mothers as the river flat was reached. The old Cow that\nheaded the procession sniffed suspiciously as she passed the \"trap\nset,\" but it was far away, otherwise she would have pawed and bellowed\nover the scraps of bloody beef till every trap was sprung and harmless.\n\nBut she led to the river. After all had drunk their fill they lay down\non the nearest bank till late afternoon. Then their unheard dinner-gong\naroused them, and started them on the backward march to where the\nrichest pastures grew.\n\nOne or two small birds had picked at the scraps of meat, some\nblue-bottle flies buzzed about, but the sinking sun saw the sandy mask\nuntouched.\n\nA brown Marsh Hawk came skimming over the river flat as the sun began\nhis color play. Blackbirds dashed into thickets, and easily avoided his\nclumsy pounce. It was too early for the Mice, but, as he skimmed the\nground, his keen eye caught the flutter of feathers by the trap and\nturned his flight. The feathers in their uninteresting emptiness were\nexposed before he was near, but now he saw the scraps of meat.\nGuileless of cunning, he alighted and was devouring a second lump\nwhen--clank--the dust was flirted high and the Marsh Hawk was held by\nhis toes, struggling vainly in the jaws of a powerful wolf-trap. He was\nnot much hurt. His ample wings winnowed from time to time, in efforts\nto be free, but he was helpless, even as a Sparrow might be in a\nrat-trap, and when the sun had played his fierce chromatic scale, his\nswan-song sung, and died as he dies only in the blazing west, and the\nshades had fallen on the melodramatic scene of the Mouse in the\nelephant-trap, there was a deep, rich sound on the high flat butte,\nanswered by another, neither very long, neither repeated, and both\ninstinctive rather than necessary. One was the muster-call of an\nordinary Wolf, the other the answer of a very big male, not a pair in\nthis case, but mother and son--Yellow Wolf and Duskymane. They came\ntrotting together down the Buffalo trail. They paused at the telephone\nbox on the hill and again at the old cottonwood root, and were making\nfor the river when the Hawk in the trap fluttered his wings. The old\nWolf turned toward him,-a wounded bird on the ground surely, and she\nrushed forward. Sun and sand soon burn all trail-scents; there was\nnothing to warn her. She sprang on the flopping bird and a chop of her\njaws ended his troubles, but a horrid sound--the gritting of her teeth\non steel--told her of peril. She dropped the Hawk and sprang backward\nfrom the dangerous ground, but landed in the second trap. High on her\nfoot its death-grip closed, and leaping with all her strength, to\nescape, she set her fore foot in another of the lurking grips of steel.\nNever had a trap been so baited before. Never was she so unsuspicious.\nNever was catch more sure. Fear and fury filled the old Wolf's heart;\nshe tugged and strained, she chewed the chains, she snarled and foamed.\nOne trap with its buried log, she might have dragged; with two, she was\nhelpless. Struggle as she might, it only worked those relentless jaws\nmore deeply into her feet. She snapped wildly at the air; she tore the\ndead Hawk into shreds; she roared the short, barking roar of a crazy\nWolf. She bit at the traps, at her cub, at herself. She tore her legs\nthat were held; she gnawed in frenzy at her flank, she chopped off her\ntail in her madness; she splintered all her teeth on the steel, and\nfilled her bleeding, foaming jaws with clay and sand.\n\nShe struggled till she fell, and writhed about or lay like dead, till\nstrong enough to rise and grind the chains again with her teeth.\n\nAnd so the night passed by.\n\nAnd Duskymane? Where was he? The feeling of the time when his\nfoster-mother had come home poisoned, now returned; but he was even\nmore afraid of her. She seemed filled with fighting hate. He held away\nand whined a little; he slunk off and came back when she lay still,\nonly to retreat again, as she sprang forward, raging at him, and then\nrenewed her efforts at the traps. He did not understand it, but he knew\nthis much, she was in terrible trouble, and the cause seemed to be the\nsame as that which had scared them the night they had ventured near the\nCalf.\n\nDuskymane hung about all night, fearing to go near, not knowing what to\ndo, and helpless as his mother.\n\nAt dawn the next day a sheepherder seeking lost Sheep discovered her\nfrom a neighboring hill. A signal mirror called the wolver from his\ncamp. Duskymane saw the new danger. He was a mere Cub, though so tall;\nhe could not face the man, and fled at his approach.\n\nThe wolver rode up to the sorry, tattered, bleeding She-wolf in the\ntrap. He raised his rifle and soon the struggling stopped.\n\nThe wolver read the trail and the signs about, and remembering those he\nhad read before, he divined that this was the Wolf with the great\nCub--the She-wolf of Sentinel Butte.\n\nDuskymane heard the \"crack\" as he scurried off into cover. He could\nscarcely know what it meant, but he never saw his kind old\nfoster-mother again. Thenceforth he must face the world alone.\n\n\nVII\n\nTHE YOUNG WOLF WINS A PLACE AND FAME\n\nInstinct is no doubt a Wolf's first and best guide, but gifted parents\nare a great start in life. The dusky-maned cub had had a mother of rare\nexcellence and he reaped the advantage of all her cleverness. He had\ninherited an exquisite nose and had absolute confidence in its\nadmonitions. Mankind has difficulty in recognizing the power of\nnostrils. A Gray-wolf can glance over the morning wind as a man does\nover his newspaper, and get all the latest news. He can swing over the\nground and have the minutest information of every living creature that\nhas walked there within many hours. His nose even tells which way it\nran, and in a word renders a statement of every animal that recently\ncrossed his trail, whence it came, and whither it went.\n\nThat power had Duskymane in the highest degree; his broad, moist nose\nwas evidence of it to all who are judges of such things. Added to this,\nhis frame was of unusual power and endurance, and last, he had early\nlearned a deep distrust of everything strange, and, call it what we\nwill, shyness, wariness or suspicion, it was worth more to him than all\nhis cleverness. It was this as much as his physical powers that made a\nsuccess of his life. Might is right in wolf-land, and Duskymane and his\nmother had been driven out of Sentinel Butte. But it was a very\ndelectable land and he kept drifting back to his native mountain. One\nor two big Wolves there resented his coming. They drove him off several\ntimes, yet each time he returned he was better able to face them; and\nbefore he was eighteen months old he had defeated all rivals and\nestablished himself again on his native ground; where he lived like a\nrobber baron, levying tribute on the rich lands about him and finding\nsafety in the rocky fastness.\n\nWolver Ryder often hunted in that country, and before long, he came\nacross a five-and-one-half-inch track, the foot-print of a giant Wolf.\nRoughly reckoned, twenty to twenty-five pounds of weight or six inches\nof stature is a fair allowance for each inch of a Wolf's foot; this\nWolf therefore stood thirty-three inches at the shoulder and weighed\nabout one hundred and forty pounds, by far the largest Wolf he had ever\nmet. King had lived in Goat country, and now in Goat language he\nexclaimed: \"You bet, ain't that an old Billy?\" Thus by trivial chance\nit was that Duskymane was known to his foe, as 'Badlands Billy.'\n\nRyder was familiar with the muster-call of the Wolves, the long, smooth\ncry, but Billy's had a singular feature, a slurring that was always\ndistinctive. Ryder had heard this before, in the Cottonwood Ca\u00f1on, and\nwhen at length he got a sight of the big Wolf with the black mane, it\nstruck him that this was also the Cub of the old Yellow fury that he\nhad trapped.\n\nThese were among the things he told me as we sat by the fire at night.\nI knew of the early days when any one could trap or poison Wolves, of\nthe passing of those days, with the passing of the simple Wolves; of\nthe new race of Wolves with new cunning that were defying the methods\nof the ranchmen, and increasing steadily in numbers. Now the wolver\ntold me of the various ventures that Penroof had made with different\nkinds of Hounds; of Foxhounds too thin-skinned to fight; of Greyhounds\nthat were useless when the animal was out of sight; of Danes too heavy\nfor the rough country, and, last, of the composite pack with some of\nall kinds, including at times a Bull-terrier to lead them in the final\nfight.\n\nHe told of hunts after Coyotes, which usually were successful because\nthe Coyotes sought the plains, and were easily caught by the\nGreyhounds. He told of killing some small Gray-wolves with this very\npack, usually at the cost of the one that led them; but above all he\ndwelt on the wonderful prowess of \"that thar cussed old Black Wolf of\nSentinel Butte,\" and related the many attempts to run him down or\ncorner him--an unbroken array of failures. For the big Wolf, with\nexasperating persistence, continued to live on the finest stock of the\nPenroof brand, and each year was teaching more Wolves how to do the\nsame with perfect impunity.\n\nI listened even as gold-hunters listen to stories of treasure trove,\nfor these were the things of my world. These things indeed were\nuppermost in all our minds, for the Penroof pack was lying around our\ncamp-fire now. We were out after Badlands Billy.\n\n\nVIII\n\nTHE VOICE IN THE NIGHT AND THE BIG TRACK IN THE MORNING\n\nOne night late in September after the last streak of light was gone\nfrom the west and the Coyotes had begun their yapping chorus, a deep,\nbooming sound was heard. King took out his pipe, turned his head and\nsaid: \"That's him--that's old Billy. He's been watching us all day from\nsome high place, and now when the guns are useless he's here to have a\nlittle fun with us.\"\n\nTwo or three Dogs arose, with bristling manes, for they clearly\nrecognized that this was no Coyote. They rushed out into the night, but\ndid not go far; their brawling sounds were suddenly varied by loud\nyelps, and they came running back to the shelter of the fire. One was\nso badly cut in the shoulder that he was useless for the rest of the\nhunt. Another was hurt in the flank--it seemed the less serious wound,\nand yet next morning the hunters buried that second Dog.\n\nThe men were furious. They vowed speedy vengeance, and at dawn were off\non the trail. The Coyotes yelped their dawning song, but they melted\ninto the hills when the light was strong. The hunters searched about\nfor the big Wolf's track, hoping that the Hounds would be able to take\nit up and find him, but they either could not or would not.\n\nThey found a Coyote, however, and within a few hundred yards they\nkilled him. It was a victory, I suppose, for Coyotes kill Calves and\nSheep, but somehow I felt the common thought of all: \"Mighty brave Dogs\nfor a little Coyote, but they could not face the big Wolf last night.\"\n\nYoung Penroof, as though in answer to one of the unput questions, said:\n\n\"Say, boys, I believe old Billy had a hull bunch of Wolves with him\nlast night.\"\n\n\"Didn't see but one track,\" said King gruffly.\n\nIn this way the whole of October slipped by; all day hard riding after\ndoubtful trails, following the Dogs, who either could not keep the big\ntrail or feared to do so, and again and again we had news of damage\ndone by the Wolf; sometimes a cowboy would report it to us; and\nsometimes we found the carcasses ourselves. A few of these we poisoned,\nthough it is considered a very dangerous thing to do while running\nDogs. The end of the month found us a weather-beaten, dispirited lot of\nmen, with a worn-out lot of Horses, and a foot-sore pack, reduced in\nnumbers from ten to seven. So far we had killed only one Gray-wolf and\nthree Coyotes; Badlands Billy had killed at least a dozen Cows and Dogs\nat fifty dollars a head. Some of the boys decided to give it up and go\nhome, so King took advantage of their going, to send a letter, asking\nfor re\u00ebnforcements including all the spare Dogs at the ranch.\n\nDuring the two days' wait we rested our Horses, shot some game, and\nprepared for a harder hunt. Late on the second day the new Dogs\narrived--eight beauties--and raised the working pack to fifteen.\n\nThe weather now turned much cooler, and in the morning, to the joy of\nthe wolvers, the ground was white with snow. This surely meant success.\nWith cool weather for the Dogs and Horses to run; with the big Wolf not\nfar away, for he had been heard the night before; and with tracking\nsnow, so that once found he could not baffle us,--escape for him was\nimpossible.\n\nWe were up at dawn, but before we could get away, three men came riding\ninto camp. They were the Penroof boys back again. The change of weather\nhad changed their minds; they knew that with snow we might have luck.\n\n\"Remember now,\" said King, as all were mounting, \"we don't want any but\nBadlands Billy this trip. Get him an' we kin bust up the hull\ncombination. It is a five-and-a-half-inch track.\"\n\nAnd each measured off on his quirt handle, or on his glove, the exact\nfive and a half inches that was to be used in testing the tracks he\nmight find.\n\nNot more than an hour elapsed before we got a signal from the rider who\nhad gone westward. One shot: that means \"attention,\" a pause while\ncounting ten, then two shots: that means \"come on.\"\n\nKing gathered the Dogs and rode direct to the distant figure on the\nhill. All hearts beat high with hope, and we were not disappointed.\nSome small Wolf tracks had been found, but here at last was the big\ntrack, nearly six inches long. Young Penroof wanted to yell and set out\nat full gallop. It was like hunting a Lion; it was like finding\nhappiness long deferred. The hunter knows nothing more inspiring than\nthe clean-cut line of fresh tracks that is leading to a wonderful\nanimal, he has long been hunting in vain. How King's eye gleamed as he\ngloated over the sign!\n\n\nIX\n\nRUN DOWN AT LAST\n\nIt was the roughest of all rough riding. It was a far longer hunt than\nwe had expected, and was full of little incidents, for that endless\nline of marks was a minute history of all that the big Wolf had done\nthe night before. Here he had circled at the telephone box and looked\nfor news; there he had paused to examine an old skull; here he had\nshied off and swung cautiously up wind to examine something that proved\nto be an old tin can; there at length he had mounted a low hill and sat\ndown, probably giving the muster-howl, for two Wolves had come to him\nfrom different directions, and they then had descended to the river\nflat where the Cattle would seek shelter during the storm. Here all\nthree had visited a Buffalo skull; there they trotted in line; and\nyonder they separated, going three different ways, to\nmeet--yes--here--oh, what a sight, a fine Cow ripped open, left dead\nand uneaten. Not to their taste, it seems, for see! within a mile is\nanother killed by them. Not six hours ago, they had feasted. Here their\ntrails scatter again, but not far, and the snow tells plainly how each\nhad lain down to sleep. The Hounds' manes bristled as they sniffed\nthose places. King had held the Dogs well in hand, but now they were\ngreatly excited. We came to a hill whereon the Wolves had turned and\nfaced our way, then fled at full speed,--so said the trail,--and now it\nwas clear that they had watched us from that hill, and were not far\naway.\n\nThe pack kept well together, because the Greyhounds, seeing no quarry,\nwere merely puttering about among the other Dogs, or running back with\nthe Horses. We went as fast as we could, for the Wolves were speeding.\nUp mesas and down coulees we rode, sticking closely to the Dogs, though\nit was the roughest country that could be picked. One gully after\nanother, an hour and another hour, and still the threefold track went\nbounding on; another hour and no change, but interminable climbing,\nsliding, struggling, through brush and over boulders, guided by the\nfar-away yelping of the Dogs.\n\nNow the chase led downward to the low valley of the river, where there\nwas scarcely any snow. Jumping and scrambling down hills, recklessly\nleaping dangerous gullies and slippery rocks, we felt that we could not\nhold out much longer; when on the lowest, dryest level the pack split,\nsome went up, some went down, and others straight on. Oh, how King did\nswear! He knew at once what it meant. The Wolves had scattered, and so\nhad divided the pack. Three Dogs after a Wolf would have no chance,\nfour could not kill him, two would certainly be killed. And yet this\nwas the first encouraging sign we had seen, for it meant that the\nWolves were hard pressed. We spurred ahead to stop the Dogs, to pick\nfor them the only trail. But that was not so easy. Without snow here\nand with countless Dog tracks, we were foiled. All we could do was to\nlet the Dogs choose, but keep them to a single choice. Away we went as\nbefore, hoping, yet fearing that we were not on the right track. The\nDogs ran well, very fast indeed. This was a bad sign, King said, but we\ncould not get sight of the track because the Dogs overran it before we\ncame.\n\nAfter a two-mile run the chase led upward again in snow country; the\nWolf was sighted, but to our disgust, we were on the track of the\nsmallest one.\n\n\"I thought so,\" growled young Penroof. \"Dogs was altogether too keen\nfor a serious proposition. Kind o' surprised it ain't turned out a\nJack-rabbit.\"\n\nWithin another mile he had turned to bay in a willow thicket. We heard\nhim howl the long-drawn howl for help, and before we could reach the\nplace King saw the Dogs recoil and scatter. A minute later there sped\nfrom the far side of the thicket a small Gray-wolf and a Black One of\nvery much greater size.\n\n\"By golly, if he didn't yell for help, and Billy come back to help him;\nthat's great!\" exclaimed the wolver. And my heart went out to the brave\nold Wolf that refused to escape by abandoning his friend.\n\nThe next hour was a hard repetition of the gully riding, but it was on\nthe highlands where there was snow, and when again the pack was split,\nwe strained every power and succeeded in keeping them on the big\n\"five-fifty track,\" that already was wearing for me the glamour of\nromance.\n\nEvidently the Dogs preferred either of the others, but we got them\ngoing at last. Another half hour's hard work and far ahead, as I rose\nto a broad flat plain, I had my first glimpse of the Big Black Wolf of\nSentinel Butte.\n\n\"Hurrah! Badlands Billy! Hurrah! Badlands Billy!\" I shouted in salute,\nand the others took up the cry.\n\nWe were on his track at last, thanks to himself. The Dogs joined in\nwith a louder baying, the Greyhounds yelped and made straight for him,\nand the Horses sniffed and sprang more gamely as they caught the\nthrill. The only silent one was the black-maned Wolf, and as I marked\nhis size and power, and above all his long and massive jaws, I knew why\nthe Dogs preferred some other trail.\n\nWith head and tail low he was bounding over the snow. His tongue was\nlolling long; plainly he was hard pressed. The wolvers' hands flew to\ntheir revolvers, though he was three hundred yards ahead; they were out\nfor blood, not sport. But an instant later he had sunk from view in the\nnearest sheltered ca\u00f1on.\n\nNow which way would he go, up or down the ca\u00f1on? Up was toward his\nmountain, down was better cover. King and I thought \"up,\" so pressed\nwestward along the ridge. But the others rode eastward, watching for a\nchance to shoot.\n\nSoon we had ridden out of hearing. We were wrong--the Wolf had gone\ndown, but we heard no shooting. The ca\u00f1on was crossable here; we\nreached the other side and then turned back at a gallop, scanning the\nsnow for a trail, the hills for a moving form, or the wind for a sound\nof life.\n\n\"Squeak, squeak,\" went our saddle leathers, \"puff-puff\" our Horses, and\ntheir feet \"ka-ka-lump, ka-ka-lump.\"\n\n\nX\n\nWHEN BILLY WENT BACK TO HIS MOUNTAIN\n\nWe were back opposite to where the Wolf had plunged, but saw no sign.\nWe rode at an easy gallop, on eastward, a mile, and still on, when King\ngasped out, \"Look at that!\" A dark spot was moving on the snow ahead.\nWe put on speed. Another dark spot appeared, and another, but they were\nnot going fast. In five minutes we were near them, to find--three of\nour own Greyhounds. They had lost sight of the game, and with that\ntheir interest waned. Now they were seeking us. We saw nothing there of\nthe chase or of the other hunters. But hastening to the next ridge we\nstumbled on the trail we sought and followed as hard as though in view.\nAnother ca\u00f1on came in our path, and as we rode and looked for a place\nto cross, a wild din of Hounds came from its brushy depth. The clamor\ngrew and passed up the middle.\n\nWe raced along the rim, hoping to see the game. The Dogs appeared near\nthe farther side, not in a pack, but a long, straggling line. In five\nminutes more they rose to the edge, and ahead of them was the great\nBlack Wolf. He was loping as before, head and tail low. Power was plain\nin every limb, and double power in his jaws and neck, but I thought his\nbounds were shorter now, and that they had lost their spring. The Dogs\nslowly reached the upper level, and sighting him they broke into a\nfeeble cry; they, too, were nearly spent. The Greyhounds saw the chase,\nand leaving us they scrambled down the ca\u00f1on and up the other side at\nimpetuous speed that would surely break them down, while we rode,\nvainly seeking means of crossing.\n\nHow the wolver raved to see the pack lead off in the climax of the\nchase, and himself held up behind. But he rode and wrathed and still\nrode, up to where the ca\u00f1on dwindled--rough land and a hard ride. As we\nneared the great flat mountain, the feeble cry of the pack was heard\nagain from the south, then toward the high Butte's side, and just a\ntrifle louder now. We reined in on a hillock and scanned the snow. A\nmoving speck appeared, then others, not bunched, but in a straggling\ntrain, and at times there was a far faint cry. They were headed toward\nus, coming on, yes! coming, but so slowly, for not one was really\nrunning now. There was the grim old Cow-killer limping over the ground,\nand far behind a Greyhound, and another, and farther still, the other\nDogs in order of their speed, slowly, gamely, dragging themselves on\nthat pursuit. Many hours of hardest toil had done their work. The Wolf\nhad vainly sought to fling them off. Now was his hour of doom, for he\nwas spent; they still had some reserve. Straight to us for a time they\ncame, skirting the base of the mountain, crawling.\n\nWe could not cross to join them, so held our breath and gazed with\nravenous eyes. They were nearer now, the wind brought feeble notes from\nthe Hounds. The big Wolf turned to the steep ascent, up a well-known\ntrail, it seemed, for he made no slip. My heart went with him, for he\nhad come back to rescue his friend, and a momentary thrill of pity came\nover us both, as we saw him glance around and drag himself up the\nsloping way, to die on his mountain. There was no escape for him, beset\nby fifteen Dogs with men to back them. He was not walking, but\ntottering upward; the Dogs behind in line, were now doing a little\nbetter, were nearing him. We could hear them gasping; we scarcely heard\nthem bay--they had no breath for that; upward the grim procession went,\ncircling a spur of the Butte and along a ledge that climbed and\nnarrowed, then dropped for a few yards to a shelf that reared above the\nca\u00f1on. The foremost Dogs were closing, fearless of a foe so nearly\nspent.\n\nHere in the narrowest place, where one wrong step meant death, the\ngreat Wolf turned and faced them. With fore-feet braced, with head low\nand tail a little raised, his dusky mane a-bristling, his glittering\ntusks laid bare, but uttering no sound that we could hear, he faced the\ncrew. His legs were weak with toil, but his neck, his jaws, and his\nheart were strong, and--now all you who love the Dogs had better close\nthe book--on--up and down--fifteen to one, they came, the swiftest\nfirst, and how it was done, the eye could scarcely see, but even as a\nstream of water pours on a rock to be splashed in broken Jets aside,\nthat stream of Dogs came pouring down the path, in single file\nperforce, and Duskymane received them as they came. A feeble spring, a\ncounter-lunge, a gash, and \"Fango's down,\" has lost his foothold and is\ngone. Dander and Coalie close and try to clinch; a rush, a heave, and\nthey are fallen from that narrow path. Blue-spot then, backed by mighty\nOscar and fearless Tige--but the Wolf is next the rock and the flash of\ncombat clears to show him there alone, the big Dogs gone; the rest\nclose in, the hindmost force the foremost on--down-to their death.\nSlash, chop and heave, from the swiftest to the biggest, to the last,\ndown--down--he sent them whirling from the ledge to the gaping gulch\nbelow, where rocks and snags of trunks were sharp to do their work.\n\nIn fifty seconds it was done. The rock had splashed the stream\naside--the Penroof pack was all wiped out; and Badlands Billy stood\nthere, alone again on his mountain.\n\nA moment he waited to look for more to come. There were no more, the\npack was dead; but waiting he got his breath, then raising his voice\nfor the first time in that fatal scene, he feebly gave a long yell of\ntriumph, and scaling the next low bank, was screened from view in a\nca\u00f1on of Sentinel Butte.\n\nWe stared like men of stone. The guns in our hands were forgotten. It\nwas all so quick, so final. We made no move till the Wolf was gone. It\nwas not far to the place: we went on foot to see if any had escaped.\nNot one was left alive. We could do nothing--we could say nothing.\n\n\nXI\n\nTHE HOWL AT SUNSET\n\nA week later we were riding the upper trail back of the Chimney Pot,\nKing and I. \"The old man is pretty sick of it,\" he said. \"He'd sell out\nif he could. He don't know what's the next move.\"\n\nThe sun went down beyond Sentinel Butte. It was dusk as we reached the\nturn that led to Dumont's place, and a deep-toned rolling howl came\nfrom the river flat below, followed by a number of higher-pitched howls\nin answering chorus. We could see nothing, but we listened hard. The\nsong was repeated, the hunting-cry of the Wolves. It faded, the night\nwas stirred by another, the sharp bark and the short howl, the signal\n\"close in\"; a bellow came up, very short, for it was cut short.\n\nAnd King as he touched his Horse said grimly: \"That's him, he is out\nwith the pack, an' thar goes another Beef.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE BOY AND THE LYNX\n\nI\n\nTHE BOY\n\nHe was barely fifteen, a lover of sport and uncommonly keen, even for a\nbeginner. Flocks of Wild Pigeons had been coming all day across the\nblue Lake of Cayggeonull, and perching in line on the dead limbs of the\ngreat rampikes that stood as monuments of fire, around the little\nclearing in the forest, they afforded tempting marks; but he followed\nthem for hours in vain. They seemed to know the exact range of the\nold-fashioned shotgun and rose on noisy wings each time before he was\nnear enough to fire. At length a small flock scattered among the low\ngreen trees that grew about the spring, near the log shanty, and taking\nadvantage of the cover, Thorburn went in gently. He caught sight of a\nsingle Pigeon close to him, took a long aim and fired. A sharp crack\nresounded at almost the same time and the bird fell dead. Thorburn\nrushed to seize the prize just as a tall young man stepped into view\nand picked it up.\n\n\"Hello, Corney! you got my bird!\"\n\n\"Your burrud! Sure yours flew away thayre. I saw them settle hayer and\nthought I'd make sure of wan with the rifle.\"\n\nA careful examination showed that a rifle-ball as well as a charge of\nshot had struck the Pigeon. The gunners had fired on the same bird.\nBoth enjoyed the joke, though it had its serious side, for food as well\nas ammunition was scarce in that backwoods home.\n\nCorney, a superb specimen of a six-foot Irish-Canadian in early\nmanhood, now led away to the log shanty where the very scarcity of\nluxuries and the roughness of their lives were sources of merriment.\nFor the Colts, though born and bred in the backwoods of Canada, had\nlost nothing of the spirit that makes the Irish blood a world-wide\nsynonym of heartiness and wit.\n\nCorney was the eldest son of a large family. The old folks lived at\nPetersay, twenty-five miles to the southward. He had taken up a \"claim\"\nto carve his own home out of the woods at Fenebonk, and his grown\nsisters, Margat, staid and reliable, and Loo, bright and witty, were\nkeeping house for him. Thorburn Alder was visiting them. He had just\nrecovered from a severe illness and had been sent to rough it in the\nwoods in hope of winning some of the vigor of his hosts. Their home was\nof unhewn logs, unfloored, and roofed with sods, which bore a luxuriant\ncrop of grass and weeds. The primitive woods around were broken in two\nplaces: one where the roughest of roads led southward to Petersay; the\nother where the sparkling lake rolled on a pebbly shore and gave a\nglimpse of their nearest neighbor's house--four miles across the water.\n\nTheir daily round had little change. Corney was up at daybreak to light\nthe fire, call his sisters, and feed the horses while they prepared\nbreakfast. At six the meal was over and Corney went to his work. At\nnoon, which Margat knew by the shadow of a certain rampike falling on\nthe spring, a clear notification to draw fresh water for the table, Loo\nwould hang a white rag on a pole, and Corney, seeing the signal, would\nreturn from summer fallow or hayfield, grimy, swarthy, and ruddy, a\npicture of manly vigor and honest toil. Thor might be away all day, but\nat night, when they again assembled at the table, he would come from\nlake or distant ridge and eat a supper like the dinner and breakfast,\nfor meals as well as days were exact repeats: pork, bread, potatoes,\nand tea, with occasionally eggs supplied by a dozen hens around the\nlittle log stable, with, rarely, a variation of wild meat, for Thor was\nnot a hunter and Corney had little time for anything but the farm.\n\n\nII\n\nTHE LYNX\n\nA huge four-foot basswood had gone the way of all trees. Death had been\ngenerous--had sent the three warnings: it was the biggest of its kind,\nits children were grown up, it was hollow. The wintry blast that sent\nit down had broken it across and revealed a great hole where should\nhave been its heart. A long wooden cavern in the middle of a sunny\nopening, it now lay, and presented an ideal home for a Lynx when she\nsought a sheltered nesting-place for her coming brood.\n\nOld was she and gaunt, for this was a year of hard times for the\nLynxes. A Rabbit plague the autumn before had swept away their main\nsupport; a winter of deep snow and sudden crusts had killed off nearly\nall the Partridges; a long wet spring had destroyed the few growing\ncoveys and had kept the ponds and streams so full that Fish and Frogs\nwere safe from their armed paws, and this mother Lynx fared no better\nthan her kind.\n\nThe little ones--half starved before they came--were a double drain,\nfor they took the time she might have spent in hunting.\n\nThe Northern Hare is the favorite food of the Lynx, and in some years\nshe could have killed fifty in one day, but never one did she see this\nseason. The plague had done its work too well.\n\nOne day she caught a Red-squirrel which had run into a hollow log that\nproved a trap. Another day a fetid Blacksnake was her only food. A day\nwas missed, and the little ones whined piteously for their natural food\nand failing drink. One day she saw a large black animal of unpleasant\nbut familiar smell. Swiftly and silently she sprang to make attack. She\nstruck it once on the nose, but the Porcupine doubled his head under,\nhis tail flew up, and the mother Lynx was speared in a dozen places\nwith the little stinging javelins. She drew them all with her teeth,\nfor she had \"learned Porcupine\" years before, and only the hard push of\nwant would have made her strike one now.\n\nA Frog was all she caught that day. On the next, as she ranged the\nfarthest woods in a long, hard hunt, she heard a singular calling\nvoice. It was new to her. She approached it cautiously, up wind, got\nmany new odors and some more strange sounds in coming. The loud, clear,\nrolling call was repeated as the mother Lynx came to an opening in the\nforest. In the middle of it were two enormous muskrat or beaver-houses,\nfar bigger than the biggest she ever before had seen. They were made\npartly of logs and situated, not in a pond, but on a dry knoll. Walking\nabout them were a number of Partridges, that is, birds like Partridges,\nonly larger and of various colors, red, yellow, and white.\n\nShe quivered with the excitement that in a man would have been called\nbuck-fever. Food--food--abundance of food, and the old huntress sank to\nearth. Her breast was on the ground, her elbows above her back, as she\nmade stalk, her shrewdest, subtlest stalk; one of those Partridges she\nmust have at any price; no trick now must go untried, no error in this\nhunt; if it took hours--all day--she must approach with certainty to\nwin before the quarry took to flight.\n\nOnly a few bounds it was from wood shelter to the great rat-house, but\nshe was an hour in crawling that small space. From stump to brush, from\nlog to bunch of grass she sneaked, a flattened form, and the Partridges\nsaw her not. They fed about, the biggest uttering the ringing call that\nfirst had fallen on her ear.\n\nOnce they seemed to sense their peril, but a long await dispelled the\nfear. Now they were almost in reach, and she trembled with all the\neagerness of the hunting heart and the hungry maw. Her eye centred on a\nwhite one not quite the nearest, but the color seemed to hold her gaze.\n\nThere was an open space around the rat-house; outside that were tall\nweeds, and stumps were scattered everywhere. The white bird wandered\nbehind these weeds, the red one of the loud voice flew to the top of\nthe rat-mound and sang as before. The mother Lynx sank lower yet. It\nseemed an alarm note; but no, the white one still was there; she could\nsee its feathers gleaming through the weeds. An open space now lay\nabout. The huntress, flattened like an empty skin, trailed slow and\nsilent on the ground behind a log no thicker than her neck; if she\ncould reach that tuft of brush she could get unseen to the weeds and\nthen would be near enough to spring. She could smell them now--the rich\nand potent smell of life, of flesh and blood, that set her limbs\na-tingle and her eyes a-glow.\n\nThe Partridges still scratched and fed; another flew to the high top,\nbut the white one remained. Five more slow-gliding, silent steps, and\nthe Lynx was behind the weeds, the white bird shining through; she\ngauged the distance, tried the footing, swung her hind legs to clear\nsome fallen brush, then leaped direct with all her force, and the white\none never knew the death it died, for the fateful gray shadow dropped,\nthe swift and deadly did their work, and before the other birds could\nrealize the foe or fly, the Lynx was gone, with the white bird\nsquirming in her jaws.\n\nUttering an unnecessary growl of inborn ferocity and joy she bounded\ninto the forest, and bee-like sped for home. The last quiver had gone\nfrom the warm body of the victim when she heard the sound of heavy feet\nahead. She leaped on a log. The wings of her prey were muffling her\neyes, so she laid the bird down and held it safely with one paw. The\nsound drew nearer, the bushes bent, and a Boy stepped into view. The\nold Lynx knew and hated his kind. She had watched them at night, had\nfollowed them, had been hunted and hurt by them. For a moment they\nstood face to face. The huntress growled a warning that was also a\nchallenge and a defiance, picked up the bird and bounded from the log\ninto the sheltering bushes. It was a mile or two to the den, but she\nstayed not to eat till the sunlit opening and the big basswood came to\nview; then a low \"prr-prr\" called forth the little ones to revel with\ntheir mother in a plenteous meal of the choicest food.\n\n\nIII\n\nTHE HOME OF THE LYNX\n\nAt first Thor, being town-bred, was timid about venturing into the\nwoods beyond the sound of Corney's axe; but day by day he went farther,\nguiding himself, not by unreliable moss on trees, but by sun, compass,\nand landscape features. His purpose was to learn about the wild animals\nrather than to kill them; but the naturalist is close kin to the\nsportsman, and the gun was his constant companion. In the clearing, the\nonly animal of any size was a fat Woodchuck; it had a hole under a\nstump some hundred yards from the shanty. On sunny mornings it used to\nlie basking on the stump, but eternal vigilance is the price of every\ngood thing in the woods. The Woodchuck was always alert and Thor tried\nin vain to shoot or even to trap him.\n\n\"Hyar,\" said Corney one morning, \"time we had some fresh meat.\" He took\ndown his rifle, an old-fashioned brass-mounted small-bore, and loading\nwith care that showed the true rifleman, he steadied the weapon against\nthe door-jamb and fired. The Woodchuck fell backward and lay still.\nThor raced to the place and returned in triumph with the animal,\nshouting: \"Plumb through the head--one hundred and twenty yards.\"\n\nCorney controlled the gratified smile that wrestled with the corners of\nhis mouth, but his bright eyes shone a trifle brighter for the moment.\n\nIt was no mere killing for killing's sake, for the Woodchuck was\nspreading a belt of destruction in the crop around his den. Its flesh\nsupplied the family with more than one good meal and Corney showed Thor\nhow to use the skin. First the pelt was wrapped in hardwood ashes for\ntwenty-four hours. This brought the hair off. Then the skin was soaked\nfor three days in soft soap and worked by hand, as it dried, till it\ncame out a white strong leather.\n\nThor's wanderings extended farther in search of the things which always\ncame as surprises however much he was looking for them. Many days were\nblanks and others would be crowded with incidents, for unexpectedness\nis above all the peculiar feature of hunting, and its lasting charm.\nOne day he had gone far beyond the ridge in a new direction and passed\nthrough an open glade where lay the broken trunk of a huge basswood.\nThe size impressed it on his memory. He swung past the glade to make\nfor the lake, a mile to the west, and twenty minutes later he started\nback as his eye rested on a huge black animal in the crotch of a\nhemlock, some thirty feet from the ground. A Bear! At last, this was\nthe test of nerve he had half expected all summer; had been wondering\nhow that mystery \"himself\" would act under this very trial. He stood\nstill; his right hand dived into his pocket and, bringing out three or\nfour buckshot, which he carried for emergency, he dropped them on top\nof the birdshot already in the gun, then rammed a wad to hold them down.\n\nThe Bear had not moved and the boy could not see its head, but now he\nstudied it carefully. It was not such a large one--no, it was a small\none, yes, very small--a cub. A cub! That meant a mother Bear at hand,\nand Thor looked about with some fear, but seeing no signs of any except\nthe little one, he levelled the gun and fired.\n\nThen to his surprise down crashed the animal quite dead; it was not a\nBear, but a large Porcupine. As it lay there he examined it with wonder\nand regret, for he had no wish to kill such a harmless creature. On its\ngrotesque face he found two or three long scratches which proved that\nhe had not been its only enemy. As he turned away he noticed some blood\non his trousers, then saw that his left hand was bleeding. He had\nwounded himself quite severely on the quills of the animal without\nknowing it. He was sorry to leave the specimen there, and Loo, when she\nlearned of it, said it was a shame not to skin it when she \"needed a\nfur-lined cape for the winter.\"\n\nOn another day Thor had gone without a gun, as he meant only to gather\nsome curious plants he had seen. They were close to the clearing; he\nknew the place by a fallen elm. As he came to it he heard a peculiar\nsound. Then on the log his eye caught two moving things. He lifted a\nbough and got a clear view. They were the head and tail of an enormous\nLynx. It had seen him and was glaring and grumbling; and under its foot\non the log was a white bird that a second glance showed to be one of\ntheir own precious hens. How fierce and cruel the brute looked! How\nThor hated it! and fairly gnashed his teeth with disgust that now, when\nhis greatest chance was come, he for once was without his gun. He was\nin not a little fear, too, and stood wondering what to do. The Lynx\ngrowled louder; its stumpy tail twitched viciously for a minute, then\nit picked up its victim, and leaping from the log was lost to view.\n\nAs it was a very rainy summer, the ground was soft everywhere, and the\nyoung hunter was led to follow tracks that would have defied an expert\nin dryer times. One day he came on piglike footprints in the woods. He\nfollowed them with little difficulty, for they were new, and a heavy\nrain two hours before had washed out all other trails. After about half\na mile they led him to an open ravine, and as he reached its brow he\nsaw across it a flash of white; then his keen young eyes made out the\nforms of a Deer and a spotted Fawn gazing at him curiously. Though on\ntheir trail he was not a little startled. He gazed at them\nopen-mouthed. The mother turned and raised the danger flag, her white\ntail, and bounded lightly away, to be followed by the youngster,\nclearing low trunks with an effortless leap, or bending down with\ncatlike suppleness when they came to a log upraised so that they might\npass below.\n\nHe never again got a chance to shoot at them, though more than once he\nsaw the same two tracks, or believed they were the same, as for some\ncause never yet explained, Deer were scarcer in that unbroken forest\nthan they were in later years when clearings spread around.\n\nHe never again saw them; but he saw the mother once--he thought it was\nthe same--she was searching the woods with her nose, trying the ground\nfor trails; she was nervous and anxious, evidently seeking. Thor\nremembered a trick that Corney had told him. He gently stooped, took up\na broad blade of grass, laid it between the edges of his thumbs, then\nblowing through this simple squeaker he made a short, shrill bleat, a\nfair imitation of a Fawn's cry for the mother, and the Deer, though a\nlong way off, came bounding toward him. He snatched his gun, meaning to\nkill her, but the movement caught her eye. She stopped. Her mane\nbristled a little; she sniffed and looked inquiringly at him. Her big\nsoft eyes touched his heart, held back his hand; she took a cautious\nstep nearer, got a full whiff of her mortal enemy, bounded behind a big\ntree and away before his merciful impulse was gone. \"Poor thing,\" said\nThor, \"I believe she has lost her little one.\"\n\nYet once more the Boy met a Lynx in the woods. Half an hour after\nseeing the lonely Deer he crossed the long ridge that lay some miles\nnorth of the shanty. He had passed the glade where the great basswood\nlay when a creature like a big bob-tailed Kitten appeared and looked\ninnocently at him. His gun went up, as usual, but the Kitten merely\ncocked its head on one side and fearlessly surveyed him. Then a second\none that he had not noticed before began to play with the first, pawing\nat its tail and inviting its brother to tussle.\n\nThor's first thought to shoot was stayed as he watched their gambols,\nbut the remembrance of his feud with their race came back. He had\nalmost raised the gun when a fierce rumble close at hand gave him a\nstart, and there, not ten feet from him, stood the old one, looking big\nand fierce as a Tigress. It was surely folly to shoot at the young ones\nnow. The boy nervously dropped some buckshot on the charge while the\nsnarling growl rose and fell, but before he was ready to shoot at her\nthe old one had picked up something that was by her feet; the boy got a\nglimpse of rich brown with white spots--the limp form of a newly killed\nFawn. Then she passed out of sight. The Kittens followed, and he saw\nher no more until the time when, life against life, they were weighed\nin the balance together.\n\n\nIV\n\nTHE TERROR OF THE WOODS\n\nSix weeks had passed in daily routine when one day the young giant\nseemed unusually quiet as he went about. His handsome face was very\nsober and he sang not at all that morning.\n\nHe and Thor slept on a hay-bunk in one corner of the main room, and\nthat night the Boy awakened more than once to hear his companion\ngroaning and tossing in his sleep. Corney arose as usual in the morning\nand fed the horses, but lay down again while the sisters got breakfast.\nHe roused himself by an effort and went back to work, but came home\nearly. He was trembling from head to foot. It was hot summer weather,\nbut he could not be kept warm. After several hours a reaction set in\nand Corney was in a high fever. The family knew well now that he had\nthe dreaded chills and fever of the backwoods. Margat went out and\ngathered a lapful of pipsissewa to make tea, of which Corney was\nencouraged to drink copiously.\n\nBut in spite of all their herbs and nursing the young man got worse. At\nthe end of ten days he was greatly reduced in flesh and incapable of\nwork, so on one of the \"well days\" that are usual in the course of the\ndisease he said:\n\n\"Say, gurruls, I can't stand it no longer. Guess I better go home. I'm\nwell enough to drive to-day, for a while anyway; if I'm took down I'll\nlay in the wagon, and the horses will fetch me home. Mother'll have me\nall right in a week or so. If you run out of grub before I come back\ntake the canoe to Ellerton's.\"\n\nSo the girls harnessed the horses; the wagon was partly filled with\nhay, and Corney, weak and white-faced, drove away on the long rough\nroad, and left them feeling much as though they were on a desert island\nand their only boat had been taken from them.\n\nHalf a week had scarcely gone before all three of them, Margat, Loo,\nand Thor, were taken down with a yet more virulent form of chills and\nfever.\n\nCorney had had every other a \"well day,\" but with these three there\nwere no \"well days\" and the house became an abode of misery.\n\nSeven days passed, and now Margat could not leave her bed and Loo was\nbarely able to walk around the house. She was a brave girl with a fund\nof drollery which did much toward keeping up all their spirits, but her\nmerriest jokes fell ghastly from her wan, pinched face. Thor, though\nweak and ill, was the strongest and did for the others, cooking and\nserving each day a simple meal, for they could eat very little,\nfortunately, perhaps, as there was very little, and Corney could not\nreturn for another week.\n\nSoon Thor was the only one able to rise, and one morning when he\ndragged himself to cut the little usual slice of their treasured bacon\nhe found, to his horror, that the whole piece was gone. It had been\nstolen, doubtless by some wild animal, from the little box on the shady\nside of the house, where it was kept safe from flies. Now they were\ndown to flour and tea. He was in despair, when his eye lighted on the\nChickens about the stable; but what's the use? In his feeble state he\nmight as well try to catch a Deer or a Hawk. Suddenly he remembered his\ngun and very soon was preparing a fat Hen for the pot. He boiled it\nwhole as the easiest way to cook it, and the broth was the first really\ntempting food they had had for some time.\n\nThey kept alive for three wretched days on that Chicken, and when it\nwas finished Thor again took down his gun--it seemed a much heavier gun\nnow. He crawled to the barn, but he was so weak and shaky that he\nmissed several times before he brought down a fowl. Corney had taken\nthe rifle away with him and three charges of gun ammunition were all\nthat now remained.\n\nThor was surprised to see how few Hens there were now, only three or\nfour. There used to be over a dozen. Three days later he made another\nraid. He saw but one Hen and he used up his last ammunition to get that.\n\nHis daily routine now was a monotony of horror. In the morning, which\nwas his \"well time,\" he prepared a little food for the household and\ngot ready for the night of raging fever by putting a bucket of water on\na block at the head of each bunk. About one o'clock, with fearful\nregularity, the chills would come on, with trembling from head to foot\nand chattering teeth, and cold, cold, within and without. Nothing\nseemed to give any warmth--fire seemed to have lost its power. There\nwas nothing to do but to lie and shake and suffer all the slow torture\nof freezing to death and shaking to pieces. For six hours it would keep\nup, and to the torture, nausea lent its horrid aid throughout; then\nabout seven or eight o'clock in the evening a change would come; a\nburning fever set in; no ice could have seemed cool to him then;\nwater--water--was all he craved, and drank and drank until three or\nfour in the morning, when the fever would abate, and a sleep of total\nexhaustion followed.\n\n\"If you run out of food take the canoe to Ellerton's,\" was the\nbrother's last word. Who was to take the canoe?\n\nThere was but half a Chicken now between them and starvation, and no\nsign of Corney.\n\nFor three interminable weeks the deadly program dragged along. It went\non the same yet worse, as the sufferers grew weaker--a few days more\nand the Boy also would be unable to leave his couch. Then what?\n\nDespair was on the house and the silent cry of each was, \"Oh, God! will\nCorney never come?\"\n\n\nV\n\nTHE HOME OF THE BOY\n\nOn the day of that last Chicken, Thor was all morning carrying water\nenough for the coming three fevers. The chill attacked him sooner than\nit was due and his fever was worse than ever before.\n\nHe drank deeply and often from the bucket at his head. He had filled\nit, and it was nearly emptied when about two in the morning the fever\nleft him and he fell asleep.\n\nIn the gray dawn he was awakened by a curious sound not far away--a\nsplashing of water. He turned his head to see two glaring eyes within a\nfoot of his face--a great Beast lapping the water in the bucket by his\nbed.\n\nThor gazed in horror for a moment, then closed his eyes, sure that he\nwas dreaming, certain that this was a nightmare of India with a Tiger\nby his couch; but the lapping continued. He looked up; yes, it still\nwas there. He tried to find his voice but uttered only a gurgle. The\ngreat furry head quivered, a sniff came from below the shining\neyeballs, and the creature, whatever it was, dropped to its front feet\nand went across the hut under the table. Thor was fully awake now; he\nrose slowly on his elbow and feebly shouted \"Sssh-hi,\" at which the\nshining eyes reappeared under the table and the gray form came forth.\nCalmly it walked across the ground and glided under the lowest log at a\nplace where an old potato pit left an opening and disappeared. What was\nit? The sick boy hardly knew--some savage Beast of prey, undoubtedly.\nHe was totally unnerved. He shook with fear and a sense of\nhelplessness, and the night passed in fitful sleep and sudden starts\nawake to search the gloom again for those fearful eyes and the great\ngray gliding form. In the morning he did not know whether it were not\nall a delirium, yet he made a feeble effort to close the old cellar\nhole with some firewood.\n\nThe three had little appetite, but even that they restrained since now\nthey were down to part of a Chicken, and Corney, evidently he supposed\nthey had been to Ellerton's and got all the food they needed.\n\nAgain that night, when the fever left him weak and dozing, Thor was\nawakened by a noise in the room, a sound of crunching bones. He looked\naround to see dimly outlined against the little window, the form of a\nlarge animal on the table. Thor shouted; he tried to hurl his boot at\nthe intruder. It leaped lightly to the ground and passed out of the\nhole, again wide open.\n\nIt was no dream this time, he knew, and the women knew it, too; not\nonly had they heard the creature, but the Chicken, the last of their\nfood, was wholly gone.\n\nPoor Thor barely left his couch that day. It needed all the querulous\ncomplaints of the sick women to drive him forth. Down by the spring he\nfound a few berries and divided them with the others. He made his usual\npreparations for the chills and the thirst, but he added this--by the\nside of his couch he put an old fish-spear--the only weapon he could\nfind, now the gun was useless--a pine-root candle and some matches. He\nknew the Beast was coming back again--was coming hungry. It would find\nno food; what more natural, he thought, than take the living prey lying\nthere so helpless? And a vision came of the limp brown form of the\nlittle Fawn, borne off in those same cruel jaws.\n\nOnce again he barricaded the hole with firewood, and the night passed\nas usual, but without any fierce visitor. Their food that day was flour\nand water, and to cook it Thor was forced to use some of his barricade.\nLoo attempted some feeble joke, guessed she was light enough to fly now\nand tried to rise, but she got no farther than the edge of the bunk.\nThe same preparations were made, and the night wore on, but early in\nthe morning, Thor was again awakened rudely by the sound of lapping\nwater by his bed, and there, as before, were the glowing eyeballs, the\ngreat head, the gray form relieved by the dim light from the dawning\nwindow.\n\nThor put all his strength into what was meant for a bold shout, but it\nwas merely a feeble screech. He rose slowly and called out: \"Loo,\nMargat! The Lynx--here's the Lynx again!\"\n\n\"May God help ye, for we can't,\" was the answer.\n\n\"Sssh-hi!\" Thor tried again to drive the Beast away. It leaped on to\nthe table by the window and stood up growling under the useless gun.\nThor thought it was going to leap through the glass as it faced the\nwindow a moment; but it turned and glared toward the Boy, for he could\nsee both eyes shining. He rose slowly to the side of his bunk and he\nprayed for help, for he felt it was kill or be killed. He struck a\nmatch and lighted his pine-root candle, held that in his left hand and\nin his right took the old fish-spear, meaning to fight, but he was so\nweak he had to use the fish-spear as a crutch. The great Beast stood on\nthe table still, but was crouching a little as though for a spring. Its\neyes glowed red in the torchlight. Its short tail was switching from\nside to side and its growling took a higher pitch. Thor's knees were\nsmiting together, but he levelled the spear and made a feeble lunge\ntoward the brute. It sprang at the same moment, not at him, as he first\nthought--the torch and the boy's bold front had had effect--it went\nover his head to drop on the ground beyond and at once to slink under\nthe bunk.\n\nThis was only a temporary repulse. Thor set the torch on a ledge of the\nlogs, then took the spear in both hands. He was fighting for his life,\nand he knew it. He heard the voices of the women feebly praying. He saw\nonly the glowing eyes under the bed and heard the growling in higher\npitch as the Beast was nearing action. He steadied himself by a great\neffort and plunged the spear with all the force he could give it.\n\nIt struck something softer than the logs: a hideous snarl came forth.\nThe boy threw all his weight on the weapon; the Beast was struggling to\nget at him; he felt its teeth and claws grating on the handle, and in\nspite of himself it was coming on; its powerful arms and claws were\nreaching for him now; he could not hold out long. He put on all his\nforce, just a little more it was than before; the Beast lurched, there\nwas a growling, a crack, and a sudden yielding; the rotten old\nspear-head had broken off, the Beast sprang out--at him--past\nhim--never touched him, but across through the hole and away, to be\nseen no more.\n\nThor fell on the bed and lost all consciousness.\n\nHe lay there he knew not how long, but was awakened in broad daylight\nby a loud, cheery voice:\n\n\"Hello! Hello!--are ye all dead? Loo! Thor! Margat!\"\n\nHe had no strength to answer, but there was a trampling of horses\noutside, a heavy step, the door was forced open, and in strode Corney,\nhandsome and hearty as ever. But what a flash of horror and pain came\nover his face on entering the silent shanty!\n\n\"Dead?\" he gasped. \"Who's dead--where are you? Thor?\" Then, \"Who is it?\nLoo? Margat?\"\n\n\"Corney--Corney,\" came feebly from the bunk. \"They're in there. They're\nawful sick. We have nothing to eat.\"\n\n\"Oh, what a fool I be!\" said Corney again and again. \"I made sure ye'd\ngo to Ellerton's and get all ye wanted.\"\n\n\"We had no chance, Corney; we were all three brought down at once,\nright after you left. Then the Lynx came and cleared up the Hens, and\nall in the house, too.\"\n\n\"Well, ye got even with her,\" and Corney pointed to the trail of blood\nacross the mud floor and out under the logs.\n\nGood food, nursing, and medicine restored them all.\n\nA month or two later, when the women wanted a new leaching-barrel, Thor\nsaid: \"I know where there is a hollow basswood as big as a hogshead.\"\n\nHe and Corney went to the place, and when they cut off what they\nneeded, they found in the far end of it the dried-up bodies of two\nlittle Lynxes with that of the mother, and in the side of the old one\nwas the head of a fish-spear broken from the handle.\n\n\n\n\nLITTLE WARHORSE\n\nThe History of a Jack-rabbit\n\nThe Little Warhorse knew practically all the Dogs in town. First, there\nwas a very large brown Dog that had pursued him many times, a Dog that\nhe always got rid of by slipping through a hole in a board fence.\nSecond, there was a small active Dog that could follow through that\nhole, and him he baffled by leaping a twenty-foot irrigation ditch that\nhad steep sides and a swift current. The Dog could not make this leap.\nIt was \"sure medicine\" for that foe, and the boys still call the place\n\"Old Jacky's Jump.\" But there was a Greyhound that could leap better\nthan the Jack, and when he could not follow through a fence, he jumped\nover it. He tried the Warhorse's mettle more than once, and Jacky only\nsaved himself by his quick dodging, till they got to an Osage hedge,\nand here the Greyhound had to give it up. Besides these, there was in\ntown a rabble of big and little Dogs that were troublesome, but easily\nleft behind in the open.\n\nIn the country there was a Dog at each farm-house, but only one that\nthe Warhorse really feared; that was a long-legged, fierce, black Dog,\na brute so swift and pertinacious that he had several times forced the\nWarhorse almost to the last extremity.\n\nFor the town Cats he cared little; only once or twice had he been\nthreatened by them. A huge Tom-cat flushed with many victories came\ncrawling up to where he fed one moonlight night. Jack Warhorse saw the\nblack creature with the glowing eyes, and a moment before the final\nrush, he faced it, raised up on his haunches,--his hind legs,--at full\nlength on his toes,--with his broad ears towering up yet six inches\nhigher; then letting out a loud churrr-churrr, his best attempt at a\nroar, he sprang five feet forward and landed on the Cat's head, driving\nin his sharp hind nails, and the old Tom fled in terror from the weird\ntwo-legged giant. This trick he had tried several times with success,\nbut twice it turned out a sad failure: once, when the Cat proved to be\na mother whose Kittens were near; then Jack Warhorse had to flee for\nhis life; and the other time was when he made the mistake of landing\nhard on a Skunk.\n\nBut the Greyhound was the dangerous enemy, and in him the Warhorse\nmight have found his fate, but for a curious adventure with a happy\nending for Jack.\n\nHe fed by night; there were fewer enemies about then, and it was easier\nto hide; but one day at dawn in winter he had lingered long at an\nalfalfa stack and was crossing the open snow toward his favorite form,\nwhen, as ill-luck would have it, he met the Greyhound prowling outside\nthe town. With open snow and growing daylight there was no chance to\nhide, nothing but a run in the open with soft snow that hindered the\nJack more than it did the Hound.\n\nOff they went--superb runners in fine fettle. How they skimmed across\nthe snow, raising it in little puff-puff-puffs, each time their nimble\nfeet went down. This way and that, swerving and dodging, went the\nchase. Everything favored the Dog,--his empty stomach, the cold\nweather, the soft snow,--while the Rabbit was handicapped by his heavy\nmeal of alfalfa. But his feet went puff--puff so fast that a dozen of\nthe little snow-jets were in view at once. The chase continued in the\nopen; no friendly hedge was near, and every attempt to reach a fence\nwas cleverly stopped by the Hound. Jack's ears were losing their bold\nup-cock, a sure sign of failing heart or wind, when all at once these\nflags went stiffly up, as under sudden renewal of strength. The\nWarhorse put forth all his power, not to reach the hedge to the north,\nbut over the open prairie eastward. The Greyhound followed, and within\nfifty yards the Jack dodged to foil his fierce pursuer; but on the next\ntack he was on his eastern course again, and so tacking and dodging, he\nkept the line direct for the next farm-house, where was a very high\nboard fence with a hen-hole, and where also there dwelt his other hated\nenemy, the big black Dog. An outer hedge delayed the Greyhound for a\nmoment and gave Jack time to dash through the hen-hole into the yard,\nwhere he hid to one side. The Greyhound rushed around to the low gate,\nleaped over that among the Hens, and as they fled cackling and\nfluttering, some Lambs bleated loudly. Their natural guardian, the big\nblack Dog, ran to the rescue, and Warhorse slipped out again by the\nhole at which he had entered. Horrible sounds of Dog hate and fury were\nheard behind him in the hen-yard, and soon the shouts of men were\nadded. How it ended he did not know or seek to learn, but it was\nremarkable that he never afterward was troubled by the swift Greyhound\nthat formerly lived in Newchusen.\n\n\nII\n\nHard times and easy times had long followed in turn and been taken as\nmatters of course; but recent years in the State of Kaskado had brought\nto the Jack-rabbits a succession of remarkable ups and downs. In the\nold days they had their endless fight with Birds and Beasts of Prey,\nwith cold and heat, with pestilence and with flies whose sting bred a\nloathsome disease, and yet had held their own. But the settling of the\ncountry by farmers made many changes.\n\nDogs and guns arriving in numbers reduced the ranks of Coyotes, Foxes,\nWolves, Badgers, and Hawks that preyed on the Jack, so that in a few\nyears the Rabbits were multiplied in great swarms; but now Pestilence\nbroke out and swept them away. Only the strongest--the\ndouble-seasoned--remained. For a while a Jack-rabbit was a rarity; but\nduring this time another change came in. The Osage-orange hedges\nplanted everywhere afforded a new refuge, and now the safety of a\nJack-rabbit was less often his speed than his wits, and the wise ones,\nwhen pursued by a Dog or Coyote, would rush to the nearest hedge\nthrough a small hole and escape while the enemy sought for a larger one\nby which to follow. The Coyotes rose to this and developed the trick of\nthe relay chase. In this one Coyote takes one field, another the next,\nand if the Rabbit attempts the \"hedge-ruse\" they work from each side\nand usually win their prey. The Rabbit remedy for this, is keen eyes to\nsee the second Coyote, avoidance of that field, then good legs to\ndistance the first enemy.\n\nThus the Jack-rabbits, after being successively numerous, scarce, in\nmyriads, and rare, were now again on the increase, and those which\nsurvived, selected by a hundred hard trials, were enabled to flourish\nwhere their ancestors could not have outlived a single season.\n\nTheir favorite grounds were, not the broad open stretches of the big\nranches, but the complicated, much-fenced fields of the farms, where\nthese were so small and close as to be like a big straggling village.\n\nOne of these vegetable villages had sprung up around the railway\nstation of Newchusen. The country a mile away was well supplied with\nJack-rabbits of the new and selected stock. Among them was a little\nlady Rabbit called \"Bright-eyes,\" from her leading characteristic as\nshe sat gray in the gray brush. She was a good runner, but was\nespecially successful with the fence-play that baffled the Coyotes. She\nmade her nest out in an open pasture, an untouched tract of the ancient\nprairie. Here her brood were born and raised. One like herself was\nbright-eyed, in coat of silver-gray, and partly gifted with her ready\nwits, but in the other, there appeared a rare combination of his\nmother's gifts with the best that was in the best strain of the new\nJack-rabbits of the plains.\n\nThis was the one whose adventures we have been following, the one that\nlater on the turf won the name of Little Warhorse and that afterward\nachieved a world-wide fame.\n\nAncient tricks of his kind he revived and put to new uses, and ancient\nenemies he learned to fight with new-found tricks.\n\nWhen a mere baby he discovered a plan that was worthy of the wisest\nRabbit in Kaskado. He was pursued by a horrible little Yellow Dog, and\nhe had tried in vain to get rid of him by dodging among the fields and\nfarms. This is good play against a Coyote, because the farmers and the\nDogs will often help the Jack, without knowing it, by attacking the\nCoyote. But now the plan did not work at all, for the little Dog\nmanaged to keep after him through one fence after another, and Jack\nWarhorse, not yet full-grown, much less seasoned, was beginning to feel\nthe strain. His ears were no longer up straight, but angling back and\nat times drooping to a level, as he darted through a very little hole\nin an Osage hedge, only to find that his nimble enemy had done the same\nwithout loss of time. In the middle of the field was a small herd of\ncattle and with them a calf.\n\nThere is in wild animals a curious impulse to trust any stranger when\nin desperate straits. The foe behind they know means death. There is\njust a chance, and the only one left, that the stranger may prove\nfriendly; and it was this last desperate chance that drew Jack Warhorse\nto the Cows.\n\nIt is quite sure that the Cows would have stood by in stolid\nindifference so far as the Rabbit was concerned, but they have a\ndeep-rooted hatred of a dog, and when they saw the Yellow Cur coming\nbounding toward them, their tails and noses went up; they sniffed\nangrily, then closed up ranks, and led by the Cow that owned the Calf,\nthey charged at the Dog, while Jack took refuge under a low thorn-bush.\nThe Dog swerved aside to attack the Calf, at least the old Cow thought\nhe did, and she followed him so fiercely that he barely escaped from\nthat field with his life.\n\nIt was a good old plan--one that doubtless came from the days when\nBuffalo and Coyote played the parts of Cow and Dog. Jack never forgot\nit, and more than once it saved his life.\n\nIn color as well as in power he was a rarity.\n\nAnimals are colored in one or other of two general plans: one that\nmatches them with their surroundings and helps them to hide--this is\ncalled \"protective\"; the other that makes them very visible for several\npurposes--this is called \"directive.\" Jack-rabbits are peculiar in\nbeing painted both ways. As they squat in their form in the gray brush\nor clods, they are soft gray on their ears, head, back, and sides; they\nmatch the ground and cannot be seen until close at hand--they are\nprotectively colored. But the moment it is clear to the Jack that the\napproaching foe will find him, he jumps up and dashes away. He throws\noff all disguise now, the gray seems to disappear; he makes a lightning\nchange, and his ears show snowy white with black tips, the legs are\nwhite, his tail is a black spot in a blaze of white. He is a\nblack-and-white Rabbit now. His coloring is all directive. How is it\ndone? Very simply. The front side of the ear is gray, the back, black\nand white. The black tail with its white halo, and the legs, are tucked\nbelow. He is sitting on them. The gray mantle is pulled down and\nenlarged as he sits, but when he jumps up it shrinks somewhat, all his\nblack-and-white marks are now shown, and just as his colors formerly\nwhispered, \"I am a clod,\" they now shout aloud, \"I am a Jack-rabbit.\"\n\nWhy should he do this? Why should a timid creature running for his life\nthus proclaim to all the world his name instead of trying to hide?\nThere must be some good reason. It must pay, or the Rabbit would never\nhave done it.\n\nThe answer is, if the creature that scared him up was one of his own\nkind--i.e., this was a false alarm--then at once, by showing his\nnational colors, the mistake is made right. On the other hand, if it be\na Coyote, Fox, or Dog, they see at once, this is a Jack-rabbit, and\nknow that it would be waste of time for them to pursue him. They say in\neffect, \"This is a Jack-rabbit, and I cannot catch a Jack in open\nrace.\" They give it up, and that, of course, saves the Jack a great\ndeal of unnecessary running and worry. The black-and-white spots are\nthe national uniform and flag of the Jacks. In poor specimens they are\napt to be dull, but in the finest specimens they are not only larger,\nbut brighter than usual, and the Little Warhorse, gray when he sat in\nhis form, blazed like charcoal and snow, when he flung his defiance to\nthe Fox and buff Coyote, and danced with little effort before them,\nfirst a black-and-white Jack, then a little white spot, and last a\nspeck of thistledown, before the distance swallowed him.\n\nMany of the farmers' Dogs had learned the lesson: \"A grayish Rabbit you\nmay catch, but a very black-and-white one is hopeless.\" They might,\nindeed, follow for a time, but that was merely for the fun of a chivvy,\nand his growing power often led Warhorse to seek the chase for the sake\nof a little excitement, and to take hazards that others less gifted\nwere most careful to avoid.\n\nJack, like all other wild animals, had a certain range or country which\nwas home to him, and outside of this he rarely strayed. It was about\nthree miles across, extending easterly from the centre of the village.\nScattered through this he had a number of \"forms,\" or \"beds\" as they\nare locally called. These were mere hollows situated under a sheltering\nbush or bunch of grass, without lining excepting the accidental grass\nand in-blown leaves. But comfort was not forgotten. Some of them were\nfor hot weather; they faced the north, were scarcely sunk, were little\nmore than shady places. Some for the cold weather were deep hollows\nwith southern exposure, and others for the wet were well roofed with\nherbage and faced the west. In one or other of these he spent the day,\nand at night he went forth to feed with his kind, sporting and romping\non the moonlight nights like a lot of puppy Dogs, but careful to be\ngone by sunrise, and safely tucked in a bed that was suited to the\nweather.\n\nThe safest ground for the Jacks was among the farms, where not only\nOsage hedges, but also the newly arrived barb-wire, made hurdles and\nhazards in the path of possible enemies. But the finest of the forage\nis nearer to the village among the truck-farms--the finest of forage\nand the fiercest of dangers. Some of the dangers of the plains were\nlacking, but the greater perils of men, guns, Dogs, and impassable\nfences are much increased. Yet those who knew Warhorse best were not at\nall surprised to find that he had made a form in the middle of a\nmarket-gardener's melon-patch. A score of dangers beset him here, but\nthere was also a score of unusual delights and a score of holes in the\nfence for times when he had to fly, with at least twoscore of\nexpedients to help him afterward.\n\n\nIII\n\nNewchusen was a typical Western town. Everywhere in it, were to be seen\nstrenuous efforts at uglification, crowned with unmeasured success. The\nstreets were straight level lanes without curves or beauty-spots. The\nhouses were cheap and mean structures of flimsy boards and tar paper,\nand not even honest in their ugliness, for each of them was pretending\nto be something better than itself. One had a false front to make it\nlook like two stories, another was of imitation brick, a third\npretended to be a marble temple.\n\nBut all agreed in being the ugliest things ever used as human\ndwellings, and in each could be read the owner's secret thought--to\nstand it for a year or so, then move out somewhere else. The only\nbeauties of the place, and those unintentional, were the long lines of\nhand-planted shade-trees, uglified as far as possible with whitewashed\ntrunks and croppy heads, but still lovable, growing, living things.\n\nThe only building in town with a touch of picturesqueness was the grain\nelevator. It was not posing as a Greek temple or a Swiss chalet, but\nsimply a strong, rough, honest, grain elevator. At the end of each\nstreet was a vista of the prairie, with its farm-houses, windmill\npumps, and long lines of Osage-orange hedges. Here at least was\nsomething of interest--the gray-green hedges, thick, sturdy, and high,\nwere dotted with their golden mock-oranges, useless fruit, but more\nwelcome here than rain in a desert; for these balls were things of\nbeauty, and swung on their long tough boughs they formed with the soft\ngreen leaves a color-chord that pleased the weary eye.\n\nSuch a town is a place to get out of, as soon as possible, so thought\nthe traveller who found himself laid over here for two days in late\nwinter. He asked after the sights of the place. A white Muskrat stuffed\nin a case \"down to the saloon\"; old Baccy Bullin, who had been scalped\nby the Indians forty years ago; and a pipe once smoked by Kit Carson,\nproved unattractive, so he turned toward the prairie, still white with\nsnow.\n\nA mark among the numerous Dog tracks caught his eye: it was the track\nof a large Jack-rabbit. He asked a passer-by if there were any Rabbits\nin town.\n\n\"No, I reckon not. I never seen none,\" was the answer. A mill-hand gave\nthe same reply, but a small boy with a bundle of newspapers said: \"You\nbet there is; there's lots of them out there on the prairie, and they\ncome in town a-plenty. Why, there's a big, big feller lives right round\nSi Kalb's melon-patch--oh, an awful big feller, and just as black and\nas white as checkers!\" and thus he sent the stranger eastward on his\nwalk.\n\nThe \"big, big, awful big one\" was the Little Warhorse himself. He\ndidn't live in Kalb's melon-patch; he was there only at odd times. He\nwas not there now; he was in his west-fronting form or bed, because a\nraw east wind was setting in. It was due east of Madison Avenue, and as\nthe stranger plodded that way the Rabbit watched him. As long as the\nman kept the road the Jack was quiet, but the road turned shortly to\nthe north, and the man by chance left it and came straight on. Then the\nJack saw trouble ahead. The moment the man left the beaten track, he\nbounded from his form, and wheeling, he sailed across the prairie due\neast.\n\nA Jack-rabbit running from its enemy ordinarily covers eight or nine\nfeet at a bound, and once in five or six bounds, it makes an\nobservation hop, leaping not along, but high in the air, so as to get\nabove all herbage and bushes and take in the situation. A silly young\nJack will make an observation hop as often as one in four, and so waste\na great deal of time. A clever Jack will make one hop in eight or nine,\ndo for observation. But Jack Warhorse as he sped, got all the\ninformation he needed, in one hop out of a dozen, while ten to fourteen\nfeet were covered by each of his flying bounds. Yet another personal\npeculiarity showed in the trail he left. When a Cottontail or a\nWood-hare runs, his tail is curled up tight on his back, and does not\ntouch the snow. When a Jack runs, his tail hangs downward or backward,\nwith the tip curved or straight, according to the individual; in some,\nit points straight down, and so, often leaves a little stroke behind\nthe foot-marks. The Warhorse's tail of shining black, was of unusual\nlength, and at every bound, it left in the snow, a long stroke, so long\nthat that alone was almost enough to tell which Rabbit had made the\ntrack.\n\nNow some Rabbits seeing only a man without any Dog would have felt\nlittle fear, but Warhorse, remembering some former stinging experiences\nwith a far-killer, fled when the foe was seventy-five yards away, and\nskimming low, he ran southeast to a fence that ran easterly. Behind\nthis he went like a low-flying Hawk, till a mile away he reached\nanother of his beds; and here, after an observation taken as he stood\non his heels, he settled again to rest.\n\nBut not for long. In twenty minutes his great megaphone ears, so close\nto the ground, caught a regular sound--crunch, crunch, crunch--the\ntramp of a human foot, and he started up to see the man with the\nshining stick in his hand, now drawing near.\n\nWarhorse bounded out and away for the fence. Never once did he rise to\na \"spy-hop\" till the wire and rails were between him and his foe, an\nunnecessary precaution as it chanced, for the man was watching the\ntrail and saw nothing of the Rabbit.\n\nJack skimmed along, keeping low and looking out for other enemies. He\nknew now that the man was on his track, and the old instinct born of\nancestral trouble with Weasels was doubtless what prompted him to do\nthe double trail. He ran in a long, straight course to a distant fence,\nfollowed its far side for fifty yards, then doubling back he retraced\nhis trail and ran off in a new direction till he reached another of his\ndens or forms. He had been out all night and was very ready to rest,\nnow that the sun was ablaze on the snow; but he had hardly got the\nplace a little warmed when the \"tramp, tramp, tramp\" announced the\nenemy, and he hurried away.\n\nAfter a half-a-mile run he stopped on a slight rise and marked the man\nstill following, so he made a series of wonderful quirks in his trail,\na succession of blind zigzags that would have puzzled most trailers;\nthen running a hundred yards past a favorite form, he returned to it\nfrom the other side, and settled to rest, sure that now the enemy would\nbe finally thrown off the scent.\n\nIt was slower than before, but still it came--\"tramp, tramp, tramp.\"\n\nJack awoke, but sat still. The man tramped by on the trail one hundred\nyards in front of him, and as he went on, Jack sprang out unseen,\nrealizing that this was an unusual occasion needing a special effort.\nThey had gone in a vast circle around the home range of the Warhorse\nand now were less than a mile from the farm-house of the black Dog.\nThere was that wonderful board fence with the happily planned hen-hole.\nIt was a place of good memory--here more than once he had won, here\nespecially he had baffled the Greyhound.\n\nThese doubtless were the motive thoughts rather than any plan of\nplaying one enemy against another, and Warhorse bounded openly across\nthe snow to the fence of the big black Dog.\n\nThe hen-hole was shut, and Warhorse, not a little puzzled, sneaked\naround to find another, without success, until, around the front, here\nwas the gate wide open, and inside lying on some boards was the big\nDog, fast asleep. The Hens were sitting hunched up in the warmest\ncorner of the yard. The house Cat was gingerly picking her way from\nbarn to kitchen, as Warhorse halted in the gateway.\n\nThe black form of his pursuer was crawling down the far white prairie\nslope. Jack hopped quietly into the yard. A long-legged Rooster, that\nought to have minded his own business, uttered a loud cackle as he saw\nthe Rabbit hopping near. The Dog lying in the sun raised his head and\nstood up, and Jack's peril was dire. He squatted low and turned himself\ninto a gray clod. He did it cleverly, but still might have been lost\nbut for the Cat. Unwittingly, unwillingly, she saved him. The black Dog\nhad taken three steps toward the Warhorse, though he did not know the\nRabbit was there, and was now blocking the only way of escape from the\nyard, when the Cat came round the corner of the house, and leaping to a\nwindow-ledge brought a flower-pot rolling down. By that single awkward\nact she disturbed the armed neutrality existing between herself and the\nDog. She fled to the barn, and of course a flying foe is all that is\nneeded to send a Dog on the war-path. They passed within thirty feet of\nthe crouching Rabbit. As soon as they were well gone, Jack turned, and\nwith-out even a \"Thank you, Pussy,\" he fled to the open and away on the\nhard-beaten road.\n\nThe Cat had been rescued by the lady of the house; the Dog was once\nmore sprawling on the boards when the man on Jack's trail arrived. He\ncarried, not a gun, but a stout stick, sometimes called \"dog-medicine,\"\nand that was all that prevented the Dog attacking the enemy of his prey.\n\nThis seemed to be the end of the trail. The trick, whether planned or\nnot, was a success, and the Rabbit got rid of his troublesome follower.\n\nNext day the stranger made another search for the Jack and found, not\nhimself, but his track. He knew it by its tail-mark, its long leaps and\nfew spy-hops, but with it and running by it was the track of a smaller\nRabbit. Here is where they met, here they chased each other in play,\nfor no signs of battle were there to be seen; here they fed or sat\ntogether in the sun, there they ambled side by side, and here again\nthey sported in the snow, always together. There was only one\nconclusion: this was the mating season. This was a pair of\nJack-rabbits--the Little Warhorse and his mate.\n\n\nIV\n\nNext summer was a wonderful year for the Jack-rabbits. A foolish law\nhad set a bounty on Hawks and Owls and had caused a general massacre of\nthese feathered policemen. Consequently the Rabbits had multiplied in\nsuch numbers that they now were threatening to devastate the country.\n\nThe farmers, who were the sufferers from the bounty law, as well as the\nmakers of it, decided on a great Rabbit drive. All the county was\ninvited to come, on a given morning, to the main road north of the\ncounty, with the intention of sweeping the whole region up-wind and at\nlength driving the Rabbits into a huge corral of close wire netting.\nDogs were barred as unmanageable, and guns as dangerous in a crowd; but\nevery man and boy carried a couple of long sticks and a bag full of\nstones. Women came on horseback and in buggies; many carried rattles or\nhorns and tins to make a noise. A number of the buggies trailed a\nstring of old cans or tied laths to scrape on the wheel-spokes, and\nthus add no little to the deafening clatter of the drive. As Rabbits\nhave marvellously sensitive hearing, a noise that is distracting to\nmankind, is likely to prove bewildering to them.\n\nThe weather was right, and at eight in the morning the word to advance\nwas given. The line was about five miles long at first, and there was a\nman or a boy every thirty or forty yards. The buggies and riders kept\nperforce almost entirely to the roads; but the beaters were supposed,\nas a point of honor, to face everything, and keep the front unbroken.\nThe advance was roughly in three sides of a square. Each man made as\nmuch noise as he could, and threshed every bush in his path. A number\nof Rabbits hopped out. Some made for the lines, to be at once assailed\nby a shower of stones that laid many of them low. One or two did get\nthrough and escaped, but the majority were swept before the drive. At\nfirst the number seen was small, but before three miles were covered\nthe Rabbits were running ahead in every direction. After five\nmiles--and that took about three hours--the word for the wings to close\nin was given. The space between the men was shortened up till they were\nless than ten feet apart, and the whole drive converged on the corral\nwith its two long guide wings or fences; the end lines joined these\nwings, and the surround was complete. The drivers marched rapidly now;\nscores of the Rabbits were killed as they ran too near the beaters.\nTheir bodies strewed the ground, but the swarms seemed to increase; and\nin the final move, before the victims were cooped up in the corral, the\ntwo-acre space surrounded was a whirling throng of skurrying, jumping,\nbounding Rabbits. Round and round they circled and leaped, looking for\na chance to escape; but the inexorable crowd grew thicker as the ring\ngrew steadily smaller, and the whole swarm was forced along the chute\ninto the tight corral, some to squat stupidly in the middle, some to\nrace round the outer wall, some to seek hiding in corners or under each\nother.\n\nAnd the Little Warhorse--where was he in all this? The drive had swept\nhim along, and he had been one of the first to enter the corral. But a\ncurious plan of selection had been established. The pen was to be a\ndeath-trap for the Rabbits, except the best, the soundest. And many\nwere there that were unsound; those that think of all wild animals as\npure and perfect things, would have been shocked to see how many halt,\nmaimed, and diseased there were in that pen of four thousand or five\nthousand Jack-rabbits.\n\nIt was a Roman victory--the rabble of prisoners was to be butchered.\nThe choicest were to be reserved for the arena. The arena? Yes, that is\nthe Coursing Park.\n\nIn that corral trap, prepared beforehand for the Rabbits, were a number\nof small boxes along the wall, a whole series of them, five hundred at\nleast, each large enough to hold one Jack.\n\nIn the last rush of driving, the swiftest Jacks got first to the pen.\nSome were swift and silly; when once inside they rushed wildly round\nand round. Some were swift and wise; they quickly sought the hiding\nafforded by the little boxes; all of these were now full. Thus five\nhundred of the swiftest and wisest had been selected, in, not by any\nmeans an infallible way, but the simplest and readiest. These five\nhundred were destined to be coursed by Greyhounds. The surging mass of\nover four thousand were ruthlessly given to slaughter.\n\nFive hundred little boxes with five hundred bright-eyed Jack-rabbits\nwere put on the train that day, and among them was Little Jack Warhorse.\n\n\nV\n\nRabbits take their troubles lightly, and it is not to be supposed that\nany great terror was felt by the boxed Jacks, once the uproar of the\nmassacre was over; and when they reached the Coursing Park near the\ngreat city and were turned out one by one, very gently,--yes, gently;\nthe Roman guards were careful of their prisoners, being responsible for\nthem,--the Jacks found little to complain of, a big inclosure with\nplenty of good food, and no enemies to annoy them.\n\nThe very next morning their training began. A score of hatchways were\nopened into a much larger field--the Park. After a number of Jacks had\nwandered out through these doors a rabble of boys appeared and drove\nthem back, pursuing them noisily until all were again in the smaller\nfield, called the Haven. A few days of this taught the Jack-rabbits\nthat when pursued their safety was to get back by one of the hatches\ninto the Haven.\n\nNow the second lesson began. The whole band were driven out of a side\ndoor into a long lane which led around three sides of the Park to\nanother inclosure at the far end. This was the Starting Pen. Its door\ninto the arena--that is, the Park--was opened, the Rabbits driven\nforth, and then a mob of boys and Dogs in hiding, burst forth and\npursued them across the open. The whole army went bobbing and bounding\naway, some of the younger ones soaring in a spy-hop, as a matter of\nhabit; but low skimming ahead of them all was a gorgeous\nblack-and-white one; clean-limbed and bright-eyed, he had attracted\nattention in the pen, but now in the field he led the band with easy\nlope that put him as far ahead of them all as they were ahead of the\nrabble of common Dogs.\n\n\"Luk at thot, would ye--but ain't he a Little Warhorse?\" shouted a\nvillainous-looking Irish stable-boy, and thus he was named. When\nhalfway across the course the Jacks remembered the Haven, and all swept\ntoward it and in like a snow-cloud over the drifts.\n\nThis was the second lesson--to lead straight for the Haven as soon as\ndriven from the Pen. In a week all had learned it, and were ready for\nthe great opening meet of the Coursing Club.\n\nThe Little Warhorse was now well known to the grooms and hangers-on;\nhis colors usually marked him clearly, and his leadership was in a\nmeasure recognized by the long-eared herd that fled with him. He\nfigured more or less with the Dogs in the talk and betting of the men.\n\n\"Wonder if old Dignam is going to enter Minkie this year?\"\n\n\"Faix, an' if he does I bet the Little Warhorse will take the gimp out\nav her an' her runnin' mate.\"\n\n\"I'll bet three to one that my old Jen will pick the Warhorse up before\nhe passes the grand stand,\" growled a dog-man.\n\n\"An' it's meself will take thot bet in dollars,\" said Mickey, \"an',\nmoore than thot, Oi'll put up a hull month's stuff thot there ain't a\ndog in the mate thot kin turrn the Warrhorrse oncet on the hull coorse.\"\n\nSo they wrangled and wagered, but each day, as they put the Rabbits\nthrough their paces, there were more of those who believed that they\nhad found a wonderful runner in the Warhorse, one that would give the\nbest Greyhounds something that is rarely seen, a straight stern chase\nfrom Start to Grand Stand and Haven.\n\n\nVI\n\nThe first morning of the meet arrived bright and promising. The Grand\nStand was filled with a city crowd. The usual types of a racecourse\nappeared in force. Here and there were to be seen the dog-grooms\nleading in leash single Greyhounds or couples, shrouded in blankets,\nbut showing their sinewy legs, their snaky necks, their shapely heads\nwith long reptilian jaws, and their quick, nervous yellow eyes--hybrids\nof natural force and human ingenuity, the most wonderful\nrunning-machines ever made of flesh and blood. Their keepers guarded\nthem like jewels, tended them like babies, and were careful to keep\nthem from picking up odd eatables, as well as prevent them smelling\nunusual objects or being approached by strangers. Large sums were\nwagered on these Dogs, and a cunningly placed tack, a piece of doctored\nmeat, yes, an artfully compounded smell, has been known to turn a\nsuperb young runner into a lifeless laggard, and to the owner this\nmight spell ruin. The Dogs entered in each class are paired off, as\neach contest is supposed to be a duel; the winners in the first series\nare then paired again. In each trial, a Jack is driven from the\nStarting-pen; close by in one leash are the rival Dogs, held by the\nslipper. As soon as the Hare is well away, the man has to get the Dogs\nevenly started and slip them together. On the field is the judge,\nscarlet-coated and well mounted. He follows the chase. The Hare,\nmindful of his training, speeds across the open, toward the Haven, in\nfull view of the Grand Stand. The Dogs follow the Jack. As the first\none comes near enough to be dangerous, the Hare balks him by dodging.\nEach time the Hare is turned, scores for the Dog that did it, and a\nfinal point is made by the kill.\n\nSometimes the kill takes place within one hundred yards of the\nstart--that means a poor Jack; mostly it happens in front of the Grand\nStand; but on rare occasions it chances that the Jack goes sailing\nacross the open Park a good half-mile and, by dodging for time, runs to\nsafety in the Haven. Four finishes are possible: a speedy kill; a\nspeedy winning of the Haven; new Dogs to relieve the first runners, who\nwould suffer heart-collapse in the terrific strain of their pace, if\nkept up many minutes in hot weather; and finally, for Rabbits that by\ncontinued dodging defy and jeopardize the Dogs, and yet do not win the\nHaven, there is kept a loaded shotgun.\n\nThere is just as much jockeying at a Kaskado coursing as at a Kaskado\nhorse-race, just as many attempts at fraud, and it is just as necessary\nto have the judge and slipper beyond suspicion.\n\nThe day before the next meet a man of diamonds saw Irish Mickey--by\nchance. A cigar was all that visibly passed, but it had a green wrapper\nthat was slipped off before lighting. Then a word: \"If you wuz slipper\nto-morrow and it so came about that Dignam's Minkie gets done,\nwall,--it means another cigar.\"\n\n\"Faix, an' if I wuz slipper I could load the dice so Minkie would flyer\nscore a p'int, but her runnin' mate would have the same bad luck.\"\n\n\"That so?\" The diamond man looked interested. \"All right--fix it so; it\nmeans two cigars.\"\n\nSlipper Slyman had always dealt on the square, had scorned many\napproaches--that was well known. Most believed in him, but there were\nsome malcontents, and when a man with many gold seals approached the\nSteward and formulated charges, serious and well-backed, they must\nperforce suspend the slipper pending an inquiry, and thus Mickey Doo\nreigned in his stead.\n\nMickey was poor and not over-scrupulous. Here was a chance to make a\nyear's pay in a minute, nothing wrong about it, no harm to the Dog or\nthe Rabbit either.\n\nOne Jack-rabbit is much like another. Everybody knows that; it was\nsimply a question of choosing your Jack.\n\nThe preliminaries were over. Fifty Jacks had been run and killed.\nMickey had done his work satisfactorily; a fair slip had been given to\nevery leash. He was still in command as slipper. Now came the final for\nthe cup--the cup and the large stakes.\n\n\nVII\n\nThere were the slim and elegant Dogs awaiting their turn. Minkie and\nher rival were first. Everything had been fair so far, and who can say\nthat what followed was unfair? Mickey could turn out which Jack he\npleased.\n\n\"Number three!\" he called to his partner.\n\nOut leaped the Little Warhorse,--black and white his great ears, easy\nand low his five-foot bounds; gazing wildly at the unwonted crowd about\nthe Park, he leaped high in one surprising spy-hop.\n\n\"Hrrrrr!\" shouted the slipper, and his partner rattled a stick on the\nfence. The Warhorse's bounds increased to eight or nine feet.\n\n\"Hrrrrrr!\" and they were ten or twelve feet. At thirty yards the Hounds\nwere slipped--an even slip; some thought it could have been done at\ntwenty yards.\n\n\"Hrrrrrr! Hrrrrrrr!\" and the Warhorse was doing fourteen-foot leaps,\nnot a spy-hop among them.\n\n\"Hrrrrr!\" wonderful Dogs! how they sailed; but drifting ahead of them,\nlike a white sea-bird or flying scud, was the Warhorse. Away past the\nGrand Stand. And the Dogs--were they closing the gap of start? Closing!\nIt was lengthening! In less time than it takes to tell it, that\nblack-and-white thistledown had drifted away through the Haven\ndoor,--the door so like that good old hen-hole,--and the Grey-hounds\npulled up amidst a roar of derision and cheers for the Little Warhorse.\nHow Mickey did laugh! How Dignam did swear! How the newspaper men did\nscribble--scribble--scribble!\n\nNext day there was a paragraph in all the papers: \"WONDERFUL FEAT OF A\nJACKRABBIT. The Little Warhorse, as he has been styled, completely\nskunked two of the most famous Dogs on the turf,\" etc.\n\nThere was a fierce wrangle among the dog-men. This was a tie, since\nneither had scored, and Minkie and her rival were allowed to run again;\nbut that half-mile had been too hot, and they had no show for the cup.\n\nMickey met \"Diamonds\" next day, by chance.\n\n\"Have a cigar, Mickey.\"\n\n\"Oi will thot, sor. Faix, thim's so foine; I'd loike two--thank ye,\nsor.\"\n\n\nVIII\n\nFrom that time the Little Warhorse became the pride of the Irish boy.\nSlipper Slyman had been honorably reinstated and Mickey reduced to the\nrank of Jack-starter, but that merely helped to turn his sympathies\nfrom the Dogs to the Rabbits, or rather to the Warhorse, for of all the\nfive hundred that were brought in from the drive he alone had won\nrenown. There were several that crossed the Park to run again another\nday, but he alone had crossed the course without getting even a turn.\nTwice a week the meets took place; forty or fifty Jacks were killed\neach time, and the five hundred in the pen had been nearly all eaten of\nthe arena.\n\nThe Warhorse had run each day, and as often had made the Haven. Mickey\nbecame wildly enthusiastic about his favorite's powers. He begot a\npositive affection for the clean-limbed racer, and stoutly maintained\nagainst all that it was a positive honor to a Dog to be disgraced by\nsuch a Jack.\n\nIt is so seldom that a Rabbit crosses the track at all, that when Jack\ndid it six times without having to dodge, the papers took note of it,\nand after each meet there appeared a notice: \"The Little Warhorse\ncrossed again today;  old-timers say it shows how our Dogs are\ndeteriorating.\"\n\nAfter the sixth time the rabbit-keepers grew enthusiastic, and Mickey,\ncommander-in-chief of the brigade, became intemperate in his\nadmiration. \"Be jabers, he has a right to be torned loose. He has won\nhis freedom loike ivery Amerikin done,\" he added, by way of appeal to\nthe patriotism of the Steward of the race, who was, of course, the real\nowner of the Jacks.\n\n\"All right, Mick; if he gets across thirteen times you can ship him\nback to his native land,\" was the reply.\n\n\"Shure now, an' won't you make it tin, sor?\"\n\n\"No, no; I need him to take the conceit out of some of the new Dogs\nthat are coming.\"\n\n\"Thirteen toimes and he is free, sor; it's a bargain.\"\n\nA new lot of Rabbits arrived about this time, and one of these was\ncolored much like Little Warhorse. He had no such speed, but to prevent\nmistakes Mickey caught his favorite by driving him into one of the\npadded shipping-boxes, and proceeded with the gate-keeper's punch to\nearmark him. The punch was sharp; a clear star was cut out of the thin\nflap, when Mickey exclaimed: \"Faix, an' Oi'll punch for ivery toime ye\ncross the coorse.\" So he cut six stars in a row. \"Thayer now,\nWarrhorrse, shure it's a free Rabbit ye'll be when ye have yer thirteen\nstars like our flag of liberty hed when we got free.\"\n\nWithin a week the Warhorse had vanquished the new Greyhounds and had\nstars enough to go round the right ear and begin on the left. In a week\nmore the thirteen runs were completed, six stars in the left ear and\nseven in the right, and the newspapers had new material.\n\n\"Whoop!\" How Mickey hoorayed! \"An' it's a free Jack ye are, Warrhorrse!\nThirteen always wuz a lucky number. I never knowed it to fail.\"\n\n\nIX\n\n\"Yes, I know I did,\" said the Steward. \"But I want to give him one more\nrun. I have a bet on him against a new Dog here. It won't hurt him now;\nhe can do it. Oh, well. Here now, Mickey, don't you get sassy. One run\nmore this afternoon. The Dogs run two or three times a day; why not the\nJack?\"\n\n\"They're not shtakin' thayre loives, sor.\"\n\n\"Oh, you get out.\"\n\nMany more Rabbits had been added to the pen,--big and small, peaceful\nand warlike,--and one big Buck of savage instincts, seeing Jack\nWarhorse's hurried dash into the Haven that morning, took advantage of\nthe moment to attack him.\n\nAt another time Jack would have thumped his skull, as he once did the\nCat's, and settled the affair in a minute; but now it took several\nminutes, during which he himself got roughly handled; so when the\nafternoon came he was suffering from one or two bruises and stiffening\nwounds; not serious, indeed, but enough to lower his speed.\n\nThe start was much like those of previous runs. The Warhorse steaming\naway low and lightly, his ears up and the breezes whistling through his\nthirteen stars.\n\nMinkie with Fango, the new Dog, bounded in eager pursuit, but, to the\nsurprise of the starters, the gap grew smaller. The Warhorse was losing\nground, and right before the Grand Stand old Minkie turned him, and a\ncheer went up from the dog-men, for all knew the runners. Within fifty\nyards Fango scored a turn, and the race was right back to the start.\nThere stood Slyman and Mickey. The Rabbit dodged, the Greyhounds\nplunged; Jack could not get away, and just as the final snap seemed\nnear, the Warhorse leaped straight for Mickey, and in an instant was\nhidden in his arms, while the starter's feet flew out in energetic\nkicks to repel the furious Dogs. It is not likely that the Jack knew\nMickey for a friend; he only yielded to the old instinct to fly from a\ncertain enemy to a neutral or a possible friend, and, as luck would\nhave it, he had wisely leaped and well. A cheer went up from the\nbenches as Mickey hurried back with his favorite. But the dog-men\nprotested \"it wasn't a fair run--they wanted it finished.\" They\nappealed to the Steward. He had backed the Jack against Fango. He was\nsore now, and ordered a new race.\n\nAn hour's rest was the best Mickey could get for him. Then he went as\nbefore, with Fango and Minkie in pursuit. He seemed less stiff now--he\nran more like himself; but a little past the Stand he was turned by\nFango and again by Minkie, and back and across, and here and there,\nleaping frantically and barely eluding his foes. For several minutes it\nlasted. Mickey could see that Jack's ears were sinking. The new Dog\nleaped. Jack dodged almost under him to escape, and back only to meet\nthe second Dog; and now both ears were flat on his back. But the Hounds\nwere suffering too. Their tongues were lolling out; their jaws and\nheaving sides were splashed with foam. The Warhorse's ears went up\nagain. His courage seemed to revive in their distress. He made a\nstraight dash for the Haven; but the straight dash was just what the\nHounds could do, and within a hundred yards he was turned again, to\nbegin another desperate game of zigzag. Then the dog-men saw danger for\ntheir Dogs, and two new ones were slipped--two fresh Hounds; surely\nthey could end the race. But they did not. The first two were\nvanquished--gasping--out of it, but the next two were racing near. The\nWarhorse put forth all his strength. He left the first two far\nbehind--was nearly to the Haven when the second two came up.\n\nNothing but dodging could save him now. His ears were sinking, his\nheart was pattering on his ribs, but his spirit was strong. He flung\nhimself in wildest zigzags. The Hounds tumbled over each other. Again\nand again they thought they had him. One of them snapped off the end of\nhis long black tail, yet he escaped; but he could not get to the Haven.\nThe luck was against him. He was forced nearer to the Grand Stand. A\nthousand ladies were watching. The time limit was up. The second Dogs\nwere suffering, when Mickey came running, yelling like a\nmadman--words--imprecations--crazy sounds:\n\n\"Ye blackguard hoodlums! Ye dhirty, cowardly bastes!\" and he rushed\nfuriously at the Dogs, intent to do them bodily harm.\n\nOfficers came running and shouting, and Mickey, shrieking hatred and\ndefiance, was dragged from the field, reviling Dogs and men with every\nhorrid, insulting name he could think of or invent.\n\n\"Fair play! Whayer's yer fair play, ye liars, ye dhirty cheats, ye\nbloody cowards!\" And they drove him from the arena. The last he saw of\nit was the four foaming Dogs feebly dodging after a weak and worn-out\nJack-rabbit, and the judge on his Horse beckoning to the man with the\ngun.\n\nThe gate closed behind him, and Mickey heard a bang-bang, an unusual\nuproar mixed with yelps of Dogs, and he knew that Little Jack Warhorse\nhad been served with finish No. 4.\n\nAll his life he had loved Dogs, but his sense of fair play was\noutraged. He could not get in, nor see in from where he was. He raced\nalong the lane to the Haven, where he might get a good view, and\narrived in time to see--Little Jack Warhorse with his half-masted ears\nlimp into the Haven; and he realized at once that the man with the gun\nhad missed, had hit the wrong runner, for there was the crowd at the\nStand watching two men who were carrying a wounded Greyhound, while a\nveterinary surgeon was ministering to another that was panting on the\nground.\n\nMickey looked about, seized a little shipping-box, put it at the angle\nof the Haven, carefully drove the tired thing into it, closed the lid,\nthen, with the box under his arm, he scaled the fence unseen in the\nconfusion and was gone.\n\n'It didn't matter; he had lost his job anyway.' He tramped away from\nthe city. He took the train at the nearest station and travelled some\nhours, and now he was in Rabbit country again. The sun had long gone\ndown; the night with its stars was over the plain when among the farms,\nthe Osage and alfalfa, Mickey Doo opened the box and gently put the\nWarhorse out.\n\nGrinning as he did so, he said: \"Shure an' it's ould Oireland thot's\nproud to set the thirteen stars at liberty wance moore.\"\n\nFor a moment the Little Warhorse gazed in doubt, then took three or\nfour long leaps and a spy-hop to get his bearings. Now spreading his\nnational colors and his honor-marked ears, he bounded into his hard-won\nfreedom, strong as ever, and melted into the night of his native plain.\n\nHe has been seen many times in Kaskado, and there have been many Rabbit\ndrives in that region, but he seems to know some means of baffling them\nnow, for, in all the thousands that have been trapped and corralled,\nthey have never since seen the star-spangled ears of Little jack\nWarhorse.\n\n\n\n\nSNAP\n\nTHE STORY OF A BULL-TERRIER\n\nI\n\nIt was dusk on Hallowe'en when first I saw him. Early in the morning I\nhad received a telegram from my college chum Jack: \"Lest we forget. Am\nsending you a remarkable pup. Be polite to him; it's safer.\" It would\nhave been just like Jack to have sent an infernal machine or a Skunk\nrampant and called it a pup, so I awaited the hamper with curiosity.\nWhen it arrived I saw it was marked \"Dangerous,\" and there came from\nwithin a high-pitched snarl at every slight provocation. On peering\nthrough the wire netting I saw it was not a baby Tiger but a small\nwhite Bull-terrier. He snapped at me and at any one or anything that\nseemed too abrupt or too near for proper respect, and his snarling\ngrowl was unpleasantly frequent. Dogs have two growls: one\ndeep-rumbled, and chesty; that is polite warning--the retort courteous;\nthe other mouthy and much higher in pitch: this is the last word before\nactual onslaught. The Terrier's growls were all of the latter kind. I\nwas a dog-man and thought I knew all about Dogs, so, dismissing the\nporter, I got out my all-round\njackknife--toothpick--nailhammer-hatchet-toolbox-fire-shovel, a\nspecialty of our firm, and lifted the netting. Oh, yes, I knew all\nabout Dogs. The little fury had been growling out a whole-souled growl\nfor every tap of the tool, and when I turned the box on its side, he\nmade a dash straight for my legs. Had not his foot gone through the\nwire netting and held him, I might have been hurt, for his heart was\nevidently in his work; but I stepped on the table out of reach and\ntried to reason with him. I have always believed in talking to animals.\nI maintain that they gather something of our intention at least, even\nif they do not understand our words; but the Dog evidently put me down\nfor a hypocrite and scorned my approaches. At first he took his post\nunder the table and kept up a circular watch for a leg trying to get\ndown. I felt sure I could have controlled him with my eye, but I could\nnot bring it to bear where I was, or rather where he was; thus I was\nleft a prisoner. I am a very cool person, I flatter myself; in fact, I\nrepresent a hardware firm, and, in coolness, we are not excelled by any\nbut perhaps the nosy gentlemen that sell wearing-apparel. I got out a\ncigar and smoked tailor-style on the table, while my little tyrant\nbelow kept watch for legs. I got out the telegram and read it:\n\"Remarkable pup. Be polite to him; it's safer.\" I think it was my\ncoolness rather than my politeness that did it, for in half an hour the\ngrowling ceased. In an hour he no longer jumped at a newspaper\ncautiously pushed over the edge to test his humor; possibly the\nirritation of the cage was wearing off, and by the time I had lit my\nthird cigar, he waddled out to the fire and lay down; not ignoring me,\nhowever, I had no reason to complain of that kind of contempt. He kept\none eye on me, and I kept both eyes, not on him, but on his stumpy\ntail. If that tail should swing sidewise once I should feel I was\nwinning; but it did not swing. I got a book and put in time on that\ntable till my legs were cramped and the fire burned low. About 10 P.M.\nit was chilly, and at half-past ten the fire was out. My Hallowe'en\npresent got up, yawned and stretched, then walked under my bed, where\nhe found a fur rug. By stepping lightly from the table to the dresser,\nand then on to the mantel-shelf, I also reached bed, and, very quietly\nundressing, got in without provoking any criticism from my master. I\nhad not yet fallen asleep when I heard a slight scrambling and felt\n\"thump-thump\" on the bed, then over my feet and legs; Snap evidently\nhad found it too cool down below, and proposed to have the best my\nhouse afforded.\n\nHe curled up on my feet in such a way that I was very uncomfortable and\ntried to readjust matters, but the slightest wriggle of my toe was\nenough to make him snap at it so fiercely that nothing but thick\nwoollen bedclothes saved me from being maimed for life.\n\nI was an hour moving my feet--a hair's-breadth at a time--till they\nwere so that I could sleep in comfort; and I was awakened several times\nduring the night by angry snarls from the Dog--I suppose because I\ndared to move a toe without his approval, though once I believe he did\nit simply because I was snoring.\n\nIn the morning I was ready to get up before Snap was. You see, I call\nhim Snap-Ginger-snap in full. Some Dogs are hard to name, and some do\nnot seem to need it--they name themselves.\n\nI was ready to rise at seven. Snap was not ready till eight, so we rose\nat eight. He had little to say to the man who made the fire. He allowed\nme to dress without doing it on the table. As I left the room to get\nbreakfast, I remarked:\n\n\"Snap, my friend, some men would whip you into a different way, but I\nthink I know a better plan. The doctors nowadays favor the\n'no-breakfast cure.' I shall try that.\"\n\nIt seemed cruel, but I left him without food all day. It cost me\nsomething to repaint the door where he scratched it, but at night he\nwas quite ready to accept a little food at my hands.\n\nIn a week we were very good friends. He would sleep on my bed now and\nallow me to move my feet without snapping at them, intent to do me\nserious bodily harm. The no-breakfast cure had worked wonders; in three\nmonths we were--well, simply man and Dog, and he amply justified the\ntelegram he came with.\n\nHe seemed to be without fear. If a small Dog came near, he would take\nnot the slightest notice; if a medium-sized Dog, he would stick his\nstub of a tail rigidly up in the air, then walk around him, scratching\ncontemptuously with his hind feet, and looking at the sky, the\ndistance, the ground, anything but the Dog, and noting his presence\nonly by frequent high-pitched growls. If the stranger did not move on\nat once, the battle began, and then the stranger usually moved on very\nrapidly. Snap sometimes got worsted, but no amount of sad experience\ncould ever inspire him with a grain of caution. Once, while riding in a\ncab during the Dog Show, Snap caught sight of an elephantine St.\nBernard taking an airing. Its size aroused such enthusiasm in the Pup's\nlittle breast that he leaped from the cab window to do battle, and\nbroke his leg.\n\nEvidently fear had been left out of his make-up and its place supplied\nwith an extra amount of ginger, which was the reason of his full name.\nHe differed from all other Dogs I have ever known. For example, if a\nboy threw a stone at him, he ran, not away, but toward the boy, and if\nthe crime was repeated, Snap took the law into his own hands; thus he\nwas at least respected by all. Only myself and the porter at the office\nseemed to realize his good points, and we only were admitted to the\nhigh honor of personal friendship, an honor which I appreciated more as\nmonths went on, and by midsummer not Carnegie, Vanderbilt, and Astor\ntogether could have raised money enough to buy a quarter of a share in\nmy little Dog Snap.\n\n\nII\n\nThough not a regular traveller, I was ordered out on the road in the\nautumn, and then Snap and the landlady were left together, with\nunfortunate developments. Contempt on his part--fear on hers; and hate\non both.\n\nI was placing a lot of barb-wire in the northern tier of States. My\nletters were forwarded once a week, and I got several complaints from\nthe landlady about Snap.\n\nArrived at Mendoza, in North Dakota, I found a fine market for wire. Of\ncourse my dealings were with the big storekeepers, but I went about\namong the ranchmen to get their practical views on the different\nstyles, and thus I met the Penroof Brothers' Cow-outfit.\n\nOne cannot be long in Cow country now without hearing a great deal\nabout the depredations of the ever wily and destructive Gray-wolf. The\nday has gone by when they can be poisoned wholesale, and they are a\nserious drain on the rancher's profits. The Penroof Brothers, like most\nlive cattle-men, had given up all attempts at poisoning and trapping,\nand were trying various breeds of Dogs as Wolf-hunters, hoping to get a\nlittle sport out of the necessary work of destroying the pests.\n\nFoxhounds had failed--they were too soft for fighting; Great Danes were\ntoo clumsy, and Greyhounds could not follow the game unless they could\nsee it. Each breed had some fatal defect, but the cow-men hoped to\nsucceed with a mixed pack, and the day when I was invited to join in a\nMendoza Wolf-hunt, I was amused by the variety of Dogs that followed.\nThere were several mongrels, but there were also a few highly bred\nDogs--in particular, some Russian Wolfhounds that must have cost a lot\nof money.\n\nHilton Penroof, the oldest boy, \"The Master of Hounds,\" was unusually\nproud of them, and expected them to do great things.\n\n\"Greyhounds are too thin-skinned to fight a Wolf, Danes are too slow,\nbut you'll see the fur fly when the Russians take a hand.\"\n\nThus the Greyhounds were there as runners, the Danes as heavy backers,\nand the Russians to do the important fighting. There were also two or\nthree Foxhounds, whose fine noses were relied on to follow the trail if\nthe game got out of view.\n\nIt was a fine sight as we rode away among the Badland Buttes that\nOctober day. The air was bright and crisp, and though so late, there\nwas neither snow nor frost. The Horses were fresh, and once or twice\nshowed me how a Cow-pony tries to get rid of his rider.\n\nThe Dogs were keen for sport, and we did start one or two gray spots in\nthe plain that Hilton said were Wolves or Coyotes. The Dogs trailed\naway at full cry, but at night, beyond the fact that one of the\nGreyhounds had a wound on his shoulder, there was nothing to show that\nany of them had been on a Wolf-hunt.\n\n\"It's my opinion yer fancy Russians is no good, Hilt,\" said Garvin, the\nyounger brother. \"I'll back that little black Dane against the lot,\nmongrel an' all as he is.\"\n\n\"I don't unnerstan' it,\" growled Hilton. \"There ain't a Coyote, let\nalone a Gray-wolf, kin run away from them Greyhounds; them Foxhounds\nkin folly a trail three days old, an' the Danes could lick a Grizzly.\"\n\n\"I reckon,\" said the father, \"they kin run, an' they kin track, an'\nthey kin lick a Grizzly, maybe, but the fac' is they don't want to\ntackle a Gray-wolf. The hull darn pack is scairt--an' I wish we had our\nmoney out o' them.\"\n\nThus the men grumbled and discussed as I drove away and left them.\n\nThere seemed only one solution of the failure. The Hounds were swift\nand strong, but a Gray-wolf seems to terrorize all Dogs. They have not\nthe nerve to face him, and so, each time he gets away, and my thoughts\nflew back to the fearless little Dog that had shared my bed for the\nlast year. How I wished he was out here, then these lubberly giants of\nHounds would find a leader whose nerve would not fail at the moment of\ntrial.\n\nAt Baroka, my next stop, I got a batch of mail including two letters\nfrom the landlady; the first to say that \"that beast of a Dog was\nacting up scandalous in my room,\" and the other still more forcible,\ndemanding his immediate removal. \"Why not have him expressed to\nMendoza?\" I thought. \"It's only twenty hours; they'll be glad to have\nhim. I can take him home with me when I go through.\"\n\n\nIII\n\nMy next meeting with Gingersnap was not as different from the first as\none might have expected. He jumped on me, made much vigorous pretense\nto bite, and growled frequently, but it was a deep-chested growl and\nhis stump waggled hard.\n\nThe Penroofs had had a number of Wolf-hunts since I was with them, and\nwere much disgusted at having no better success than before. The Dogs\ncould find a Wolf nearly every time they went out, but they could not\nkill him, and the men were not near enough at the finish to learn why.\n\nOld Penroof was satisfied that \"thar wasn't one of the hull miserable\ngang that had the grit of a Jack-rabbit.\"\n\nWe were off at dawn the next day--the same procession of fine Horses\nand superb riders; the big blue Dogs, the yellow Dogs, the spotted\nDogs, as before; but there was a new feature, a little white Dog that\nstayed close by me, and not only any Dogs, but Horses that came too\nnear were apt to get a surprise from his teeth. I think he quarrelled\nwith every man, Horse, and Dog in the country, with the exception of a\nBull-terrier belonging to the Mendoza hotel man. She was the only one\nsmaller than himself, and they seemed very good friends.\n\nI shall never forget the view of the hunt I had that day. We were on\none of those large, flat-headed buttes that give a kingdom to the eye,\nwhen Hilton, who had been scanning the vast country with glasses,\nexclaimed: \"I see him. There he goes, toward Skull Creek. Guess it's a\nCoyote.\"\n\nNow the first thing is to get the Greyhounds to see the prey--not an\neasy matter, as they cannot use the glasses, and the ground was covered\nwith sage-brush higher than the Dogs' heads.\n\nBut Hilton called, \"Hu, hu, Dander,\" and leaned aside from his saddle,\nholding out his foot at the same time. With one agile bound Dander\nleaped to the saddle and there stood balancing on the Horse while\nHilton kept pointing. \"There he is, Dander; sic him--see him down\nthere.\" The Dog gazed earnestly where his master pointed, then seeming\nto see, he sprang to the ground with a slight yelp and sped away. The\nother Dogs followed after, in an ever-lengthening procession, and we\nrode as hard as we could behind them, but losing time, for the ground\nwas cut with gullies, spotted with badger-holes, and covered with rocks\nand sage that made full speed too hazardous.\n\nWe all fell behind, and I was last, of course, being least accustomed\nto the saddle. We got several glimpses of the Dogs flying over the\nlevel plain or dropping from sight in gullies to reappear at the other\nside. Dander, the Greyhound, was the recognized leader, and as we\nmounted another ridge we got sight of the whole chase--a Coyote at full\nspeed, the Dogs a quarter of a mile behind, but gaining. When next we\nsaw them the Coyote was dead, and the Dogs sitting around panting, all\nbut two of the Foxhounds and Gingersnap.\n\n\"Too late for the fracas,\" remarked Hilton, glancing at these last\nFoxhounds. Then he proudly petted Dander. \"Didn't need yer purp after\nall, ye see.\"\n\n\"Takes a heap of nerve for ten big Dogs to face one little Coyote,\"\nremarked the father, sarcastically. \"Wait till we run onto a Gray.\"\n\nNext day we were out again, for I made up my mind to see it to a finish.\n\nFrom a high point we caught sight of a moving speck of gray. A moving\nwhite speck stands for Antelope, a red speck for Fox, a gray speck for\neither Gray-wolf or Coyote, and which of these is determined by its\ntail. If the glass shows the tail down, it is a Coyote; if up, it is\nthe hated Gray-wolf.\n\nDander was shown the game as before and led the motley mixed\nprocession--as he had before--Greyhounds, Wolfhounds, Foxhounds, Danes,\nBull-terrier, horsemen. We got a momentary view of the pursuit; a\nGray-wolf it surely was, loping away ahead of the Dogs. Somehow I\nthought the first Dogs were not running so fast now as they had after\nthe Coyote. But no one knew the finish of the hunt. The Dogs came back\nto us one by one, and we saw no more of that Wolf.\n\nSarcastic remarks and recrimination were now freely indulged in by the\nhunters.\n\n\"Pah--scairt, plumb scairt,\" was the father's disgusted comment on the\npack. \"They could catch up easy enough, but when he turned on them,\nthey lighted out for home--pah!\"\n\n\"Where's that thar onsurpassable, fearless, scaired-o'-nort Tarrier?\"\nasked Hilton, scornfully.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said I. \"I am inclined to think he never saw the Wolf;\nbut if he ever does, I'll bet he sails in for death or glory.\"\n\nThat night several Cows were killed close to the ranch, and we were\nspurred on to another hunt.\n\nIt opened much like the last. Late in the afternoon we sighted a gray\nfellow with tail up, not half a mile off. Hilton called Dander up on\nthe saddle. I acted on the idea and called Snap to mine. His legs were\nso short that he had to leap several times before he made it,\nscrambling up at last with my foot as a half-way station. I pointed and\n\"sic-ed\" for a minute before he saw the game, and then he started out\nafter the Greyhounds, already gone, with energy that was full of\npromise.\n\nThe chase this time led us, not to the rough brakes along the river,\nbut toward the high open country, for reasons that appeared later. We\nwere close together as we rose to the upland and sighted the chase half\na mile off, just as Dander came up with the Wolf and snapped at his\nhaunch. The Gray-wolf turned round to fight, and we had a fine view.\nThe Dogs came up by twos and threes, barking at him in a ring, till\nlast the little white one rushed up. He wasted no time barking, but\nrushed straight at the Wolf's throat and missed it, yet seemed to get\nhim by the nose; then the ten big Dogs closed in, and in two minutes\nthe Wolf was dead. We had ridden hard to be in at the finish, and\nthough our view was distant, we saw at least that Snap had lived up to\nthe telegram, as well as to my promises for him.\n\nNow it was my turn to crow, and I did not lose the chance. Snap had\nshown them how, and at last the Mendoza pack had killed a Gray-wolf\nwithout help from the men.\n\nThere were two things to mar the victory somewhat: first, it was a\nyoung Wolf, a mere Cub, hence his foolish choice of country; second,\nSnap was wounded--the Wolf had given him a bad cut in the shoulder.\n\nAs we rode in proud procession home, I saw he limped a little. \"Here,\"\nI cried, \"come up, Snap.\" He tried once or twice to jump to the saddle,\nbut could not. \"Here, Hilton, lift him up to me.\"\n\n\"Thanks; I'll let you handle your own rattlesnakes,\" was the reply, for\nall knew now that it was not safe to meddle with his person. \"Here,\nSnap, take hold,\" I said, and held my quirt to him. He seized it, and\nby that I lifted him to the front of my saddle and so carried him home.\nI cared for him as though he had been a baby. He had shown those\nCattle-men how to fill the weak place in their pack; the Foxhounds may\nbe good and the Greyhounds swift and the Russians and Danes fighters,\nbut they are no use at all without the crowning moral force of grit,\nthat none can supply so well as a Bull-terrier. On that day the\nCattlemen learned how to manage the Wolf question, as you will find if\never you are at Mendoza; for every successful Wolf pack there has with\nit a Bull-terrier, preferably of the Snap-Mendoza breed.\n\n\nIV\n\nNext day was Hallowe'en, the anniversary of Snap's advent. The weather\nwas clear, bright, not too cold, and there was no snow on the ground.\nThe men usually celebrated the day with a hunt of some sort, and now,\nof course, Wolves were the one object. To the disappointment of all,\nSnap was in bad shape with his wound. He slept, as usual, at my feet,\nand bloody stains now marked the place. He was not in condition to\nfight, but we were bound to have a Wolf-hunt, so he was beguiled to an\nouthouse and locked up, while we went off, I, at least, with a sense of\nimpending disaster. I knew we should fail without my Dog, but I did not\nrealize how bad a failure it was to be.\n\nAfar among the buttes of Skull Creek we had roamed when a white ball\nappeared bounding through the sage-brush, and in a minute more Snap\ncame, growling and stump-waggling, up to my Horse's side. I could not\nsend him back; he would take no such orders, not even from me. His\nwound was looking bad, so I called him, held down the quirt, and jumped\nhim to my saddle.\n\n\"There,\" I thought, \"I'll keep you safe till we get home.\" 'Yes, I\nthought; but I reckoned not with Snap. The voice of Hilton, \"Hu, hu,\"\nannounced that he had sighted a Wolf. Dander and Riley, his rival, both\nsprang to the point of observation, with the result that they collided\nand fell together, sprawling, in the sage. But Snap, gazing hard, had\nsighted the Wolf, not so very far off, and before I knew it, he leaped\nfrom the saddle and bounded zigzag, high, low, in and under the sage,\nstraight for the enemy, leading the whole pack for a few minutes. Not\nfar, of course. The great Greyhounds sighted the moving speck, and the\nusual procession strung out on the plain. It promised to be a fine\nhunt, for the Wolf had less than half a mile start and all the Dogs\nwere fully interested.\n\n\"They 'ye turned up Grizzly Gully,\" cried Garvin. \"This way, and we can\nhead them off.\"\n\nSo we turned and rode hard around the north side of Hulmer's Butte,\nwhile the chase seemed to go round the south.\n\nWe galloped to the top of Cedar Ridge and were about to ride down, when\nHilton shouted, \"By George, here he is! We're right onto him.\" He\nleaped from his Horse, dropped the bridle, and ran forward. I did the\nsame. A great Gray-wolf came lumbering across an open plain toward us.\nHis head was low, his tail out level, and fifty yards behind him was\nDander, sailing like a Hawk over the ground, going twice as fast as the\nWolf. In a minute the Hound was alongside and snapped, but bounded\nback, as the Wolf turned on him. They were just below us now and not\nfifty feet away. Garvin drew his revolver, but in a fateful moment\nHilton interfered: \"No; no; let's see it out.\" In a few seconds the\nnext Greyhound arrived, then the rest in order of swiftness. Each came\nup full of fight and fury, determined to go right in and tear the\nGray-wolf to pieces; but each in turn swerved aside, and leaped and\nbarked around at a safe distance. After a minute or so the Russians\nappeared--fine big Dogs they were.  Their distant intention no doubt\nwas to dash right at the old Wolf; but his fearless front, his sinewy\nframe and death-dealing jaws, awed them long before they were near him,\nand they also joined the ring, while the desperado in the middle faced\nthis way and that, ready for any or all.\n\nNow the Danes came up, huge-limbed creatures, any one of them as heavy\nas the Wolf.  I heard their heavy breathing tighten into a threatening\nsound as they plunged ahead; eager to tear the foe to pieces; but when\nthey saw him there, grim fearless, mighty of jaw, tireless of limb,\nready to die if need be, but sure of this, he would not die\nalone--well, those great Danes--all three of them--were stricken, as\nthe rest had been, with a sudden bashfulness: Yes, they would go right\nin presently--not now, but as soon as they had got their breath; they\nwere not afraid of a Wolf, oh, no.  I could read their courage in their\nvoices.  They knew perfectly well that the first Dog to go in was going\nto get hurt, but never mind that--presently; they would bark a little\nmore to get up enthusiasm.\n\nAnd as the ten big Dogs were leaping round the silent Wolf at bay,\nthere was a rustling in the sage at the far side of place; then a\nsnow-white rubber ball, it seemed, came bounding, but grew into a\nlittle Bull-terrier, and Snap, slowest of the pack, and last, came\npanting hard, so hard he seemed gasping.  Over the level open he made,\nstraight to the changing ring around the Cattle-killer whom none dared\nface.  Did he hesitate? Not for an instant; through the ring of the\nyelping pack, straight for the old despot of range, right for his\nthroat he sprang; and the Gray-wolf struck with his twenty scimitars.\nBut the little one, if fooled at all, sprang again, and then what came\nI hardly knew. There was a whirling mass of Dogs. I thought I saw the\nlittle White One clinched on the Gray-wolf's nose. The pack was all\naround; we could not help them now.  But they did not need us; they had\na leader of dauntless mettle, and when in a little while the final\nscene was done, there on the ground lay the Gray-wolf, a giant of his\nkind, and clinched on his nose was the little white Dog.\n\nWe were standing around within fifteen feet, ready to help, but had no\nchance till were not needed.\n\nThe Wolf was dead, and I hallooed to Snap, but he did not move. I bent\nover him. \"Snap--Snap, it's all over; you've killed him.\" But the Dog\nwas very still, and now I saw two deep wounds in his body.  I tried to\nlift him. \"Let go, old fellow; it's all over.\" He growled feebly, and\nat last go of the Wolf. The rough cattle-men were kneeling around him\nnow; old Penroof's voice was trembling as he muttered, \"I wouldn't had\nhim hurt for twenty steers.\"  I lifted him in my arms, called to him\nand stroked his head.  He snarled a little, a farewell as it proved,\nfor he licked my hand as he did so, then never snarled again.\n\nThat was a sad ride home for me. There was the skin of a monstrous\nWolf, but no other hint of triumph.  We buried the fearless one on a\nbutte back of the Ranch-house.  Penroof, as he stood by, was heard to\ngrumble: \"By jingo, that was grit--cl'ar grit!  Ye can't raise Cattle\nwithout grit.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE WINNIPEG WOLF\n\nI\n\nIt was during the great blizzard of 1882 that I first met the Winnipeg\nWolf. I had left St. Paul in the middle of March to cross the prairies\nto Winnipeg, expecting to be there in twenty-four hours, but the Storm\nKing had planned it otherwise and sent a heavy-laden eastern blast. The\nsnow came down in a furious, steady torrent, hour after hour. Never\nbefore had I seen such a storm. All the world was lost in snow--snow,\nsnow, snow--whirling, biting, stinging, drifting snow--and the puffing,\nmonstrous engine was compelled to stop at the command of those tiny\nfeathery crystals of spotless purity.\n\nMany strong hands with shovels came to the delicately curled snowdrifts\nthat barred our way, and in an hour the engine could pass--only to\nstick in another drift yet farther on. It was dreary work--day after\nday, night after night, sticking in the drifts, digging ourselves out,\nand still the snow went whirling and playing about us.\n\n\"Twenty-two hours to Emerson,\" said the official; but nearly two weeks\nof digging passed before we did reach Emerson, and the poplar country\nwhere the thickets stop all drifting of the snow. Thenceforth the train\nwent swiftly, the poplar woods grew more thickly--we passed for miles\nthrough solid forests, then perhaps through an open space. As we neared\nSt. Boniface, the eastern outskirts of Winnipeg, we dashed across a\nlittle glade fifty yards wide, and there in the middle was a group that\nstirred me to the very soul.\n\nIn plain view was a great rabble of Dogs, large and small, black,\nwhite, and yellow, wriggling and heaving this way and that way in a\nrude ring; to one side was a little yellow Dog stretched and quiet in\nthe snow; on the outer part of the ring was a huge black Dog bounding\nabout and barking, but keeping ever behind the moving mob. And in the\nmidst, the centre and cause of it all, was a great, grim, Wolf.\n\nWolf? He looked like a Lion. There he stood, all\nalone--resolute-calm--with bristling mane, and legs braced firmly,\nglancing this way and that, to be ready for an attack in any direction.\nThere was a curl on his lips--it looked like scorn, but I suppose it\nwas really the fighting snarl of tooth display. Led by a\nwolfish-looking Dog that should have been ashamed, the pack dashed in,\nfor the twentieth time no doubt. But the great gray form leaped here\nand there, and chop, chop, chop went those fearful jaws, no other sound\nfrom the lonely warrior; but a death yelp from more than one of his\nfoes, as those that were able again sprang back, and left him\nstatuesque as before, untamed, unmaimed, and contemptuous of them all.\n\nHow I wished for the train to stick in a snowdrift now, as so often\nbefore, for all my heart went out to that Gray-wolf; I longed to go and\nhelp him. But the snow-deep glade flashed by, the poplar trunks shut\nout the view, and we went on to our journey's end.\n\nThis was all I saw, and it seemed little; but before many days had\npassed I knew surely that I had been favored with a view, in broad\ndaylight, of a rare and wonderful creature, none less than the Winnipeg\nWolf.\n\nHis was a strange history--a Wolf that preferred the city to the\ncountry, that passed by the Sheep to kill the Dogs, and that always\nhunted alone.\n\nIn telling the story of le Garou, as he was called by some, although I\nspeak of these things as locally familiar, it is very sure that to many\ncitizens of the town they were quite unknown. The smug shopkeeper on\nthe main street had scarcely heard of him until the day after the final\nscene at the slaughter-house, when his great carcass was carried to\nHine's taxidermist shop and there mounted, to be exhibited later at the\nChicago World's Fair, and to be destroyed, alas! in the fire that\nreduced the Mulvey Grammar School to ashes in 1896.\n\n\nII\n\nIt seems that Fiddler Paul, the handsome ne'er-do-well of the\nhalf-breed world, readier to hunt than to work, was prowling with his\ngun along the wooded banks of the Red River by Kildonan, one day in the\nJune of 1880. He saw a Gray-wolf come out of a hole in a bank and fired\na chance shot that killed it. Having made sure, by sending in his Dog,\nthat no other large Wolf was there, he crawled into the den, and found,\nto his utter amazement and delight, eight young Wolves--nine bounties\nof ten dollars each. How much is that? A fortune surely. He used a\nstick vigorously, and with the assistance of the yellow Cur, all the\nlittle ones were killed but one. There is a superstition about the last\nof a brood--it is not lucky to kill it. So Paul set out for town with\nthe scalp of the old Wolf, the scalps of the seven young, and the last\nCub alive.\n\nThe saloon-keeper, who got the dollars for which the scalps were\nexchanged, soon got the living Cub. He grew up at the end of a chain,\nbut developed a chest and jaws that no Hound in town could match. He\nwas kept in the yard for the amusement of customers, and this amusement\nusually took the form of baiting the captive with Dogs. The young Wolf\nwas bitten and mauled nearly to death on several occasions, but he\nrecovered, and each month there were fewer Dogs willing to face him.\nHis life was as hard as it could be. There was but one gleam of\ngentleness in it all, and that was the friendship that grew up between\nhimself and Little Jim, the son of the saloonkeeper.\n\nJim was a wilful little rascal with a mind of his own. He took to the\nWolf because it had killed a Dog that had bitten him. He thenceforth\nfed the Wolf and made a pet of it, and the Wolf responded by allowing\nhim to take liberties which no one else dared venture.\n\nJim's father was not a model parent. He usually spoiled his son, but at\ntimes would get in a rage and beat him cruelly for some trifle. The\nchild was quick to learn that he was beaten, not because he had done\nwrong, but because he had made his father angry. If, therefore, he\ncould keep out of the way until that anger had cooled, he had no\nfurther cause for worry. One day, seeking safety in flight with his\nfather behind him, he dashed into the Wolf's kennel, and his grizzly\nchum thus unceremoniously awakened turned to the door, displayed a\ndouble row of ivories, and plainly said to the father: \"Don't you dare\nto touch him.\"\n\nIf Hogan could have shot the Wolf then and there he would have done so,\nbut the chances were about equal of killing his son, so he let them\nalone and, half an hour later, laughed at the whole affair. Thenceforth\nLittle Jim made for the Wolf's den whenever he was in danger, and\nsometimes the only notice any one had that the boy had been in mischief\nwas seeing him sneak in behind the savage captive.\n\nEconomy in hired help was a first principle with Hogan. Therefore his\n\"barkeep\" was a Chinaman. He was a timid, harmless creature, so Paul\ndes Roches did not hesitate to bully him. One day, finding Hogan out,\nand the Chinaman alone in charge, Paul, already tipsy, demanded a drink\non credit, and Tung Ling, acting on standing orders, refused. His\nartless explanation, \"No good, neber pay,\" so far from clearing up the\ndifficulty, brought Paul staggering back of the bar to avenge the\ninsult. The Celestial might have suffered grievous bodily hurt, but\nthat Little Jim was at hand and had a long stick, with which he\nadroitly tripped up the Fiddler and sent him sprawling. He staggered to\nhis feet swearing he would have Jim's life. But the child was near the\nback door and soon found refuge in the Wolf's kennel.\n\nSeeing that the boy had a protector, Paul got the long stick, and from\na safe distance began to belabor the Wolf, The grizzly creature raged\nat the end of the chain, but, though he parried many cruel blows by\nseizing the stick in his teeth, he was suffering severely, when Paul\nrealized that Jim, whose tongue had not been idle, was fumbling away\nwith nervous fingers to set the Wolf loose, and soon would succeed.\nIndeed, it would have been done already but for the strain that the\nWolf kept on the chain.\n\nThe thought of being in the yard at the mercy of the huge animal that\nhe had so enraged, gave the brave Paul a thrill of terror.\n\nJim's wheedling voice was heard--\"Hold on now, Wolfie; back up just a\nlittle, and you shall have him. Now do; there's a good Wolfie\"--that\nwas enough; the Fiddler fled and carefully closed all doors behind him.\n\nThus the friendship between Jim and his pet grew stronger, and the\nWolf, as he developed his splendid natural powers, gave daily evidence\nalso of the mortal hatred he bore to men that smelt of whiskey and to\nall Dogs, the causes of his sufferings. This peculiarity, coupled with\nhis love for the child--and all children seemed to be included to some\nextent--grew with his growth and seemed to prove the ruling force of\nhis life.\n\n\nIII\n\nAt this time--that is, the fall of 1881--there were great complaints\namong the Qu'Appelle ranchmen that the Wolves were increasing in their\ncountry and committing great depredations among the stock. Poisoning\nand trapping had proved failures, and when a distinguished German\nvisitor appeared at the Club in Winnipeg and announced that he was\nbringing some Dogs that could easily rid the country of Wolves, he was\nlistened to with unusual interest. For the cattle-men are fond of\nsport, and the idea of helping their business by establishing a kennel\nof Wolfhounds was very alluring.\n\nThe German soon produced as samples of his Dogs, two magnificent Danes,\none white, the other blue with black spots and a singular white eye\nthat completed an expression of unusual ferocity. Each of these great\ncreatures weighed nearly two hundred pounds. They were muscled like\nTigers, and the German was readily believed when he claimed that these\ntwo alone were more than a match for the biggest Wolf. He thus\ndescribed their method of hunting: \"All you have to do is show them the\ntrail and, even if it is a day old, away they go on it. They cannot be\nshaken off. They will soon find that Wolf, no matter how he doubles and\nhides. Then they close on him. He turns to run, the blue Dog takes him\nby the haunch and throws him like this,\" and the German jerked a roll\nof bread into the air; \"then before he touches the ground the white Dog\nhas his head, the other his tail, and they pull him apart like that.\"\n\nIt sounded all right; at any rate every one was eager to put it to the\nproof. Several of the residents said there was a fair chance of finding\na Gray-wolf along the Assiniboine, so a hunt was organized. But they\nsearched in vain for three days and were giving it up when some one\nsuggested that down at Hogan's saloon was a Wolf chained up, that they\ncould get for the value of the bounty, and though little more than a\nyear old he would serve to show what the Dogs could do.\n\nThe value of Hogan's Wolf went up at once when he knew the importance\nof the occasion; besides, \"he had conscientious scruples.\" All his\nscruples vanished, however, when his views as to price were met. His\nfirst care was to get Little Jim out of the way by sending him on an\nerrand to his grandma's; then the Wolf was driven into his box and\nnailed in. The box was put in a wagon and taken to the open prairie\nalong the Portage trail.\n\nThe Dogs could scarcely be held back, they were so eager for the fray,\nas soon as they smelt the Wolf. But several strong men held their\nleash, the wagon was drawn half a mile farther, and the Wolf was turned\nout with some difficulty. At first he looked scared and sullen. He\ntried to get out of sight, but made no attempt to bite. However, on\nfinding himself free, as well as hissed and hooted at, he started off\nat a slinking trot toward the south, where the land seemed broken. The\nDogs were released at that moment, and, baying furiously, they bounded\naway after the young Wolf. The men cheered loudly and rode behind them.\nFrom the very first it was clear that he had no chance. The Dogs were\nmuch swifter; the white one could run like a Greyhound. The German was\nwildly enthusiastic as she flew across the prairie, gaining visibly on\nthe Wolf at every second. Many bets were offered on the Dogs, but there\nwere no takers. The only bets accepted were Dog against Dog. The young\nWolf went at speed now, but within a mile the white Dog was right\nbehind him--was closing in.\n\nThe German shouted: \"Now watch and see that Wolf go up in the air.\"\n\nIn a moment the runners were together. Both recoiled, neither went up\nin the air, but the white Dog rolled over with a fearful gash in her\nshoulder--out of the fight, if not killed. Ten seconds later the\nBlue-spot arrived, open-mouthed. This meeting was as quick and almost\nas mysterious as the first. The animals barely touched each other. The\ngray one bounded aside, his head out of sight for a moment in the flash\nof quick movement. Spot reeled and showed a bleeding flank. Urged on by\nthe men, he assaulted again, but only to get another wound that taught\nhim to keep off.\n\nNow came the keeper with four more huge Dogs. They turned these loose,\nand the men armed with clubs and lassos were closing to help in\nfinishing the Wolf, when a small boy came charging over the plain on a\nPony. He leaped to the ground and wriggling through the ring flung his\narms around the Wolf's neck. He called him his \"Wolfie pet,\" his \"dear\nWolfie\"--the Wolf licked his face and wagged its tail--then the child\nturned on the crowd and through his streaming tears, he--Well it would\nnot do to print what he said. He was only nine, but he was very\nold-fashioned, as well as a rude little boy. He had been brought up in\na low saloon, and had been an apt pupil at picking up the vile talk of\nthe place. He cursed them one and all and for generations back; he did\nnot spare even his own father.\n\nIf a man had used such shocking and insulting language he might have\nbeen lynched, but coming from a baby, the hunters did not know what to\ndo, so finally did the best thing. They laughed aloud--not at\nthemselves, that is not considered good form--but they all laughed at\nthe German whose wonderful Dogs had been worsted by a half-grown Wolf.\n\nJimmie now thrust his dirty, tear-stained little fist down into his\nvery-much-of-a-boy's pocket, and from among marbles and chewing-gum, as\nwell as tobacco, matches, pistol cartridges, and other contraband, he\nfished out a flimsy bit of grocer's twine and fastened it around the\nWolf's neck. Then, still blubbering a little, he set out for home on\nthe Pony, leading the Wolf and hurling a final threat and anathema at\nthe German nobleman: \"Fur two cents I'd sic him on you, gol darn ye.\"\n\n\nIV\n\nEarly that winter Jimmie was taken down with a fever. The Wolf howled\nmiserably in the yard when he missed his little friend, and finally on\nthe boy's demand was admitted to the sick-room, and there this great\nwild Dog--for that is all a Wolf is--continued faithfully watching by\nhis friend's bedside.\n\nThe fever had seemed slight at first, so that every one was shocked\nwhen there came suddenly a turn for the worse, and three days before\nChristmas Jimmie died. He had no more sincere mourner than his\n\"Wolfie.\" The great gray creature howled in miserable answer to the\nchurch-bell tolling when he followed the body on Christmas Eve to the\ngraveyard at St. Boniface. He soon came back to the premises behind the\nsaloon, but when an attempt was made to chain him again, he leaped a\nboard fence and was finally lost sight of.\n\nLater that same winter old Renaud, the trapper, with his pretty\nhalf-breed daughter, Ninette, came to live in a little log-cabin on the\nriver bank. He knew nothing about Jimmie Hogan, and he was not a little\npuzzled to find Wolf tracks and signs along the river on both sides\nbetween St. Boniface and Fort Garry. He listened with interest and\ndoubt to tales that the Hudson Bay Company's men told of a great\nGray-wolf that had come to live in the region about, and even to enter\nthe town at night, and that was in particular attached to the woods\nabout St. Boniface Church.\n\nOn Christmas Eve of that year when the bell tolled again as it had done\nfor Jimmie, a lone and melancholy howling from the woods almost\nconvinced Renaud that the stories were true. He knew the\nwolf-cries--the howl for help, the love song, the lonely wail, and the\nsharp defiance of the Wolves. This was the lonely wail.\n\nThe trapper went to the riverside and gave an answering howl. A shadowy\nform left the far woods and crossed on the ice to where the man sat,\nlog-still, on a log. It came up near him, circled past and sniffed,\nthen its eye glowed; it growled like a Dog that is a little angry, and\nglided back into the night.\n\nThus Renaud knew, and before long many townfolk began to learn, that a\nhuge Gray-wolf was living in their streets, \"a Wolf three times as big\nas the one that used to be chained at Hogan's gin-mill.\" He was the\nterror of Dogs, killing them on all possible occasions, and some said,\nthough it was never proven, that he had devoured more than one\nhalf-breed who was out on a spree.\n\nAnd this was the Winnipeg Wolf that I had seen that day in the wintry\nwoods. I had longed to go to his help, thinking the odds so hopelessly\nagainst him, but later knowledge changed the thought. I do not know how\nthat fight ended, but I do know that he was seen many times afterward\nand some of the Dogs were not.\n\nThus his was the strangest life that ever his kind had known. Free of\nall the woods and plains, he elected rather to lead a life of daily\nhazard in the town--each week at least some close escape, and every day\na day of daring deeds; finding momentary shelter at times under the\nvery boardwalk crossings. Hating the men and despising the Dogs, he\nfought his daily way and held the hordes of Curs at bay or slew them\nwhen he found them few or single; harried the drunkard, evaded men with\nguns, learned traps--learned poison, too--just how, we cannot tell, but\nlearn it he did, for he passed it again and again, or served it only\nwith a Wolf's contempt.\n\nNot a street in Winnipeg that he did not know; not a policeman in\nWinnipeg that had not seen his swift and shadowy form in the gray dawn\nas he passed where he would; not a Dog in Winnipeg that did not cower\nand bristle when the telltale wind brought proof that old Garou was\ncrouching near. His only path was the warpath, and all the world his\nfoes. But throughout this lurid, semi-mythic record there was one\nrecurring pleasant thought--Garou never was known to harm a child.\n\n\nV\n\nNinette was a desert-born beauty like her Indian mother, but gray-eyed\nlike her Normandy father, a sweet girl of sixteen, the belle of her\nset. She might have married any one of the richest and steadiest young\nmen of the country, but of course, in feminine perversity her heart was\nset on that ne'er-do-well, Paul des Roches. A handsome fellow, a good\ndancer and a fair violinist, Fiddler Paul was in demand at all\nfestivities, but he was a shiftless drunkard and it was even whispered\nthat he had a wife already in Lower Canada. Renaud very properly\ndismissed him when he came to urge his suit, but dismissed him in vain.\nNinette, obedient in all else, would not give up her lover. The very\nday after her father had ordered him away she promised to meet him in\nthe woods just across the river. It was easy to arrange this, for she\nwas a good Catholic, and across the ice to the church was shorter than\ngoing around by the bridge. As she went through the snowy wood to the\ntryst she noticed that a large gray Dog was following. It seemed quite\nfriendly, and the child (for she was still that) had no fear, but when\nshe came to the place where Paul was waiting, the gray Dog went forward\nrumbling in its chest. Paul gave one look, knew it for a huge Wolf,\nthen fled like the coward he was. He afterward said he ran for his gun.\nHe must have forgotten where it was, as he climbed the nearest tree to\nfind it. Meanwhile Ninette ran home across the ice to tell Paul's\nfriends of his danger. Not finding any firearms up the tree, the\nvaliant lover made a spear by fastening his knife to a branch and\nsucceeded in giving Garou a painful wound on the head. The savage,\ncreature growled horribly but thenceforth kept at a safe distance,\nthough plainly showing his intention to wait till the man came down.\nBut the approach of a band of rescuers changed his mind, and he went\naway.\n\nFiddler Paul found it easier to explain matters to Ninette than he\nwould to any one else. He still stood first in her affections, but so\nhopelessly ill with her father that they decided on an elopement, as\nsoon as he should return from Fort Alexander, whither he was to go for\nthe Company, as dog-driver. The Factor was very proud of his train\nDogs--three great Huskies with curly, bushy tails, big and strong as\nCalves, but fierce and lawless as pirates. With these the Fiddler Paul\nwas to drive to Fort Alexander from Fort Garry--the bearer of several\nimportant packets. He was an expert Dog-driver, which usually means\nrelentlessly cruel. He set off blithely down the river in the morning,\nafter the several necessary drinks of whiskey. He expected to be gone a\nweek, and would then come back with twenty dollars in his pocket, and\nhaving thus provided the sinews of war, would carry out the plan of\nelopement. Away they went down the river on the ice. The big Dogs\npulled swiftly but sulkily as he cracked the long whip and shouted,\n\"Allez, allez, marchez.\" They passed at speed by Renaud's shanty on the\nbank, and Paul, cracking his whip and running behind the train, waved\nhis hand to Ninette as she stood by the door. Speedily the cariole with\nthe sulky Dogs and drunken driver disappeared around the bend--and that\nwas the last ever seen of Fiddler Paul.\n\nThat evening the Huskies came back singly to Fort Garry. They were\nspattered with frozen blood, and were gashed in several places. But\nstrange to tell they were quite \"unhungry.\"\n\nRunners went on the back trail and recovered the packages. They were\nlying on the ice unharmed. Fragments of the sled were strewn for a mile\nor more up the river; not far from the packages were shreds of clothing\nthat had belonged to the Fiddler.\n\nIt was quite clear, the Dogs had murdered and eaten their driver.\n\nThe Factor was terribly wrought up over the matter. It might cost him\nhis Dogs. He refused to believe the report and set off to sift the\nevidence for himself. Renaud was chosen to go with him, and before they\nwere within three miles of the fatal place Renaud pointed to a very\nlarge track crossing from the east to the west bank of the river, just\nafter the Dog sled. He ran it backward for a mile or more on the\neastern bank, noted how it had walked when the Dogs walked and run when\nthey ran, before he turned to the Factor and said: \"A beeg Voolf--he\ncome after ze cariole all ze time.\"\n\nNow they followed the track where it had crossed to the west shore. Two\nmiles above Kildonan woods the Wolf had stopped his gallop to walk over\nto the sled trail, had followed it a few yards, then had returned to\nthe woods.\n\n\"Paul he drop somesin' here, ze packet maybe; ze Voolf he come for\nsmell. He follow so--now he know zat eez ze drunken Paul vot slash heem\non ze head.\"\n\nA mile farther the Wolf track came galloping on the ice behind the\ncariole. The man track disappeared now, for the driver had leaped on\nthe sled and lashed the Dogs. Here is where he cut adrift the bundles.\nThat is why things were scattered over the ice. See how the Dogs were\nbounding under the lash. Here was the Fiddler's knife in the snow. He\nmust have dropped it in trying to use it on the Wolf. And here-what!\nthe Wolf track disappears, but the sled track speeds along. The Wolf\nhas leaped on the sled. The Dogs, in terror, added to their speed; but\non the sleigh behind them there is a deed of vengeance done. In a\nmoment it is over; both roll off the sled; the Wolf track reappears on\nthe east side to seek the woods. The sled swerves to the west bank,\nwhere, after half a mile, it is caught and wrecked on a root.\n\nThe snow also told Renaud how the Dogs, entangled in the harness, had\nfought with each other, had cut themselves loose, and trotting homeward\nby various ways up the river, had gathered at the body of their late\ntyrant and devoured him at a meal.\n\nBad enough for the Dogs, still they were cleared of the murder. That\ncertainly was done by the Wolf, and Renaud, after the shock of horror\nwas past, gave a sigh of relief and added, \"Eet is le Garou. He hab\nsave my leel girl from zat Paul. He always was good to children.\"\n\n\nVI\n\nThis was the cause of the great final hunt that they fixed for\nChristmas Day just two years after the scene at the grave of Little\nJim. It seemed as though all the Dogs in the country were brought\ntogether. The three Huskies were there--the Factor considered them\nessential--there were Danes and trailers and a rabble of farm Dogs and\nnondescripts. They spent the morning beating all the woods east of St.\nBoniface and had no success. But a telephone message came that the\ntrail they sought had been seen near the Assiniboine woods west of the\ncity, and an hour later the hunt was yelling on the hot scent of the\nWinnipeg Wolf.\n\nAway they went, a rabble of Dogs, a motley rout of horsemen, a mob of\nmen and boys on foot. Garou had no fear of the Dogs, but men he knew\nhad guns and were dangerous. He led off for the dark timber line of the\nAssiniboine, but the horsemen had open country and they headed him\nback. He coursed along the Colony Creek hollow and so eluded the\nbullets already flying. He made for a barb-wire fence, and passing that\nhe got rid of the horsemen for a time, but still must keep the hollow\nthat baffled the bullets. The Dogs were now closing on him. All he\nmight have asked would probably have been to be left alone with\nthem--forty or fifty to one as they were--he would have taken the odds.\nThe Dogs were all around him now, but none dared to close in, A lanky\nHound, trusting to his speed, ran alongside at length and got a side\nchop from Garou that laid him low. The horsemen were forced to take a\ndistant way around, but now the chase was toward the town, and more men\nand Dogs came running out to join the fray.\n\nThe Wolf turned toward the slaughter-house, a familiar resort, and the\nshooting ceased on account of the houses, as well as the Dogs, being so\nnear. These were indeed now close enough to encircle him and hinder all\nfurther flight. He looked for a place to guard his rear for a final\nstand, and seeing a wooden foot-bridge over a gutter he sprang in,\nthere faced about and held the pack at bay. The men got bars and\ndemolished the bridge. He leaped out, knowing now that he had to die,\nbut ready, wishing only to make a worthy fight, and then for the first\ntime in broad day view of all his foes he stood--the shadowy\nDog-killer, the disembodied voice of St. Boniface woods, the wonderful\nWinnipeg Wolf.\n\n\nVII\n\nAt last after three long years of fight he stood before them alone,\nconfronting twoscore Dogs, and men with guns to back them--but facing\nthem just as resolutely as I saw him that day in the wintry woods. The\nsame old curl was on his lips--the hard-knit flanks heaved just a\nlittle, but his green and yellow eye glowed steadily. The Dogs closed\nin, led not by the huge Huskies from the woods--they evidently knew too\nmuch for that--but by a Bulldog from the town; there was scuffling of\nmany feet; a low rumbling for a time replaced the yapping of the pack;\na flashing of those red and grizzled jaws, a momentary hurl back of the\nonset, and again he stood alone and braced, the grim and grand old\nbandit that he was. Three times they tried and suffered. Their boldest\nwere lying about him. The first to go down was the Bulldog. Learning\nwisdom now, the Dogs held back, less sure; but his square-built chest\nshowed never a sign of weakness yet, and after waiting impatiently he\nadvanced a few steps, and thus, alas! gave to the gunners their\nlong-expected chance. Three rifles rang, and in the snow Garou went\ndown at last, his life of combat done.\n\nHe had made his choice. His days were short and crammed with quick\nevents. His tale of many peaceful years was spent in three of daily\nbrunt. He picked his trail, a new trail, high and short. He chose to\ndrink his cup at a single gulp, and break the glass-but he left a\ndeathless name.\n\nWho can look into the mind of the Wolf? Who can show us his wellspring\nof motive? Why should he still cling to a place of endless tribulation?\nIt could not be because he knew no other country, for the region is\nlimitless, food is everywhere, and he was known at least as far as\nSelkirk. Nor could his motive be revenge. No animal will give up its\nwhole life to seeking revenge; that evil kind of mind is found in man\nalone. The brute creation seeks for peace.\n\nThere is then but one remaining bond to chain him, and that the\nstrongest claim that anything can own--the mightiest force on earth.\n\nThe Wolf is gone. The last relic of him was lost in the burning Grammar\nSchool, but to this day the sexton of St. Boniface Church avers that\nthe tolling bell on Christmas Eve never fails to provoke that weird and\nmelancholy Wolf-cry from the wooded graveyard a hundred steps away,\nwhere they laid his Little Jim, the only being on earth that ever met\nhim with the touch of love.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF THE WHITE REINDEER\n\n\n  Skoal! Skoal! For Norway Skoal!\n  Sing ye the song of the Vand-dam troll.\n  When I am hiding\n  Norway's luck\n  On a White Storbuk\n  Comes riding, riding.\n\n\nBleak, black, deep, and cold is Utrovand, a long pocket of glacial\nwater, a crack in the globe, a wrinkle in the high Norwegian mountains,\nblocked with another mountain, and flooded with a frigid flood, three\nthousand feet above its Mother Sea, and yet no closer to its Father Sun.\n\nAround its cheerless shore is a belt of stunted trees, that sends a\nlong tail up the high valley, till it dwindles away to sticks and moss,\nas it also does some half-way up the granite hills that rise a thousand\nfeet, encompassing the lake. This is the limit of trees, the end of the\ngrowth of wood. The birch and willow are the last to drop out of the\nlong fight with frost. Their miniature thickets are noisy with the\ncries of Fieldfare, Pipit, and Ptarmigan, but these are left behind on\nnearing the upper plateau, where shade of rock and sough of wind are\nall that take their place. The chilly Hoifjeld rolls away, a rugged,\nrocky plain, with great patches of snow in all the deeper hollows, and\nthe distance blocked by snowy peaks that rise and roll and whiter\ngleam, till, dim and dazzling in the north, uplifts the Jotunheim, the\nhome of spirits, of glaciers, and of the lasting snow.\n\nThe treeless stretch is one vast attest to the force of heat. Each\nfailure of the sun by one degree is marked by a lower realm of life.\nThe northern slope of each hollow is less boreal than its southern\nside. The pine and spruce have given out long ago; the mountain-ash\nwent next; the birch and willow climbed up half the slope. Here,\nnothing grows but creeping plants and moss. The plain itself is pale\ngrayish green, one vast expanse of reindeer-moss, but warmed at spots\ninto orange by great beds of polytrichum, and, in sunnier nooks,\ndeepened to a herbal green. The rocks that are scattered everywhere are\nof a delicate lilac, but each is variegated with spreading frill-edged\nplasters of gray-green lichen or orange powder-streaks and beauty-spots\nof black. These rocks have great power to hold the heat, so that each\nof them is surrounded by a little belt of heat-loving plants that could\nnot otherwise live so high. Dwarfed representatives of the birch and\nwillow both are here, hugging the genial rock, as an old French\nhabitant hugs his stove in winter-time, spreading their branches over\nit, instead of in the frigid air. A foot away is seen a chillier belt\nof heath, and farther off, colder, where none else can grow, is the\nomnipresent gray-green reindeer-moss that gives its color to the\nupland. The hollows are still filled with snow, though now it is June.\nBut each of these white expanses is shrinking, spending itself in\nice-cold streams that somehow reach the lake. These sn\u00f6-flaks show no\nsign of life, not even the 'red-snow' tinge, and around each is a belt\nof barren earth, to testify that life and warmth can never be divorced.\n\nBirdless and lifeless, the gray-green snow-pied waste extends over all\nthe stretch that is here between the timber-line and the snow-line,\nabove which winter never quits its hold. Farther north both come lower,\ntill the timber-line is at the level of the sea; and all the land is in\nthat treeless belt called Tundra in the Old World, and Barrens in the\nNew, and that everywhere is the Home of the Reindeer--the Realm of the\nReindeer-moss.\n\n\nI\n\nIn and out it flew, in and out, over the water and under, as the\nVarsimle', the leader doe of the Reindeer herd, walked past on the\nvernal banks, and it sang:--\n\n\"Skoal! Skoal! Gamle Norge Skoal!\" and more about \"a White Reindeer and\nNorway's good luck,\" as though the singer were gifted with special\ninsight.\n\nWhen old Sveggum built the Vand-dam on the Lower Hoifjeld, just above\nthe Utrovand, and set his ribesten a-going, he supposed that he was the\nowner of it all. But some one was there before him. And in and out of\nthe spouting stream this some one dashed, and sang songs that he made\nup to fit the place and the time. He skipped from skjaeke to skjaeke of\nthe wheel, and did many things which Sveggum could set down only to\nluck--whatever that is; and some said that Sveggum's luck was a\nWheel-troll, a Water-fairy, with a brown coat and a white beard, one\nthat lived on land or in water, as he pleased.\n\nBut most of Sveggum's neighbors saw only a Fossekal, the little\nWaterfall Bird that came each year and danced in the stream, or dived\nwhere the pool is deep. And maybe both were right, for some of the very\noldest peasants will tell you that a Fairy-troll may take the form of a\nman or the form of a bird. Only this bird lived a life no bird can\nlive, and sang songs that men never had sung in Norway. Wonderful\nvision had he, and sights he saw that man never saw. For the Fieldfare\nwould build before him, and the Lemming fed its brood under his very\neyes. Eyes were they to see; for the dark speck on Suletind that man\ncould barely glimpse was a Reindeer, with half-shed coat, to him and\nthe green slime on the Vandren was beautiful green pasture with a\nbanquet spread.\n\nOh, Man is so blind, and makes himself so hated! But Fossekal harmed\nnone, so none were afraid of him. Only he sang, and his songs were\nsometimes mixed with fun and prophecy, or perhaps a little scorn.\n\nFrom the top of the tassel-birch he could mark the course of the\nVand-dam stream past the Nystuen hamlet to lose itself in the gloomy\nwaters of Utrovand or by a higher flight he could see across the barren\nupland that rolled to Jotunheim in the north.\n\nThe great awakening was on now. The springtime had already reached the\nwoods; the valleys were a-throb with life; new birds coming from the\nsouth, winter sleepers reappearing, and the Reindeer that had wintered\nin the lower woods should soon again be seen on the uplands.\n\nNot without a fight do the Frost Giants give up the place so long their\nown; a great battle was in progress; but the Sun was slowly, surely\nwinning, and driving them back to their Jotunheim. At every hollow and\nshady place they made another stand, or sneaked back by night, only to\nsuffer another defeat. Hard hitters these, as they are stubborn\nfighters; many a granite rock was split and shattered by their blows in\nreckless fight, so that its inner fleshy tints were shown and warmly\ngleamed among the gray-green rocks that dotted the plain, like the\ncountless flocks of Thor. More or less of these may be found at every\nplace of battle-brunt, and straggled along the slope of Suletind was a\nhost that reached for half a mile. But stay! these moved. Not rocks\nwere they, but living creatures.\n\nThey drifted along erratically, yet one way, all up the wind. They\nswept out of sight in a hollow, to reappear on a ridge much nearer, and\nserried there against the sky, we marked their branching horns, and\nknew them for the Reindeer in their home.\n\nThe band came drifting our way, feeding like Sheep, grunting like only\nthemselves. Each one found a grazing-spot, stood there till it was\ncleared off, then trotted on crackling hoofs to the front in search of\nanother. So the band was ever changing in rank and form. But one there\nwas that was always at or near the van--a large and well-favored\nSimle', or Hind. However much the band might change and spread, she was\nin the forefront, and the observant would soon have seen signs that she\nhad an influence over the general movement--that she, indeed, was the\nleader. Even the big Bucks, in their huge velvet-clad antlers, admitted\nthis untitular control; and if one, in a spirit of independence,\nevinced a disposition to lead elsewhere, he soon found himself\nuncomfortably alone.\n\nThe Varsimle', or leading Hind, had kept the band hovering, for the\nlast week or two, along the timber-line, going higher each day to the\nbaring uplands, where the snow was clearing and the deer-flies were\nblown away. As the pasture zone had climbed she had followed in her\ndaily foraging, returning to the sheltered woods at sundown, for the\nwild things fear the cold night wind even as man does. But now the\ndeer-flies were rife in the woods, and the rocky hillside nooks warm\nenough for the nightly bivouac, so the woodland was deserted.\n\nProbably the leader of a band of animals does not consciously pride\nitself on leadership, yet has an uncomfortable sensation when not\nfollowed. But there are times with all when solitude is sought. The\nVarsimle' had been fat and well through the winter, yet now was\nlistless, and lingered with drooping head as the grazing herd moved\npast her.\n\nSometimes she stood gazing blankly while the unchewed bunch of moss\nhung from her mouth, then roused to go on to the front as before; but\nthe spells of vacant stare and the hankering to be alone grew stronger.\nShe turned downward to seek the birch woods, but the whole band turned\nwith her. She stood stock-still, with head down. They grazed and\ngrunted past, leaving her like a statue against the hillside. When all\nhad gone on, she slunk quietly away; walked a few steps, looked about,\nmade a pretense of grazing, snuffed the ground, looked after the herd,\nand scanned the hills; then downward fared toward the sheltering woods.\n\nOnce as she peered over a bank she sighted another Simle', a doe\nReindeer, uneasily wandering by itself. But the Varsimle' wished not\nfor company. She did not know why, but she felt that she must hide away\nsomewhere.\n\nShe stood still until the other had passed on, then turned aside, and\nwent with faster steps and less wavering, till she came in view of\nUtrovand, away down by the little stream that turns old Sveggum's\nribesten. Up above the dam she waded across the limpid stream, for\ndeep-laid and sure is the instinct of a wild animal to put running\nwater between itself and those it shuns. Then, on the farther bank, now\nbare and slightly green, she turned, and passing in and out among the\ntwisted trunks, she left the noisy Vand-dam. On the higher ground\nbeyond she paused, looked this way and that, went on a little, but\nreturned; and here, completely shut in by softly painted rocks, and\nbirches wearing little springtime hangers, she seemed inclined to rest;\nyet not to rest, for she stood uneasily this way and that, driving away\nthe flies that settled on her legs, heeding not at all the growing\ngrass, and thinking she was hid from all the world.\n\nBut nothing escapes the Fossekal. He had seen her leave the herd, and\nnow he sat on a gorgeous rock that overhung, and sang as though he had\nwaited for this and knew that the fate of the nation might turn on what\npassed in this far glen. He sang:\n\n  Skoal! Skoal! For Norway Skoal!\n  Sing ye the song of the Vand-dam troll.\n  When I am hiding\n  Norway's luck\n  On a White Storbuk\n  Comes riding, riding.\n\n\nThere are no Storks in Norway, and yet an hour later there was a\nwonderful little Reindeer lying beside the Varsimle'. She was brushing\nhis coat, licking and mothering him, proud and happy as though this was\nthe first little Renskalv ever born. There might be hundreds born in\nthe herd that month, but probably no more like this one, for he was\nsnowy white, and the song of the singer on the painted rock was about\n\n  Good luck, good luck,\n  And a White Storbuk,\n\nas though he foresaw clearly the part that the White Calf was to play\nwhen he grew to be a Storbuk.\n\nBut another wonder now came to pass. Before an hour, there was a second\nlittle Calf--a brown one this time. Strange things happen, and hard\nthings are done when they needs must. Two hours later, when the\nVarsimle' led the White Calf away from the place, there was no Brown\nCalf, only some flattened rags with calf-hair on them.\n\nThe mother was wise: better one strongling than two weaklings. Within a\nfew days the Simle' once more led the band, and running by her side was\nthe White Calf. The Varsimle' considered him in all things, so that he\nreally set the pace for the band, which suited very well all the\nmothers that now had Calves with them. Big, strong, and wise was the\nVarsimle', in the pride of her strength, and this White Calf was the\nflower of her prime. He often ran ahead of his mother as she led the\nherd, and Rol, coming on them one day, laughed aloud at the sight as\nthey passed, old and young, fat Simle' and antlered Storbuk, a great\nbrown herd, all led, as it seemed, by a little White Calf.\n\nSo they drifted away to the high mountains, to be gone all summer.\n\"Gone to be taught by the spirits who dwell where the Black  Loon\nlaughs on the ice,\" said Lief of the Lower Dale; but Sveggum, who had\nalways been among the Reindeer, said: \"Their mothers are the teachers,\neven as ours are.\"\n\nWhen the autumn came, old Sveggum saw a moving sno-flack far off on the\nbrown moor-land; but the Troll saw a white yearling, a Nekbuk; and when\nthey ranged alongside of Utrovand to drink, the still sheet seemed\nfully to reflect the White One, though it barely sketched in the\nothers, with the dark hills behind.\n\nMany a little Calf had come that spring, and had drifted away on the\nmoss-barrens, to come back no more; for some were weaklings and some\nwere fools; some fell by the way, for that is law; and some would not\nlearn the rules, and so died. But the White Calf was strongest of them\nall, and he was wise, so he learned of his mother, who was wisest of\nthem all. He learned that the grass on the sun side of a rock is sweet,\nand though it looks the same in the dark hollows, it is there\nworthless. He learned that when his mother's hoofs crackled he must be\nup and moving, and when all the herd's hoofs crackled there was danger,\nand he must keep by his mother's side. For this crackling is like the\nwhistling of a Whistler Duck's wings: it is to keep the kinds together.\nHe learned that where the little Bomuldblomster hangs its Cotton tufts\nis dangerous bog; that the harsh cackle of the Ptarmigan means that\nclose at hand are Eagles, as dangerous for Fawn as for Bird. He learned\nthat the little troll-berries are deadly, that when the verra-flies\ncome stinging he must take refuge on a snow-patch, and that of all\nanimal smells only that of his mother was to be fully trusted. He\nlearned that he was growing. His flat calf sides and big joints were\nchanging to the full barrel and clean limbs of the Yearling, and the\nlittle bumps which began to show on his head when he was only a\nfortnight old were now sharp, hard spikes that could win in fight.\n\nMore than once they had smelt that dreaded destroyer of the north that\nmen call the Gjerv or Wolverene; and one day, as this danger-scent came\nsuddenly and in great strength, a huge blot of dark brown sprang\nrumbling from a rocky ledge, and straight for the foremost--the White\nCalf. His eye caught the flash of a whirling, shaggy mass, with\ngleaming teeth and eyes, hot-breathed and ferocious. Blank horror set\nhis hair on end; his nostrils flared in fear: but before he fled there\nrose within another feeling--one of anger at the breaker of his peace,\na sense that swept all fear away, braced his legs, and set his horns at\ncharge. The brown brute landed with a deep-chested growl, to be\nreceived on the young one's spikes. They pierced him deeply, but the\nshock was overmuch; it bore the White One down, and he might yet have\nbeen killed but that his mother, alert and ever near, now charged the\nattacking monster, and heavier, better armed, she hurled and speared\nhim to the ground. And the White Calf, with a very demon glare in his\nonce mild eyes, charged too; and even after the Wolverene was a mere\nhairy mass, and his mother had retired to feed, he came, snorting out\nhis rage, to drive his spikes into the hateful thing, till his snowy\nhead was stained with his adversary's blood.\n\nThus he showed that below the ox-like calm exterior was the fighting\nbeast; that he was like the men of the north, rugged, square-built,\ncalm, slow to wrath, but when aroused \"seeing red.\"\n\nWhen they ranked together by the lake that fall, the Fossekal sang his\nold song:\n\n  When I am hiding\n  Norway's luck\n  On a White Storbuk\n  Comes riding, riding,\n\nas though this was something he had awaited, then disappeared no one\nknew where. Old Sveggum had seen it flying through the stream, as birds\nfly through the air, walking in the bottom of a deep pond as a\nPtarmigan walks on the rocks, living as no bird can live; and now the\nold man said it had simply gone southward for the winter. But old\nSveggum could neither read nor write: how should he know?\n\n\nII\n\nEach springtime when the Reindeer passed over Sveggum's mill-run, as\nthey moved from the lowland woods to the bleaker shore of Utrovand, the\nFossekal was there to sing about the White Storbuk, which each year\nbecame more truly the leader.\n\nThat first spring he stood little higher than a Hare. When he came to\ndrink in the autumn, his back was above the rock where Sveggum's stream\nenters Utrovand. Next year he barely passed under the stunted birch,\nand the third year the Fossekal on the painted rock was looking up, not\ndown, at him as he passed. This was the autumn when Rol and Sveggum\nsought the Hoifjeld to round up their half-wild herd and select some of\nthe strongest for the sled. There was but one opinion about the\nStorbuk. Higher than the others, heavier, white as snow, with a mane\nthat swept the shallow drifts, breasted like a Horse and with horns\nlike a storm-grown oak, he was king of the herd, and might easily be\nking of the road.\n\nThere are two kinds of deer-breakers, as there are two kinds of\nhorse-breakers: one that tames and teaches the animal, and gets a\nspirited, friendly helper; one that aims to break its spirit, and gets\nonly a sullen slave, ever ready to rebel and wreak its hate. Many a\nLapp and many a Norsk has paid with his life for brutality to his\nReindeer, and Rol's days were shortened by his own pulk-Ren. But\nSveggum was of gentler sort. To him fell the training of the White\nStorbuk. It was slow, for the Buck resented all liberties from man, as\nhe did from his brothers; but kindness, not fear, was the power that\ntamed him, and when he had learned to obey and glory in the sled race,\nit was a noble sight to see the great white mild-eyed beast striding\ndown the long snow-stretch of Utrovand, the steam jetting from his\nnostrils, the snow swirling up before like the curling waves on a\nsteamer's bow, sled, driver, and Deer all dim in flying white.\n\nThen came the Yule-tide Fair, with the races on the ice, and Utrovand\nfor once was gay. The sullen hills about reechoed with merry shouting.\nThe Reindeer races were first, with many a mad mischance for laughter.\nRol himself was there with his swiftest sled Deer, a tall, dark,\nfive-year-old, in his primest prime. But over-eager, over-brutal, he\nharried the sullen, splendid slave till in mid-race--just when in a way\nto win--it turned at a cruel blow, and Rol took refuge under the\nupturned sled until it had vented its rage against the wood; and so he\nlost the race, and the winner was the young White Storbuk. Then he won\nthe five-mile race around the lake; and for each triumph Sveggum hung a\nlittle silver bell on his harness, so that now he ran and won to merry\nmusic.\n\nThen came the Horse races,--running races these; the Reindeer only\ntrots,--and when Balder, the victor Horse, received his ribbon and his\nowner the purse, came Sveggum with all his winnings in his hand, and\nsaid: \"Ho, Lars, thine is a fine Horse, but mine is a better Storbuk;\nlet us put our winnings together and race, each his beast, for all.\"\n\nA Ren against a Race-horse--such a race was never seen till now. Off at\nthe pistol-crack they flew. \"Ho, Balder! (cluck!) Ho, hi, Balder!\" Away\nshot the beautiful Racer, and the Storbuk, striding at a slower trot,\nwas left behind.\n\n\"Ho, Balder!\" \"Hi, Storbuk!\" How the people cheered as the Horse went\nbounding and gaining! But he had left the line at his top speed; the\nStorbuk's rose as he flew--faster--faster. The Pony ceased to gain. A\nmile whirled by; the gap began to close. The Pony had over-spurted at\nthe start, but the Storbuk was warming to his work--striding evenly,\nswiftly, faster yet, as Sveggum cried in encouragement: \"Ho, Storbuk!\ngood Storbuk!\" or talked to him only with a gentle rein. At the\nturning-point the pair were neck and neck; then the Pony--though well\ndriven and well shod-slipped on the ice, and thenceforth held back as\nthough in fear, so the Storbuk steamed away. The Pony and his driver\nwere far behind when a roar from every human throat in Filefjeld told\nthat the Storbuk had passed the wire and won the race. And yet all this\nwas before the White Ren had reached the years of his full strength and\nspeed.\n\nOnce that day Rol essayed to drive the Storbuk. They set off at a good\npace, the White Buk ready, responsive to the single rein, and his mild\neyes veiled by his drooping lashes. But, without any reason other than\nthe habit of brutality, Rol struck him. In a moment there was a change.\nThe Racer's speed was checked, all four legs braced forward till he\nstood; the drooping lids were raised, the eyes rolled--there was a\ngreen light in them now. Three puffs of steam were jetted from each\nnostril. Rol shouted, then, scenting danger, quickly upset the sled and\nhid beneath. The Storbuk turned to charge the sled, sniffing and\ntossing the snow with his foot; but little Knute, Sveggum's son, ran\nforward and put his arms around the Storbuk's neck; then the fierce\nlook left the Reindeer's eye, and he suffered the child to lead him\nquietly back to the starting-point. Beware, O driver! the Reindeer,\ntoo, \"sees red.\"\n\nThis was the coming of the White Storbuk for the folk of Filefjeld.\n\nIn the two years that followed he became famous throughout that country\nas Sveggum's Storbuk, and many a strange exploit was told of him. In\ntwenty minutes he could carry old Sveggum round the six-mile rim of\nUtrovand. When the snow-slide buried all the village of Holaker, it was\nthe Storbuk that brought the word for help to Opdalstole and returned\nagain over the forty miles of deep snow in seven hours, to carry\nbrandy, food, and promise of speedy aid.\n\nWhen over-venturesome young Knute Sveggumsen broke through the new thin\nice of Utrovand, his cry for help brought the Storbuk to the rescue;\nfor he was the gentlest of his kind and always ready to come at call.\n\nHe brought the drowning boy in triumph to the shore, and as they\ncrossed the Vand-dam stream, there was the Troll-bird to sing:\n\n  Good luck, good luck,\n  With the White Storbuk.\n\nAfter which he disappeared for months--doubtless dived into some\nsubaqueous cave to feast and revel all winter; although Sveggum did not\nbelieve it was so.\n\n\nIII\n\nHow often is the fate of kingdoms given into child hands, or even\ncommitted to the care of Bird or Beast! A She-wolf nursed the Roman\nEmpire. A Wren pecking crumbs on a drum-head aroused the Orange army,\nit is said, and ended the Stuart reign in Britain. Little wonder, then,\nthat to a noble Reindeer Buk should be committed the fate of Norway:\nthat the Troll on the wheel should have reason in his rhyme.\n\nThese were troublous times in Scandinavia. Evil men, traitors at heart,\nwere sowing dissension between the brothers Norway and Sweden. \"Down\nwith the Union!\" was becoming the popular cry.\n\nOh, unwise peoples! If only you could have been by Sveggum's wheel to\nhear the Troll when he sang:\n\n  The Raven and the Lion\n  They held the Bear at bay;\n  But he picked the bones of both\n  When they quarrelled by the way.\n\nThreats of civil war, of a fight for independence, were heard\nthroughout Norway. Meetings were held more or less secretly, and at\neach of them was some one with well-filled pockets and glib tongue, to\nenlarge on the country's wrongs, and promise assistance from an outside\nirresistible power as soon as they showed that they meant to strike for\nfreedom. No one openly named the power. That was not necessary; it was\neverywhere felt and understood. Men who were real patriots began to\nbelieve in it. Their country was wronged. Here was one to set her\nright. Men whose honor was beyond question became secret agents of this\npower. The state was honeycombed and mined; society was a tangle of\nplots. The king was helpless, though his only wish was for the people's\nwelfare. Honest and straightforward, what could he do against this\nfar-reaching machination? The very advisers by his side were corrupted\nthrough mistaken patriotism. The idea that they were playing into the\nhands of the foreigner certainly never entered into the minds of these\ndupes--at least, not those of the rank and file. One or two, tried,\nselected, and bought by the arch-enemy, knew the real object in view,\nand the chief of these was Borgrevinck, a former lansman of Nordlands.\nA man of unusual gifts, a member of the Storthing, a born leader, he\nmight have been prime minister long ago, but for the distrust inspired\nby several unprincipled dealings. Soured by what he considered want of\nappreciation, balked in his ambition, he was a ready tool when the\nforeign agent sounded him. At first his patriotism had to be sopped,\nbut that necessity disappeared as the game went on, and perhaps he\nalone, of the whole far-reaching conspiracy, was prepared to strike at\nthe Union for the benefit of the foreigner.\n\nPlans were being perfected,--army officers being secretly misled and\nwon over by the specious talk of \"their country's wrongs,\" and each\nmove made Borgrevinck more surely the head of it all,--when a quarrel\nbetween himself and the \"deliverer\" occurred over the question of\nrecompense. Wealth untold they were willing to furnish; but regal\npower, never. The quarrel became more acute. Borgrevinck continued to\nattend all meetings, but was ever more careful to centre all power in\nhimself, and even prepared to turn round to the king's party if\nnecessary to further his ambition. The betrayal of his followers would\npurchase his own safety. But proofs he must have, and he set about\ngetting signatures to a declaration of rights which was simply a veiled\nconfession of treason. Many of the leaders he had deluded into signing\nthis before the meeting at Laersdalsoren. Here they met in the early\nwinter, some twenty of the patriots, some of them men of position, all\nof them men of brains and power. Here, in the close and stifling\nparlor, they planned, discussed, and questioned. Great hopes were\nexpressed, great deeds were forecast, in that stove-hot room.\n\nOutside, against the fence, in the winter night, was a Great White\nReindeer, harnessed to a sled, but lying down with his head doubled\nback on his side as he slept, calm, unthoughtful, ox-like. Which seemed\nlikelier to decide the nation's fate, the earnest thinkers indoors, or\nthe ox-like sleeper without? Which seemed more vital to Israel, the\nbearded council in King Saul's tent, or the light-hearted shepherd-boy\nhurling stones across the brook at Bethlehem? At Laersdalsoren it was\nas before: deluded by Borgrevinck's eloquent plausibility, all put\ntheir heads in the noose, their lives and country in his hands, seeing\nin this treacherous monster a very angel of self-sacrificing\npatriotism. All? No, not all. Old Sveggum was there. He could neither\nread nor write. That was his excuse for not signing. He could not read\na letter in a book, but he could read something of the hearts of men.\nAs the meeting broke up he whispered to Axel Tanberg: \"Is his own name\non that paper?\" And Axel, starting at the thought, said: \"No.\" Then\nsaid Sveggum: \"I don't trust that man. They ought to know of this at\nNystuen.\" For there was to be the really important meeting. But how to\nlet them know was the riddle. Borgrevinck was going there at once with\nhis fast Horses.\n\nSveggum's eye twinkled as he nodded toward the Storbuk, standing tied\nto the fence. Borgrevinck leaped into his sleigh and went off at speed,\nfor he was a man of energy. Sveggum took the bells from the harness,\nuntied the Reindeer, stepped into the pulk. He swung the single rein,\nclucked to the Storbuk, and also turned his head toward Nystuen. The\nfast Horses had a long start, but before they had climbed the eastward\nhill Sveggum needs must slack, so as not to overtake them. He held back\ntill they came to the turn above the woods at Maristuen; then he quit\nthe road, and up the river flat he sped the Buk, a farther way, but the\nonly way to bring them there ahead.\n\nSqueak, crack-squeak, crack-squeak, crack--at regular intervals from\nthe great spreading snow-shoes of the Storbuk, and the steady sough of\nhis breath was like the Nordland as she passes up the Hardanger Fjord.\nHigh up, on the smooth road to the left, they could hear the jingle of\nthe horse-bells and the shouting of Borgrevinck's driver, who, under\norders, was speeding hard for Nystuen.\n\nThe highway was a short road and smooth, and the river valley was long\nand rough; but when, in four hours, Borgrevinck got to Nystuen, there\nin the throng was a face that he had just left at Laersdalsoren. He\nappeared not to notice, though nothing ever escaped him.\n\nAt Nystuen none of the men would sign. Some one had warned them. This\nwas serious; might be fatal at such a critical point. As he thought it\nover, his suspicions turned more and more to Sveggum, the old fool that\ncould not write his name at Laersdalsoren. But how did he get there\nbefore himself with his speedy Horses?\n\nThere was a dance at Nystuen that night; the dance was necessary to\nmask the meeting; and during that Borgrevinck learned of the swift\nWhite Ren.\n\nThe Nystuen trip had failed, thanks to the speed of the White Buk.\nBorgrevinck must get to Bergen before word of this, or all would be\nlost. There was only one way, to be sure of getting there before any\none else. Possibly word had already gone from Laersdalsoren. But even\nat that, Borgrevinck could get there and save himself, at the price of\nall Norway, if need be, provided he went with the White Storbuk. He\nwould not be denied. He was not the man to give up a point, though it\ntook all the influence he could bring to bear, this time, to get old\nSveggum's leave.\n\nThe Storbuk was quietly sleeping in the corral when Sveggum came to\nbring him. He rose leisurely, hind legs first, stretched one, then the\nother, curling his tail tight on his back as he did so, shook the hay\nfrom the great antlers as though they were a bunch of twigs, and slowly\nfollowed Sveggum at the end of the tight halter. He was so sleepy and\nslow that Borgrevinck impatiently gave him a kick, and got for response\na short snort from the Buk, and from Sveggum an earnest warning, both\nof which were somewhat scornfully received. The tinkling bells on the\nharness had been replaced, but Borgrevinck wanted them removed. He\nwished to go in silence. Sveggum would not be left behind when his\nfavorite Ren went forth, so he was given a seat in the horse-sleigh\nwhich was to follow, and the driver thereof received from his master a\nsecret hint to delay.\n\nThen, with papers on his person to death-doom a multitude of misguided\nmen, with fiendish intentions in his heart as well as the power to\ncarry them out, and with the fate of Norway in his hands, Borgrevinck\nwas made secure in the sled, behind the White Storbuk, and sped at dawn\non his errand of desolation.\n\nAt the word from Sveggum the White Ren set off with a couple of bounds\nthat threw Borgrevinck back in the pulk. This angered him, but he\nswallowed his wrath on seeing that it left the horse-sleigh behind. He\nshook the line, shouted, and the Buk settled down to a long, swinging\ntrot. His broad hoofs clicked double at every stride. His nostrils, out\nlevel, puffed steady blasts of steam in the frosty morning as he\nsettled to his pace. The pulk's prow cut two long shears of snow, that\nswirled up over man and sled till all were white. And the great ox-eyes\nof the King Ren blazed joyously in the delight of motion, and of\nconquest too, as the sound of the horse-bells faded far behind.\n\nEven masterful Borgrevinck could not but mark with pleasure the noble\ncreature that had balked him last night and now was lending its speed\nto his purpose; for it was his intention to arrive hours before the\nhorse-sleigh, if possible.\n\nUp the rising road they sped as though downhill, and the driver's\nspirits rose with the exhilarating speed. The snow groaned ceaselessly\nunder the prow of the pulk, and the frosty creaking under the hoofs of\nthe flying Ren was like the gritting of mighty teeth. Then came the\nlevel stretch from Nystuen's hill to Dalecarl's, and as they whirled by\nin the early day, little Carl chanced to peep from a window, and got\nsight of the Great White Ren in a white pulk with a white driver, just\nas it is in the stories of the Giants, and clapped his hands, and\ncried, \"Good, good!\"\n\nBut his grandfather, when he caught a glimpse of the white wonder that\nwent without even sound of bells, felt a cold chill in his scalp, and\nwent back to light a candle that he kept at the window till the sun was\nhigh, for surely this was the Storbuk of Jotunheim.\n\nBut the Ren whirled on, and the driver shook the reins and thought only\nof Bergen. He struck the White Steed with the loose end of the rope.\nThe Buk gave three great snorts and three great bounds, then faster\nwent, and as they passed by Dyrskaur, where the Giant sits on the edge,\nhis head was muffled in scud, which means that a storm is coming. The\nStorbuk knew it. He sniffed, and eyed the sky with anxious look, and\neven slacked a little; but Borgrevinck yelled at the speeding beast,\nthough going yet as none but he could go, and struck him once, twice,\nand thrice, and harder yet. So the pulk was whirled along like a skiff\nin a steamer's wake; but there was blood in the Storbuk's eye now; and\nBorgrevinck was hard put to balance the sled. The miles flashed by like\nroods till Sveggum's bridge appeared. The storm-wind now was blowing,\nbut there was the Troll. Whence came he now, none knew, but there he\nwas, hopping on the keystone and singing of\n\n  Norway's fate and Norway's luck,\n  Of the hiding Troll and the riding Buk.\n\nDown the winding highway they came, curving inward as they swung around\nthe corner. At the voice on the bridge the Deer threw back his ears and\nslackened his pace. Borgrevinck, not knowing whence it came, struck\nsavagely at the Ren. The red light gleamed in those ox-like eyes. He\nsnorted in anger and shook the great horns, but he did not stop to\navenge the blow. For him was a vaster vengeance still. He onward sped\nas before, but from that time Borgrevinck had lost all control. The one\nvoice that the Ren would hear had been left behind. They whirled aside,\noff the road, before the bridge was reached. The pulk turned over, but\nrighted itself, and Borgrevinck would have been thrown out and killed\nbut for the straps. It was not to be so; it seemed rather as though the\nevery curse of Norway had been gathered into the sled for a purpose.\nBruised and battered, he reappeared. The Troll from the bridge leaped\nlightly to the Storbuk's head, and held on to the horns as he danced\nand sang his ancient song, and a new song, too:\n\n  Ha! at last! Oh, lucky day,\n  Norway's curse to wipe away!\n\nBorgrevinck was terrified and furious. He struck harder at the Storbuk\nas he bounded over the rougher snow, and vainly tried to control him.\nHe lost his head in fear. He got out his knife, at last, to strike at\nthe wild Buk's hamstrings, but a blow from the hoof sent it flying from\nhis hand. Their speed on the road was slow to that they now made: no\nlonger striding at the trot, but bounding madly, great five-stride\nbounds, the wretched Borgrevinck strapped in the sled, alone and\nhelpless through his own contriving, screaming, cursing, and praying.\nThe Storbuk with bloodshot eyes, madly steaming, careered up the rugged\nascent, up to the broken, stormy Hoifjeld; mounting the hills as a\nPetrel mounts the rollers, skimming the flats as a Fulmar skims the\nshore, he followed the trail where his mother had first led his\ntottering steps, up from the Vand-dam nook. He followed the old\nfamiliar route that he had followed for five years, where the\nwhite-winged Rype flies aside, where the black rock mountains, shining\nwhite, come near and block the sky, \"where the Reindeer find their\nmysterie.\"\n\nOn like the little snow-wreath that the storm-wind sends dancing before\nthe storm, on like a whirlwind over the shoulder of Suletind, over the\nknees of Torholmenbrae--the Giants that sit at the gateway. Faster than\nman or beast could follow, up--up--up--and on; and no one saw them go,\nbut a Raven that swooped behind, and flew as Raven never flew, and the\nTroll, the same old Troll that sang by the Vand-dam, and now danced and\nsang between the antlers:\n\n  Good luck, good luck for Norway\n  With the White Storbuk comes riding.\n\nOver Tvindehoug they faded like flying scud on the moorlands, on to the\ngloomy distance, away toward Jotunheim, the home of the Evil Spirits,\nthe Land of the Lasting Snow. Their every sign and trail was wiped away\nby the drifting storm, and the end of them no man knows.\n\nThe Norse folk awoke as from a horrid nightmare. Their national ruin\nwas averted; there were no deaths, for there were no proofs; and the\ntalebearer's strife was ended.\n\nThe one earthly sign remaining from that drive is the string of silver\nbells that Sveggum had taken from the Storbuk's neck--the victory\nbells, each the record of a triumph won; and when the old man came to\nunderstand, he sighed, and hung to the string a final bell, the largest\nof them all.\n\nNothing more was ever seen or heard of the creature who so nearly sold\nhis country, or of the White Storbuk who balked him. Yet those who live\nnear Jotunheim say that on stormy nights, when the snow is flying and\nthe wind is raving in the woods, there sometimes passes, at frightful\nspeed, an enormous White Reindeer with fiery eyes, drawing a snow-white\npulk, in which is a screaming wretch in white, and on the head of the\nDeer, balancing by the horns, is a brown-clad, white-bearded Troll,\nbowing and grinning pleasantly at him, and singing\n\n  Of Norway's luck\n  And a White Storbuk--\n\nthe same, they say, as the one that with prophetic vision sang by\nSveggum's Vand-dam on a bygone day when the birches wore their\nspringtime hangers, and a great mild-eyed Varsimle' came alone, to go\naway with a little white Renskalv walking slowly, demurely, by her side.","title":"Animal Heroes","tradition":"folklore-oral-tradition","translated_text":null,"word_count":56238}