Animal Heroes

by

Ernest Thompson Seton

Note to Reader

A hero is an individual of unusual gifts and achievements. Whether itbe man or animal, this definition applies; and it is the histories ofsuch that appeal to the imagination and to the hearts of those who hearthem. 

In this volume every one of the stories, though more or less composite, is founded on the actual life of a veritable animal hero. The mostcomposite is the White Reindeer. This story I wrote by Utrovand inNorway during the summer of 1900, while the Reindeer herds grazed insight on the near uplands. 

The Lynx is founded on some of my own early experiences in thebackwoods. 

It is less than ten years since the 'Jack Warhorse' won his hero-crown. Thousands of "Kaskadoans" will remember him, and by the name Warhorsehis coursing exploits are recorded in several daily papers. 

The least composite is Arnaux. It is so nearly historical that severalwho knew the bird have supplied additional items of information. 

The nest of the destroying Peregrines, with its owners and their young, is now to be seen in the American Museum of Natural History of NewYork. The Museum authorities inform me that Pigeon badges with thefollowing numbers were found in the nest: 9970-S, 1696, U. 63, 77, J. F. 52, Ex. 705, 6-1894, C 20900. Perhaps some Pigeon-lover may learnfrom these lines the fate of one or other wonderful flier that has longbeen recorded "never returned. "

CONTENTS

 THE SLUM CAT ARNAUX--The Chronicle of a Homing Pigeon BADLANDS BILLY--The Wolf that Won THE BOY AND THE LYNX LITTLE WARHORSE--The History of a Jack-rabbit SNAP--The Story of a Bull-Terrier THE WINNIPEG WOLF THE LEGEND OF THE WHITE REINDEER

THE SLUM CAT

LIFE I

I

"M-e-a-t! M-e-a-t!" came shrilling down Scrimper's Alley. Surely thePied Piper of Hamelin was there, for it seemed that all the Cats in theneighborhood were running toward the sound, though the Dogs, it must beconfessed, looked scornfully indifferent. 

"Meat! Meat!" and louder; then the centre of attraction came in view--arough, dirty little man with a push-cart; while straggling behind himwere a score of Cats that joined in his cry with a sound nearly thesame as his own. Every fifty yards, that is, as soon as a goodly throngof Cats was gathered, the push-cart stopped. The man with the magicvoice took out of the box in his cart a skewer on which were pieces ofstrong-smelling boiled liver. With a long stick he pushed the piecesoff. Each Cat seized on one, and wheeling, with a slight depression ofthe ears and a little tiger growl and glare, she rushed away with herprize to devour it in some safe retreat. 

"Meat! Meat!" And still they came to get their portions. All were wellknown to the meat-man. There was Castiglione's Tiger; this was Jones'sBlack; here was Pralitsky's "Torkershell, " and this was Madame Danton'sWhite; there sneaked Blenkinshoff's Maltee, and that climbing on thebarrow was Sawyer's old Orange Billy, an impudent fraud that never hadhad any financial backing, --all to be remembered and kept in account. This one's owner was sure pay, a dime a week; that one's doubtful. There was John Washee's Cat, that got only a small piece because Johnwas in arrears. Then there was the saloon-keeper's collared andribboned ratter, which got an extra lump because the 'barkeep' wasliberal; and the rounds-man's Cat, that brought no cash, but gotunusual consideration because the meat-man did. But there were others. A black Cat with a white nose came rushing confidently with the rest, only to be repulsed savagely. Alas! Pussy did not understand. She hadbeen a pensioner of the barrow for months. Why this unkind change? Itwas beyond her comprehension. But the meat-man knew. Her mistress hadstopped payment. The meat-man kept no books but his memory, and itnever was at fault. 

Outside this patrician 'four hundred' about the barrow, were otherCats, keeping away from the push-cart because they were not on thelist, the Social Register as it were, yet fascinated by the heavenlysmell and the faint possibility of accidental good luck. Among thesehangers-on was a thin gray Slummer, a homeless Cat that lived by herwits--slab-sided and not over-clean. One could see at a glance that shewas doing her duty by a family in some out-of-the-way corner. She keptone eye on the barrow circle and the other on the possible Dogs. 

She saw a score of happy Cats slink off with their delicious 'daily'and their tiger-like air, but no opening for her, till a big Tom of herown class sprang on a little pensioner with intent to rob. The victimdropped the meat to defend herself against the enemy, and before the'all-powerful' could intervene, the gray Slummer saw her chance, seizedthe prize, and was gone. 

She went through the hole in Menzie's side door and over the wall atthe back, then sat down and devoured the lump of liver, licked herchops, felt absolutely happy, and set out by devious ways to therubbish-yard, where, in the bottom of an old cracker-box, her familywas awaiting her. A plaintive mewing reached her ears. She went atspeed and reached the box to see a huge Black Tom-cat calmly destroyingher brood. He was twice as big as she, but she went at him with all herstrength, and he did as most animals will do when caught wrong-doing, he turned and ran away. Only one was left, a little thing like itsmother, but of more pronounced color--gray with black spots, and awhite touch on nose, ears, and tail-tip. There can be no question ofthe mother's grief for a few days; but that wore off, and all her carewas for the survivor. That benevolence was as far as possible from themotives of the murderous old Tom there can be no doubt; but he proved ablessing in deep disguise, for both mother and Kit were visiblybettered in a short time. The daily quest for food continued. Themeat-man rarely proved a success, but the ash-cans were there, and ifthey did not afford a meat-supply, at least they were sure to producepotato-skins that could be used to allay the gripe of hunger foranother day. 

One night the mother Cat smelt a wonderful smell that came from theEast River at the end of the alley. A new smell always needsinvestigating, and when it is attractive as well as new, there is butone course open. It led Pussy to the docks a block away, and then outon a wharf, away from any cover but the night. A sudden noise, a growland a rush, were the first notice she had that she was cut off by herold enemy, the Wharf Dog. There was only one escape. She leaped fromthe wharf to the vessel from which the smell came. The Dog could notfollow, so when the fish-boat sailed in the morning Pussy unwillinglywent with her and was seen no more. 

II

The Slum Kitten waited in vain for her mother. The morning came andwent. She became very hungry. Toward evening a deep-laid instinct droveher forth to seek food. She slunk out of the old box, and feeling herway silently among the rubbish, she smelt everything that seemedeatable, but without finding food. At length she reached the woodensteps leading down into Jap Malee's bird-store underground. The doorwas open a little. She wandered into a world of rank and curious smellsand a number of living things in cages all about her. A negro wassitting idly on a box in a corner. He saw the little stranger enter andwatched it curiously. It wandered past some Rabbits. They paid no heed. It came to a wide-barred cage in which was a Fox. The gentleman withthe bushy tail was in a far corner. He crouched low; his eyes glowed. The Kitten wandered, sniffing, up to the bars, put its head in, sniffedagain, then made toward the feed-pan, to be seized in a flash by thecrouching Fox. It gave a frightened "mew, " but a single shake cut thatshort and would have ended Kitty's nine lives at once, had not thenegro come to the rescue. He had no weapon and could not get into thecage, but he spat with such copious vigor in the Fox's face that hedropped the Kitten and returned to the corner, there to sit blinkinghis eyes in sullen fear. 

The negro pulled the Kitten out. The shake of the beast of prey seemedto have stunned the victim, really to have saved it much suffering. TheKitten seemed unharmed, but giddy. It tottered in a circle for a time, then slowly revived, and a few minutes later was purring in the negro'slap, apparently none the worse, when Jap Malee, the bird-man, came home. 

Jap was not an Oriental; he was a full-blooded Cockney, but his eyeswere such little accidental slits aslant in his round, flat face, thathis first name was forgotten in the highly descriptive title of "Jap. "He was not especially unkind to the birds and beasts whose sales weresupposed to furnish his living, but his eye was on the main chance; heknew what he wanted. He didn't want the Slum Kitten. 

The negro gave it all the food it could eat, then carried it to adistant block and dropped it in a neighboring iron-yard. 

III

One full meal is as much as any one needs in two or three days, andunder the influence of this stored-up heat and power, Kitty was verylively. She walked around the piled-up rubbish, cast curious glances onfar-away Canary-birds in cages that hung from high windows; she peepedover fences, discovered a large Dog, got quietly down again, andpresently finding a sheltered place in full sunlight, she lay down andslept for an hour. A slight 'sniff' awakened her, and before her stooda large Black Cat with glowing green eyes, and the thick neck andsquare jaws that distinguish the Tom; a scar marked his cheek, and hisleft ear was torn. His look was far from friendly; his ears movedbackward a little, his tail twitched, and a faint, deep sound came fromhis throat. The Kitten innocently walked toward him. She did notremember him. He rubbed the sides of his jaws on a post, and quietly, slowly turned and disappeared. The last that she saw of him was the endof his tail twitching from side to side; and the little Slummer had noidea that she had been as near death to-day, as she had been when sheventured into the fox-cage. 

As night came on the Kitten began to feel hungry. She examinedcarefully the long invisible colored stream that the wind is made of. She selected the most interesting of its strands, and, nose-led, followed. In the corner of the iron-yard was a box of garbage. Amongthis she found something that answered fairly well for food; a bucketof water under a faucet offered a chance to quench her thirst. 

The night was spent chiefly in prowling about and learning the mainlines of the iron-yard. The next day she passed as before, sleeping inthe sun. Thus the time wore on. Sometimes she found a good meal at thegarbage-box, sometimes there was nothing. Once she found the big BlackTom there, but discreetly withdrew before he saw her. The water-bucketwas usually at its place, or, failing that, there were some muddylittle pools on the stone below. But the garbage-box was veryunreliable. Once it left her for three days without food. She searchedalong the high fence, and seeing a small hole, crawled through that andfound herself in the open street. This was a new world, but before shehad ventured far, there was a noisy, rumbling rush--a large Dog camebounding, and Kitty had barely time to run back into the hole in thefence. She was dreadfully hungry, and glad to find some oldpotato-peelings, which gave a little respite from the hunger-pang. Inthe morning she did not sleep, but prowled for food. Some Sparrowschirruped in the yard. They were often there, but now they were viewedwith new eyes. The steady pressure of hunger had roused the wild hunterin the Kitten; those Sparrows were game--were food. She crouchedinstinctively and stalked from cover to cover, but the chirpers werealert and flew in time. Not once, but many times, she tried withoutresult except to confirm the Sparrows in the list of things to be eatenif obtainable. 

On the fifth day of ill luck the Slum Kitty ventured forth into thestreet, desperately bent on finding food. When far from the haven holesome small boys opened fire at her with pieces of brick. She ran infear. A Dog joined in the chase, and Kitty's position grew perilous;but an old-fashioned iron fence round a house-front was there, and sheslipped in between the rails as the Dog overtook her. A woman in awindow above shouted at the Dog. Then the boys dropped a piece ofcat-meat down to the unfortunate; and Kitty had the most delicious mealof her life. The stoop afforded a refuge. Under this she sat patientlytill nightfall came with quiet, then sneaked back like a shadow to herold iron-yard. 

Thus the days went by for two months. She grew in size and strength andin an intimate knowledge of the immediate neighborhood. She made theacquaintance of Downey Street, where long rows of ash-cans were to beseen every morning. She formed her own ideas of their proprietors. Thebig house was to her, not a Roman Catholic mission, but a place whosegarbage-tins abounded in choicest fish scrapings. She soon made theacquaintance of the meat-man, and joined in the shy fringe of Cats thatformed the outer circle. She also met the Wharf Dog as well as two orthree other horrors of the same class. She knew what to expect of themand how to avoid them; and she was happy in being the inventor of a newindustry. Many thousand Cats have doubtless hung, in hope, about thetempting milk-cans that the early milk-man leaves on steps andwindow-ledges, and it was by the merest accident that Kitty found onewith a broken lid, and so was taught to raise it and have a satisfyingdrink. Bottles, of course, were beyond her, but many a can has a misfitlid, and Kitty was very painstaking in her efforts to discover theloose-jointed ones. Finally she extended her range by exploration tillshe achieved the heart of the next block, and farther, till once moreamong the barrels and boxes of the yard behind the bird-man's cellar. 

The old iron-yard never had been home, she had always felt like astranger there; but here she had a sense of ownership, and at onceresented the presence of another small Cat. She approached thisnewcomer with threatening air. The two had got as far as snarling andspitting when a bucket of water from an upper window drenched them bothand effectually cooled their wrath. They fled, the newcomer over thewall, Slum Kitty under the very box where she had been born. This wholeback region appealed to her strongly, and here again she took up herabode. The yard had no more garbage food than the other and no water atall, but it was frequented by stray Rats and a few Mice of the finestquality; these were occasionally secured, and afforded not only apalatable meal, but were the cause of her winning a friend. 

IV

Kitty was now fully grown. She was a striking-looking Cat of the tigertype. Her marks were black on a very pale gray, and the fourbeauty-spots of white on nose, ears, and tail-tip lent a certaindistinction. She was very expert at getting a living, and yet she hadsome days of starvation and failed in her ambition of catching aSparrow. She was quite alone, but a new force was coming into her life. 

She was lying in the sun one August day, when a large Black Cat camewalking along the top of a wall in her direction. She recognized him atonce by his torn ear. She slunk into her box and hid. He picked his waygingerly, bounded lightly to a shed that was at the end of the yard, and was crossing the roof when a Yellow Cat rose up. The Black Tornglared and growled, so did the Yellow Tom. Their tails lashed from sideto side. Strong throats growled and yowled. They approached each otherwith ears laid back, with muscles a-tense. 

"Yow-yow-ow!" said the Black One. 

"Wow-w-w!" was the slightly deeper answer. 

"Ya-wow-wow-wow!" said the Black One, edging up half an inch nearer. 

"Yow-w-w!" was the Yellow answer, as the blond Cat rose to full heightand stepped with vast dignity a whole inch forward. "Yow-w!" and hewent another inch, while his tail went swish, thump, from one side tothe other. 

"Ya-wow-yow-w!" screamed the Black in a rising tone, and he backed theeighth of an inch, as he marked the broad, unshrinking breast beforehim. 

Windows opened all around, human voices were heard, but the Cat scenewent on. 

"Yow-yow-ow!" rumbled the Yellow Peril, his voice deepening as theother's rose. 

"Yow!" and he advanced another step. 

Now their noses were but three inches apart; they stood sidewise, bothready to clinch, but each waiting for the other. They glared for threeminutes in silence and like statues, except that each tail-tip wastwisting. 

The Yellow began again. "Yow-ow-ow!" in deep tone. 

"Ya-a-a--a-a!" screamed the Black, with intent to strike terror by hisyell; but he retreated one sixteenth of an inch. The Yellow walked up along half-inch; their whiskers were mixing now; another advance, andtheir noses almost touched. 

"Yo-w-w!" said Yellow, like a deep moan. 

"Y-a-a-a-a-a-a!" screamed the Black, but he retreated a thirty-secondof an inch, and the Yellow Warrior closed and clinched like a demon. 

Oh, how they rolled and bit and tore, especially the Yellow One!

How they pitched and gripped and hugged, but especially the Yellow One!

Over and over, sometimes one on top, sometimes another, but mostly theYellow One; and farther till they rolled off the roof, amid cheers fromall the windows. They lost not a second in that fall to the junk-yard;they tore and clawed all the way down, but especially the Yellow One. And when they struck the ground, still fighting, the one on top waschiefly the Yellow One; and before they separated both had had as muchas they wanted, especially the Black One! He scaled a wall and, bleeding and growling, disappeared, while the news was passed fromwindow to window that Cayley's Nig had been licked at last by OrangeBilly. 

Either the Yellow Cat was a very clever seeker, or else Slum Kitty didnot hide very hard; but he discovered her among the boxes, and she madeno attempt to get away, probably because she had witnessed the fight. There is nothing like success in warfare to win the female heart, andthereafter the Yellow Tom and Kitty became very good friends, notsharing each other's lives or food, --Cats do not do that way much, --butrecognizing each other as entitled to special friendly privileges. 

V

September had gone. October's shortening days were on when an eventtook place in the old cracker-box. If Orange Billy had come he wouldhave seen five little Kittens curled up in the embrace of their mother, the little Slum Cat. It was a wonderful thing for her. She felt all theelation an animal mother can feel, all the delight, and she loved themand licked them with a tenderness that must have been a surprise toherself, had she had the power to think of such things. 

She had added a joy to her joyless life, but she had also added a careand a heavy weight to her heavy load. All her strength was taken now tofind food. The burden increased as the offspring grew up big enough toscramble about the boxes, which they did daily during her absence afterthey were six weeks old. That troubles go in flocks and luck instreaks, is well known in Slumland. Kitty had had three encounters withDogs, and had been stoned by Malee's negro during a two days' starve. Then the tide turned. The very next morning she found a full milk-canwithout a lid, successfully robbed a barrow pensioner, and found a bigfish-head, all within two hours. She had just returned with thatperfect peace which comes only of a full stomach, when she saw a littlebrown creature in her junk-yard. Hunting memories came back instrength; she didn't know what it was, but she had killed and eatenseveral Mice, and this was evidently a big Mouse with bob-tail andlarge ears. Kitty stalked it with elaborate but unnecessary caution;the little Rabbit simply sat up and looked faintly amused. He did nottry to run, and Kitty sprang on him and bore him off. As she was nothungry, she carried him to the cracker-box and dropped him among theKittens. He was not much hurt. He got over his fright, and since hecould not get out of the box, he snuggled among the Kittens, and whenthey began to take their evening meal he very soon decided to jointhem. The old Cat was puzzled. The hunter instinct had been dominant, but absence of hunger had saved the Rabbit and given the maternalinstinct a chance to appear. The result was that the Rabbit became amember of the family, and was thenceforth guarded and fed with theKittens. 

Two weeks went by. The Kittens romped much among the boxes during theirmother's absence. The Rabbit could not get out of the box. Jap Malee, seeing the Kittens about the back yard, told the negro to shoot them. This he was doing one morning with a 22-calibre rifle. He had shot oneafter another and seen them drop from sight into the crannies of thelumber-pile, when the old Cat came running along the wall from thedock, carrying a small Wharf Rat. He had been ready to shoot her, too, but the sight of that Rat changed his plans: a rat-catching Cat wasworthy to live. It happened to be the very first one she had evercaught, but it saved her life. She threaded the lumber-maze to thecracker-box and was probably puzzled to find that there were no Kittensto come at her call, and the Rabbit would not partake of the Rat. Pussycurled up to nurse the Rabbit, but she called from time to time tosummon the Kittens. Guided by that call, the negro crawled quietly tothe place, and peering down into the cracker-box, saw, to his intensesurprise, that it contained the old Cat, a live Rabbit, and a dead Rat. 

The mother Cat laid back her ears and snarled. The negro withdrew, buta minute later a board was dropped on the opening of the cracker-box, and the den with its tenants, dead and alive, was lifted into thebird-cellar. 

"Say, boss, look a-hyar--hyar's where de little Rabbit got to wot welost. Yo' sho t'ought Ah stoled him for de 'tater-bake. "

Kitty and Bunny were carefully put in a large wire cage and exhibitedas a happy family till a few days later, when the Rabbit took sick anddied. 

Pussy had never been happy in the cage. She had enough to eat anddrink, but she craved her freedom--would likely have gotten 'death orliberty' now, but that during the four days' captivity she had socleaned and slicked her fur that her unusual coloring was seen, and Japdecided to keep her. 

LIFE II

VI

Jap Malee was as disreputable a little Cockney bantam as ever soldcheap Canary-birds in a cellar. He was extremely poor, and the negrolived with him because the 'Henglish-man' was willing to share bed andboard, and otherwise admit a perfect equality that few Americansconceded. Jap was perfectly honest according to his lights, but hehadn't any lights; and it was well known that his chief revenue wasderived from storing and restoring stolen Dogs and Cats. The half-dozenCanaries were mere blinds. Yet Jap believed in himself. "Hi tell you, Sammy, me boy, you'll see me with 'orses of my own yet, " he would say, when some trifling success inflated his dirty little chest. He was notwithout ambition, in a weak, flabby, once-in-a-while way, and hesometimes wished to be known as a fancier. Indeed, he had once gone thewild length of offering a Cat for exhibition at the Knickerbocker HighSociety Cat and Pet Show, with three not over-clear objects: first, togratify his ambition; second, to secure the exhibitor's free pass; and, third, "well, you kneow, one 'as to kneow the valuable Cats, you kneow, when one goes a-catting. " But this was a society show, the exhibitorhad to be introduced, and his miserable alleged half-Persian wasscornfully rejected. The 'Lost and Found' columns of the papers werethe only ones of interest to Jap, but he had noticed and saved aclipping about 'breeding for fur. ' This was stuck on the wall of hisden, and under its influence he set about what seemed a cruelexperiment with the Slum Cat. First, he soaked her dirty fur with stuffto kill the two or three kinds of creepers she wore; and, when it haddone its work, he washed her thoroughly in soap and warm water, inspite of her teeth, claws, and yowls. Kitty was savagely indignant, buta warm and happy glow spread over her as she dried off in a cage nearthe stove, and her fur began to fluff out with wonderful softness andwhiteness. Jap and his assistant were much pleased with the result, andKitty ought to have been. But this was preparatory: now for theexperiment. "Nothing is so good for growing fur as plenty of oily foodand continued exposure to cold weather, " said the clipping. Winter wasat hand, and Jap Malee put Kitty's cage out in the yard, protected onlyfrom the rain and the direct wind, and fed her with all the oil-cakeand fish-heads she could eat. In a week a change began to show. She wasrapidly getting fat and sleek--she had nothing to do but get fat anddress her fur. Her cage was kept clean, and nature responded to thechill weather and the oily food by making Kitty's coat thicker andglossier every day, so that by midwinter she was an unusually beautifulCat in the fullest and finest of fur, with markings that were at leasta rarity. Jap was much pleased with the result of the experiment, andas a very little success had a wonderful effect on him, he began todream of the paths of glory. Why not send the Slum Cat to the show nowcoming on? The failure of the year before made him more careful as todetails. "'T won't do, ye kneow, Sammy, to henter 'er as a tramp Cat, ye kneow, " he observed to his help; "but it kin be arranged to suit theKnickerbockers. Nothink like a good noime, ye kneow. Ye see now it hadorter be 'Royal' somethink or other--nothink goes with theKnickerbockers like 'Royal' anythink. Now 'Royal Dick, ' or 'Royal Sam, ''ow's that? But 'owld on; them's Tom names. Oi say, Sammy, wot's thenoime of that island where ye wuz born?"

"Analostan Island, sah, was my native vicinity, sah. "

"Oi say, now, that's good, ye kneow. 'Royal Analostan, ' by Jove! Theonliest pedigreed 'Royal Analostan' in the 'ole sheow, ye kneow. Ain'tthat foine?" and they mingled their cackles. 

"But we'll 'ave to 'ave a pedigree, ye kneow. " So a very long fakepedigree on the recognized lines was prepared. One dark afternoon Sam, in a borrowed silk hat, delivered the Cat and the pedigree at the showdoor. The darkey did the honors. He had been a Sixth Avenue barber, andhe could put on more pomp and lofty hauteur in five minutes than JapMalee could have displayed in a lifetime, and this, doubtless, was onereason for the respectful reception awarded the Royal Analostan at theCat Show. 

Jap was very proud to be an exhibitor; but he had all a Cockney'sreverence for the upper class, and when on the opening day he went tothe door, he was overpowered to see the array of carriages and silkhats. The gate-man looked at him sharply, but passed him on his ticket, doubtless taking him for stable-boy to some exhibitor. The hall hadvelvet carpets before the long rows of cages. Jap, in his smallcunning, was sneaking down the side rows, glancing at the Cats of allkinds, noting the blue ribbons and the reds, peering about but notdaring to ask for his own exhibit, inly trembling to think what thegorgeous gathering of fashion would say if they discovered the trick hewas playing on them. He had passed all around the outer aisles and seenmany prize-winners, but no sign of Slum Kitty. The inner aisles weremore crowded. He picked his way down them, but still no Kitty, and hedecided that it was a mistake; the judges had rejected the Cat later. Never mind; he had his exhibitor's ticket, and now knew where severalvaluable Persians and Angoras were to be found. 

In the middle of the centre aisle were the high-class Cats. A greatthrong was there. The passage was roped, and two policemen were inplace to keep the crowd moving. Jap wriggled in among them; he was tooshort to see over, and though the richly gowned folks shrunk from hisshabby old clothes, he could not get near; but he gathered from theremarks that the gem of the show was there. 

"Oh, isn't she a beauty!" said one tall woman. 

"What distinction!" was the reply. 

"One cannot mistake the air that comes only from ages of the mostrefined surroundings. "

"How I should like to own that superb creature!"

"Such dignity--such repose!"

"She has an authentic pedigree nearly back to the Pharaohs, I hear";and poor, dirty little Jap marvelled at his own cheek in sending hisSlum Cat into such company. 

"Excuse me, madame. " The director of the show now appeared, edging hisway through the crowd. "The artist of the 'sporting Element' is here, under orders to sketch the 'pearl of the show' for immediate use. May Iask you to stand a little aside? That's it; thank you. 

"Oh, Mr. Director, cannot you persuade him to sell that beautifulcreature?"

"Hm, I don't know, " was the reply. "I understand he is a man of amplemeans and not at all approachable; but I'll try, I'll try, madame. Hewas quite unwilling to exhibit his treasure at all, so I understandfrom his butler. Here, you, keep out of the way, " growled the director, as the shabby little man eagerly pushed between the artist and theblue-blooded Cat. But the disreputable one wanted to know wherevaluable Cats were to be found. He came near enough to get a glimpse ofthe cage, and there read a placard which announced that "The blueribbon and gold medal of the Knickerbocker High Society Cat and PetShow" had been awarded to the "thoroughbred, pedigreed Royal Analostan, imported and exhibited by J. Malee, Esq. , the well-known fancier. (Notfor sale. )" Jap caught his breath and stared again. Yes, surely; there, high in a gilded cage, on velvet cushions, with four policemen forguards, her fur bright black and pale gray, her bluish eyes slightlyclosed, was his Slum Kitty, looking the picture of a Cat bored to deathwith a lot of fuss that she likes as little as she understands it. 

VII

Jap Malee lingered around that cage, taking in the remarks, forhours--drinking a draught of glory such as he had never known in lifebefore and rarely glimpsed in his dreams. But he saw that it would bewise for him to remain unknown; his "butler" must do all the business. 

It was Slum Kitty who made that show a success. Each day her value wentup in her owner's eyes. He did not know what prices had been given forCats, and thought that he was touching a record pitch when his "butler"gave the director authority to sell the Analostan for one hundreddollars. 

This is how it came about that the Slum Cat found herself transferredfrom the show to a Fifth Avenue mansion. She evinced a mostunaccountable wildness at first. Her objection to petting, however, wasexplained on the ground of her aristocratic dislike of familiarity. Herretreat from the Lap-dog onto the centre of the dinner-table wasunderstood to express a deep-rooted though mistaken idea of avoiding adefiling touch. Her assaults on a pet Canary were condoned for thereason that in her native Orient she had been used to despotic example. The patrician way in which she would get the cover off a milk-can wasespecially applauded. Her dislike of her silk-lined basket, and herfrequent dashes against the plate-glass windows, were easilyunderstood: the basket was too plain, and plate-glass was not used inher royal home. Her spotting of the carpet evidenced her Eastern modesof thought. The failure of her several attempts to catch Sparrows inthe high-walled back yard was new proof of the royal impotency of herbringing up; while her frequent wallowings in the garbage-can wereunderstood to be the manifestation of a little pardonable high-borneccentricity. She was fed and pampered, shown and praised; but she wasnot happy. Kitty was homesick! She clawed at that blue ribbon round herneck till she got it off; she jumped against the plate-glass becausethat seemed the road to outside; she avoided people and Dogs becausethey had always proved hostile and cruel; and she would sit and gaze onthe roofs and back yards at the other side of the window, wishing shecould be among them for a change. 

But she was strictly watched, was never allowed outside--so that allthe happy garbage-can moments occurred while these receptacles of joywere indoors. One night in March, however, as they were set out a-rowfor the early scavenger, the Royal Analostan saw her chance, slippedout of the door, and was lost to view. 

Of course there was a grand stir; but Pussy neither knew nor caredanything about that--her one thought was to go home. It may have beenchance that took her back in the direction of Gramercy Grange Hill, butshe did arrive there after sundry small adventures. And now what? Shewas not at home, and she had cut off her living. She was beginning tobe hungry, and yet she had a peculiar sense of happiness. She coweredin a front garden for some time. A raw east wind had been rising, andnow it came to her with a particularly friendly message; man would havecalled it an unpleasant smell of the docks, but to Pussy it was welcometidings from home. She trotted down the long Street due east, threadingthe rails of front gardens, stopping like a statue for an instant, orcrossing the street in search of the darkest side, and came at lengthto the docks and to the water. But the place was strange. She could gonorth or south. Something turned her southward; and, dodging amongdocks and Dogs, carts and Cats, crooked arms of the bay and straightboard fences, she got, in an hour or two, among familiar scenes andsmells; and, before the sun came up, she had crawled back--weary andfoot-sore through the same old hole in the same old fence and over awall to her junk-yard back of the bird-cellar--yes, back into the verycracker-box where she was born. 

Oh, if the Fifth Avenue family could only have seen her in her nativeOrient!

After a long rest she came quietly down from the cracker-box toward thesteps leading to the cellar, engaged in her old-time pursuit of seekingfor eatables. The door opened, and there stood the negro. He shouted tothe bird-man inside:

"Say, boss, come hyar. Ef dere ain't dat dar Royal Ankalostan am comedback!"

Jap came in time to see the Cat jumping the wall. They called loudlyand in the most seductive, wheedling tones: "Pussy, Pussy, poor Pussy!Come, Pussy!" But Pussy was not prepossessed in their favor, anddisappeared to forage in her old-time haunts. 

The Royal Analostan had been a windfall for Jap--had been the means ofadding many comforts to the cellar and several prisoners to the cages. It was now of the utmost importance to recapture her majesty. Stalemeat-offal and other infallible lures were put out till Pussy, urged bythe reestablished hunger-pinch, crept up to a large fish-head in abox-trap; the negro, in watching, pulled the string that dropped thelid, and, a minute later, the Analostan was once more among theprisoners in the cellar. Meanwhile Jap had been watching the 'Lost andFound' column. There it was, "$25 reward, " etc. That night Mr. Malee'sbutler called at the Fifth Avenue mansion with the missing cat. "Mr. Malee's compliments, sah. De Royal Analostan had recurred in her recentproprietor's vicinity and residence, sah. Mr. Malee had pleasure inrecuperating the Royal Analostan, sah. " Of course Mr. Malee could notbe rewarded, but the butler was open to any offer, and plainly showedthat he expected the promised reward and something more. 

Kitty was guarded very carefully after that; but so far from beingdisgusted with the old life of starving, and glad of her ease, shebecame wilder and more dissatisfied. 

VIII

The spring was doing its New York best. The dirty little EnglishSparrows were tumbling over each other in their gutter brawls, Catsyowled all night in the areas, and the Fifth Avenue family werethinking of their country residence. They packed up, closed house andmoved off to their summer home, some fifty miles away, and Pussy, in abasket, went with them. 

"Just what she needed: a change of air and scene to wean her away fromher former owners and make her happy. "

The basket was lifted into a Rumble-shaker. New sounds and passingsmells were entered and left. A turn in the course was made. Then aroaring of many feet, more swinging of the basket; a short pause, another change of direction, then some clicks, some bangs, a longshrill whistle, and door-bells of a very big front door; a rumbling, awhizzing, an unpleasant smell, a hideous smell, a growing horrible, hateful choking smell, a deadly, griping, poisonous stench, withroaring that drowned poor Kitty's yowls, and just as it neared thepoint where endurance ceased, there was relief. She heard clicks andclacks. There was light; there was air. Then a man's voice called, "Allout for 125th Street, " though of course to Kitty it was a mere humanbellow. The roaring almost ceased--did cease. Later the rackety-bangwas renewed with plenty of sounds and shakes, though not the poisonousgas; a long, hollow, booming roar with a pleasant dock smell wasquickly passed, and then there was a succession of jolts, roars, jars, stops, clicks, clacks, smells, jumps, shakes, more smells, moreshakes, --big shakes, little shakes, --gases, smokes, screeches, door-bells, tremblings, roars, thunders, and some new smells, raps, taps, heavings, rumblings, and more smells, but all without any of thefeel that the direction is changed. When at last it stopped, the suncame twinkling through the basket-lid. The Royal Cat was lifted into aRumble-shaker of the old familiar style, and, swerving aside from theirpast course, very soon the noises of its wheels were grittings andrattlings; a new and horrible sound was added--the barking of Dogs, bigand little and dreadfully close. The basket was lifted, and Slum Kittyhad reached her country home. 

Every one was officiously kind. They wanted to please the Royal Cat, but somehow none of them did, except, possibly, the big, fat cook thatKitty discovered on wandering into the kitchen. This unctuous personsmelt more like a slum than anything she had met for months, and theRoyal Analostan was proportionately attracted. The cook, when shelearned that fears were entertained about the Cat staying, said:"Shure, she'd 'tind to thot; wanst a Cat licks her futs, shure she's athome. " So she deftly caught the unapproachable royalty in her apron, and committed the horrible sacrilege of greasing the soles of her feetwith pot-grease. Of course Kitty resented it--she resented everythingin the place; but on being set down she began to dress her paws andfound evident satisfaction in that grease. She licked all four feet foran hour, and the cook triumphantly announced that now "shure she'd beapt to shtay. " And stay she did, but she showed a most surprising anddisgusting preference for the kitchen, the cook, and the garbage-pail. 

The family, though distressed by these distinguished peculiarities, were glad to see the Royal Analostan more contented and approachable. They gave her more liberty after a week or two. They guarded her fromevery menace. The Dogs were taught to respect her. No man or boy aboutthe place would have dreamed of throwing a stone at the famouspedigreed Cat. She had all the food she wanted, but still she was nothappy. She was hankering for many things, she scarcely knew what. Shehad everything--yes, but she wanted something else. Plenty to eat anddrink--yes, but milk does not taste the same when you can go and drinkall you want from a saucer; it has to be stolen out of a tin pail whenyou are belly-pinched with hunger and thirst, or it does not have thetang--it isn't milk. 

Yes, there was a junk-yard back of the house and beside it and aroundit too, a big one, but it was everywhere poisoned and polluted withroses. The very Horses and Dogs had the wrong smells; the whole countryround was a repellent desert of lifeless, disgusting gardens andhay-fields, without a single tenement or smoke-stack in sight. How shedid hate it all! There was only one sweet-smelling shrub in the wholehorrible place, and that was in a neglected corner. She did enjoynipping that and rolling in the leaves; it was a bright spot in thegrounds; but the only one, for she had not found a rotten fish-head norseen a genuine garbage-can since she came, and altogether it was themost unlovely, unattractive, unsmellable spot she had ever known. Shewould surely have gone that first night had she had the liberty. Theliberty was weeks in coming, and, meanwhile, her affinity with the cookhad developed as a bond to keep her; but one day after a summer ofdiscontent a succession of things happened to stir anew the sluminstinct of the royal prisoner. 

A great bundle of stuff from the docks had reached the country mansion. What it contained was of little moment, but it was rich with a score ofthe most piquant and winsome of dock and slum smells. The chords ofmemory surely dwell in the nose, and Pussy's past was conjured up withdangerous force. Next day the cook 'left' through some trouble overthis very bundle. It was the cutting of cables, and that evening theyoungest boy of the house, a horrid little American with no properappreciation of royalty, was tying a tin to the blue-blooded one'stail, doubtless in furtherance of some altruistic project, when Pussyresented the liberty with a paw that wore five big fish-hooks for theoccasion. The howl of downtrodden America roused America's mother. Thedeft and womanly blow that she aimed with her book was miraculouslyavoided, and Pussy took flight, up-stairs, of course. A hunted Rat runsdown-stairs, a hunted Dog goes on the level, a hunted Cat runs up. Shehid in the garret, baffled discovery, and waited till night came. Then, gliding down-stairs, she tried each screen-door in turn, till she foundone unlatched, and escaped into the black August night. Pitch-black toman's eyes, it was simply gray to her, and she glided through thedisgusting shrubbery and flower-beds, took a final nip at that onelittle bush that had been an attractive spot in the garden, and boldlytook her back track of the spring. 

How could she take a back track that she never saw? There is in allanimals some sense of direction. It is very low in man and very high inHorses, but Cats have a large gift, and this mysterious guide took herwestward, not clearly and definitely, but with a general impulse thatwas made definite simply because the road was easy to travel. In anhour she had covered two miles and reached the Hudson River. Her nosehad told her many times that the course was true. Smell after smellcame back, just as a man after walking a mile in a strange street maynot recall a single feature, but will remember, on seeing it again, "Why, yes, I saw that before. " So Kitty's main guide was the sense ofdirection, but it was her nose that kept reassuring her, "Yes, now youare right--we passed this place last spring. "

At the river was the railroad. She could not go on the water; she mustgo north or south. This was a case where her sense of direction wasclear; it said, "Go south, " and Kitty trotted down the foot-pathbetween the iron rails and the fence. 

LIFE III

IX

Cats can go very fast up a tree or over a wall, but when it comes tothe long steady trot that reels off mile after mile, hour after hour, it is not the cat-hop, but the dog-trot, that counts. Although thetravelling was good and the path direct, an hour had gone before twomore miles were put between her and the Hades of roses. She was tiredand a little foot-sore. She was thinking of rest when a Dog camerunning to the fence near by, and broke out into such a horriblebarking close to her ear that Pussy leaped in terror. She ran as hardas she could down the path, at the same time watching to see if the Dogshould succeed in passing the fence. No, not yet! but he ran close byit, growling horribly, while Pussy skipped along on the safe side. Thebarking of the Dog grew into a low rumble--a louder rumble androaring--a terrifying thunder. A light shone. Kitty glanced back tosee, not the Dog, but a huge Black Thing with a blazing red eye comingon, yowling and spitting like a yard full of Cats. She put forth allher powers to run, made such time as she had never made before, butdared not leap the fence. She was running like a Dog, was flying, butall in vain; the monstrous pursuer overtook her, but missed her in thedarkness, and hurried past to be lost in the night, while Kittycrouched gasping for breath, half a mile nearer home since that Dogbegan to bark. 

This was her first encounter with the strange monster, strange to hereyes only; her nose seemed to know him and told her this was anotherlandmark on the home trail. But Pussy lost much of her fear of hiskind. She learned that they were very stupid and could not find her ifshe slipped quietly under a fence and lay still. Before morning she hadencountered several of them, but escaped unharmed from all. 

About sunrise she reached a nice little slum on her home trail, and waslucky enough to find several unsterilized eatables in an ash-heap. Shespent the day around a stable where were two Dogs and a number of smallboys, that between them came near ending her career. It was so verylike home; but she had no idea of staying there. She was driven by theold craving, and next evening set out as before. She had seen theone-eyed Thunder-rollers all day going by, and was getting used tothem, so travelled steadily all that night. The next day was spent in abarn where she caught a Mouse, and the next night was like the last, except that a Dog she encountered drove her backward on her trail for along way. Several times she was misled by angling roads, and wanderedfar astray, but in time she wandered back again to her generalsouthward course. The days were passed in skulking under barns andhiding from Dogs and small boys, and the nights in limping along thetrack, for she was getting foot-sore; but on she went, mile after mile, southward, ever southward--Dogs, boys, Roarers, hunger--Dogs, boys, Roarers, hunger--yet on and onward still she went, and her nose fromtime to time cheered her by confidently reporting, "There surely is asmell we passed last spring. "

X

So a week went by, and Pussy, dirty, ribbon-less, foot-sore, and weary, arrived at the Harlem Bridge. Though it was enveloped in delicioussmells, she did not like the look of that bridge. For half the nightshe wandered up and down the shore without discovering any other meansof going south, excepting some other bridges, or anything of interestexcept that here the men were as dangerous as the boys. Somehow she hadto come back to it; not only its smells were familiar, but from time totime, when a One-eye ran over it, there was that peculiar rumbling roarthat was a sensation in the springtime trip. The calm of the late nightwas abroad when she leaped to the timber stringer and glided out overthe water. She had got less than a third of the way across when athundering One-eye came roaring at her from the opposite end. She wasmuch frightened, but knowing their stupidity and blindness, she droppedto a low side beam and there crouched in hiding. Of course the stupidMonster missed her and passed on, and all would have been well, but itturned back, or another just like it came suddenly spitting behind her. Pussy leaped to the long track and made for the home shore. She mighthave got there had not a third of the Red-eyed Terrors come screechingat her from that side. She was running her hardest, but was caughtbetween two foes. There was nothing for it but a desperate leap fromthe timbers into-she didn't know what. Down, down, down-plop, splash, plunge into the deep water, not cold, for it was August, but oh, sohorrible! She spluttered and coughed when she came to the top, glancedaround to see if the Monsters were swimming after her, and struck outfor shore. She had never learned to swim, and yet she swam, for thesimple reason that a Cat's position and actions in swimming are thesame as her position and actions in walking. She had fallen into aplace she did not like; naturally she tried to walk out, and the resultwas that she swam ashore. Which shore? The home-love never fails: thesouth side was the only shore for her, the one nearest home. Shescrambled out all dripping wet, up the muddy bank and throughcoal-piles and dust-heaps, looking as black, dirty, and unroyal as itwas possible for a Cat to look. 

Once the shock was over, the Royal-pedigreed Slummer began to feelbetter for the plunge. A genial glow without from the bath, a genialsense of triumph within, for had she not outwitted three of the bigTerrors?

Her nose, her memory, and her instinct of direction inclined her to geton the track again; but the place was infested with thoseThunder-rollers, and prudence led her to turn aside and follow theriver-bank with its musky home-reminders; and thus she was spared theunspeakable horrors of the tunnel. 

She was over three days learning the manifold dangers and complexitiesof the East River docks. Once she got by mistake on a ferryboat and wascarried over to Long Island; but she took an early boat back. At lengthon the third night she reached familiar ground, the place she hadpassed the night of her first escape. From that her course was sure andrapid. She knew just where she was going and how to get there. She kneweven the more prominent features in the Dog-scape now. She went faster, felt happier. In a little while surely she would be curled up in hernative Orient--the old junk-yard. Another turn, and the block was insight. 

But--what! It was gone! Kitty couldn't believe her eyes; but she must, for the sun was not yet up. There where once had stood or leaned orslouched or straggled the houses of the block, was a great brokenwilderness of stone, lumber, and holes in the ground. 

Kitty walked all around it. She knew by the bearings and by the localcolor of the pavement that she was in her home, that there had livedthe bird-man, and there was the old junk-yard; but all were gone, completely gone, taking their familiar odors with them, and Pussyturned sick at heart in the utter hopelessness of the case. Herplace-love was her master-mood. She had given up all to come to a homethat no longer existed, and for once her sturdy little heart was castdown. She wandered over the silent heaps of rubbish and found neitherconsolation nor eatables. The ruin had taken in several of the blocksand reached back from the water. It was not a fire; Kitty had seen oneof those things. This looked more like the work of a flock of theRed-eyed Monsters. Pussy knew nothing of the great bridge that was torise from this very spot. 

When the sun came up she sought for cover. An adjoining block stillstood with little change, and the Royal Analostan retired to that. Sheknew some of its trails; but once there, was unpleasantly surprised tofind the place swarming with Cats that, like herself, were driven fromtheir old grounds, and when the garbage-cans came out there wereseveral Slummers at each. It meant a famine in the land, and Pussy, after standing it a few days, was reduced to seeking her other home onFifth Avenue. She got there to find it shut up and deserted. She waitedabout for a day; had an unpleasant experience with a big man in a bluecoat, and next night returned to the crowded slum. 

September and October wore away. Many of the Cats died of starvation orwere too weak to escape their natural enemies. But Kitty, young andstrong, still lived. 

Great changes had come over the ruined blocks. Though silent on thenight when she first saw them, they were crowded with noisy workmen allday. A tall building, well advanced on her arrival, was completed atthe end of October, and Slum Kitty, driven by hunger, went sneaking upto a pail that a negro had set outside. The pail, unfortunately, wasnot for garbage; it was a new thing in that region: a scrubbing-pail. Asad disappointment, but it had a sense of comfort--there were traces ofa familiar touch on the handle. While she was studying it, the negroelevator-boy came out again. In spite of his blue clothes, his odorousperson confirmed the good impression of the handle. Kitty had retreatedacross the street. He gazed at her. 

"Sho ef dat don't look like de Royal Ankalostan! Hyar, Pussy, Pussy, Pu-s-s-s-s-y! Co-o-o-o-m-e, Pu-u-s-s-sy, hyar! I 'spec's she's shohungry. "

Hungry! She hadn't had a real meal for months. The negro went into thebuilding and reappeared with a portion of his own lunch. 

"Hyar, Pussy, Puss, Puss, Puss!" It seemed very good, but Pussy had herdoubts of the man. At length he laid the meat on the pavement, and wentback to the door. Slum Kitty came forward very warily; sniffed at themeat, seized it, and fled like a little Tigress to eat her prize inpeace. 

LIFE IV

XI

This was the beginning of a new era. Pussy came to the door of thebuilding now whenever pinched by hunger, and the good feeling for thenegro grew. She had never understood that man before. He had alwaysseemed hostile. Now he was her friend, the only one she had. 

One week she had a streak of luck. Seven good meals on seven successivedays; and right on the top of the last meal she found a juicy dead Rat, the genuine thing, a perfect windfall. She had never killed afull-grown Rat in all her lives, but seized the prize and ran off tohide it for future use. She was crossing the street in front of the newbuilding when an old enemy appeared, --the Wharf Dog, --and Kittyretreated, naturally enough, to the door where she had a friend. Justas she neared it, he opened the door for a well-dressed man to comeout, and both saw the Cat with her prize. 

"Hello! Look at that for a Cat!"

"Yes, sah, " answered the negro. "Dat's ma Cat, sah; she's a terror onRats, sah! hez 'em about cleaned up, sah; dat's why she's so thin. "

"Well, don't let her starve, " said the man with the air of thelandlord. "Can't you feed her?

"De liver meat-man comes reg'lar, sah; quatah dollar a week, sah, " saidthe negro, fully realizing that he was entitled to the extra fifteencents for "the idea. "

"That's all right. I'll stand it. "

XII

"M-e-a-t! M-e-a-t!" is heard the magnetic, cat-conjuring cry of the oldliver-man, as his barrow is pushed up the glorified Scrimper's Alley, and Cats come crowding, as of yore, to receive their due. 

There are Cats black, white, yellow, and gray to be remembered, and, above all, there are owners to be remembered. As the barrow rounds thecorner near the new building it makes a newly scheduled stop. 

"Hyar, you, get out o' the road, you common trash, " cries theliver-man, and he waves his wand to make way for the little gray Catwith blue eyes and white nose. She receives an unusually large portion, for Sam is wisely dividing the returns evenly; and Slum Kitty retreatswith her 'daily' into shelter of the great building, to which she isregularly attached. She has entered into her fourth life with prospectsof happiness never before dreamed of. Everything was against her atfirst; now everything seems to be coming her way. It is very doubtfulthat her mind was broadened by travel, but she knew what she wanted andshe got it. She has achieved her long-time great ambition by catching, not a Sparrow, but two of them, while they were clinched in mortalcombat in the gutter. 

There is no reason to suppose that she ever caught another Rat; but thenegro secures a dead one when he can, for purposes of exhibition, lesther pension be imperilled. The dead one is left in the hall till theproprietor comes; then it is apologetically swept away. "Well, drat datCat, sah; dat Royal Ankalostan blood, sah, is terrors on Rats. "

She has had several broods since. The negro thinks the Yellow Tom isthe father of some of them, and no doubt the negro is right. 

He has sold her a number of times with a perfectly clear conscience, knowing quite well that it is only a question of a few days before theRoyal Analostan comes back again. Doubtless he is saving the money forsome honorable ambition. She has learned to tolerate the elevator, andeven to ride up and down on it. The negro stoutly maintains that once, when she heard the meat-man, while she was on the top floor, shemanaged to press the button that called the elevator to take her down. 

She is sleek and beautiful again. She is not only one of the fourhundred that form the inner circle about the liver-barrow, but she isrecognized as the star pensioner among them. The liver-man ispositively respectful. Not even the cream-and-chicken fed Cat of thepawn-broker's wife has such a position as the Royal Analostan. But inspite of her prosperity, her social position, her royal name and fakepedigree, the greatest pleasure of her life is to slip out and goa-slumming in the gloaming, for now, as in her previous lives, she isat heart, and likely to be, nothing but a dirty little Slum Cat. 

ARNAUX

THE CHRONICLE OF A HOMING PIGEON

We passed through the side door of a big stable on West NineteenthStreet. The mild smell of the well-kept stalls was lost in the sweetodor of hay, as we mounted a ladder and entered the long garret. Thesouth end was walled off, and the familiar "Coo-oo, cooooo-oo, ruk-at-a-coo, " varied with the "whirr, whirr, whirr" of wings, informedus that we were at the pigeon-loft. 

This was the home of a famous lot of birds, and to-day there was to bea race among fifty of the youngsters. The owner of the loft had askedme, as an unprejudiced outsider, to be judge in the contest. 

It was a training race of the young birds. They had been taken out forshort distances with their parents once or twice, then set free toreturn to the loft. Now for the first time they were to be flownwithout the old ones. The point of start, Elizabeth, N. J. , was a longjourney for their first unaided attempt. "But then, " the trainerremarked, "that's how we weed out the fools; only the best birds makeit, and that's all we want back. "

There was another side to the flight. It was to be a race among thosethat did return. Each of the men about the loft as well as severalneighboring fanciers were interested in one or other of the Homers. They made up a purse for the winner, and on me was to devolve theimportant duty of deciding which should take the stakes. Not the firstbird back, but the first bird into the loft, was to win, for one thatreturns to his neighborhood merely, without immediately reporting athome, is of little use as a letter-carrier. 

The Homing Pigeon used to be called the Carrier because it carriedmessages, but here I found that name restricted to the show bird, thecreature with absurdly developed wattles; the one that carries themessages is now called the Homer, or Homing Pigeon--the bird thatalways comes home. These Pigeons are not of any special color, nor havethey any of the fancy adornments of the kind that figure in Bird shows. They are not bred for style, but for speed and for their mental gifts. They must be true to their home, able to return to it without fail. Thesense of direction is now believed to be located in the bony labyrinthof the ear. There is no creature with finer sense of locality anddirection than a good Homer, and the only visible proofs of it are thegreat bulge on each side of the head over the ears, and the superbwings that complete his equipment to obey the noble impulse ofhome-love. Now the mental and physical equipments of the last lot ofyoung birds were to be put to test. 

Although there were plenty of witnesses, I thought it best to close allbut one of the pigeon-doors and stand ready to shut that behind thefirst arrival. 

I shall never forget the sensations of that day. I had been warned:"They start at 12; they should be here at 12:30; but look out, theycome like a whirlwind. You hardly see them till they're in. "

We were ranged along the inside of the loft, each with an eye to acrack or a partly closed pigeon-door, anxiously scanning thesouthwestern horizon, when one shouted: "Look out--here they come!"Like a white cloud they burst into view, low skimming over the cityroofs, around a great chimney pile, and in two seconds after firstbeing seen they were back. The flash of white, the rush of pinions, were all so sudden, so short, that, though preparing, I was unprepared. I was at the only open door. A whistling arrow of blue shot in, lashedmy face with its pinions, and passed. I had hardly time to drop thelittle door, as a yell burst from the men, "Arnaux! Arnaux! I told youhe would. Oh, he's a darling; only three months old and a winner--he'sa little darling!" and Arnaux's owner danced, more for joy in his birdthan in the purse he had won. 

The men sat or kneeled and watched him in positive reverence as hegulped a quantity of water, then turned to the food-trough. 

"Look at that eye, those wings, and did you ever see such a breast? Oh, but he's the real grit!" so his owner prattled to the silent ones whosebirds had been defeated. 

That was the first of Arnaux's exploits. Best of fifty birds from agood loft, his future was bright with promise. 

He was invested with the silver anklet of the Sacred Order of the HighHomer. It bore his number, 2590 C, a number which to-day means much toall men in the world of the Homing Pigeon. 

In that trial flight from Elizabeth only forty birds had returned. Itis usually so. Some were weak and got left behind, some were foolishand strayed. By this simple process of flight selection thepigeon-owners keep improving their stock. Of the ten, five were seen nomore, but five returned later that day, not all at once, but stragglingin; the last of the loiterers was a big, lubberly Blue Pigeon. The manin the loft at the time called: "Here comes that old sap-headed Bluethat Jakey was betting on. I didn't suppose he would come back, and Ididn't care, neither, for it's my belief he has a streak of Pouter. "

The Big Blue, also called "Corner-box" from the nest where he washatched, had shown remarkable vigor from the first. Though all wereabout the same age, he had grown faster, was bigger, and incidentallyhandsomer, though the fanciers cared little for that. He seemed fullyaware of his importance, and early showed a disposition to bully hissmaller cousins. His owner prophesied great things of him, but Billy, the stable-man, had grave doubts over the length of his neck, thebigness of his crop, his carriage, and his over-size. "A bird can'tmake time pushing a bag of wind ahead of him. Them long legs is deadweight, an' a neck like that ain't got no gimp in it, " Billy wouldgrunt disparagingly as he cleaned out the loft of a morning. 

II

The training of the birds went on after this at regular times. Thedistance from home, of the start, was "jumped" twenty-five or thirtymiles farther each day, and its direction changed till the Homers knewthe country for one hundred and fifty miles around New York. Theoriginal fifty birds dwindled to twenty, for the rigid process weedsout not only the weak and ill-equipped, but those also who may havetemporary ailments or accidents, or who may make the mistake ofover-eating at the start. There were many fine birds in that flight, broad-breasted, bright-eyed, long-winged creatures, formed for swiftestflight, for high unconscious emprise, for these were destined to bemessengers in the service of man in times of serious need. Their colorswere mostly white, blue, or brown. They wore no uniform, but each andall of the chosen remnant had the brilliant eye and the bulging ears ofthe finest Homer blood; and, best and choicest of all, nearly alwaysfirst among them was little Arnaux. He had not much to distinguish himwhen at rest, for now all of the band had the silver anklet, but in theair it was that Arnaux showed his make, and when the opening of thehamper gave the order "Start, " it was Arnaux that first got under way, soared to the height deemed needful to exclude all local influence, divined the road to home, and took it, pausing not for food, drink, orcompany. 

Notwithstanding Billy's evil forecasts, the Big Blue of the Corner-boxwas one of the chosen twenty. Often he was late in returning; he neverwas first, and sometimes when he came back hours behind the rest, itwas plain that he was neither hungry nor thirsty, sure signs that hewas a loiterer by the way. Still he had come back; and now he wore onhis ankle, like the rest, the sacred badge and a number from the rollof possible fame. Billy despised him, set him in poor contrast withArnaux, but his owner would reply: "Give him a chance;'soon ripe, soonrotten, ' an' I always notice the best bird is the slowest to show up atfirst. "

Before a year little Arnaux had made a record. The hardest of all workis over the sea, for there is no chance of aid from landmarks; and thehardest of all times at sea is in fog, for then even the sun is blottedout and there is nothing whatever for guidance. With memory, sight, andhearing unavailable, the Homer has one thing left, and herein is hisgreat strength, the inborn sense of direction. There is only one thingthat can destroy this, and that is fear, hence the necessity of a stoutlittle heart between those noble wings. 

Arnaux, with two of his order, in course of training, had been shippedon an ocean steamer bound for Europe. They were to be released out ofsight of land, but a heavy fog set in and forbade the start. Thesteamer took them onward, the intention being to send them back withthe next vessel. When ten hours out the engine broke down, the fogsettled dense over the sea, and the vessel was adrift and helpless as alog. She could only whistle for assistance, and so far as results wereconcerned, the captain might as well have wigwagged. Then the Pigeonswere thought of. Starback, 2592 C, was first selected. A message forhelp was written on waterproof paper, rolled up, and lashed to histail-feathers on the under side. He was thrown into the air anddisappeared. Half an hour later, a second, the Big Blue Corner-box, 2600 C, was freighted with a letter. He flew up, but almost immediatelyreturned and alighted on the rigging. He was a picture of pigeon fear;nothing could induce him to leave the ship. He was so terrorized thathe was easily caught and ignominiously thrust back into the coop. 

Now the third was brought out, a small, chunky bird. The shipmen didnot know him, but they noted down from his anklet his name and number, Arnaux, 2590 C. It meant nothing to them. But the officer who held himnoted that his heart did not beat so wildly as that of the last bird. The message was taken from the Big Blue. It ran:

10 A. M. , Tuesday. 

We broke our shaft two hundred and ten miles out from New York; we aredrifting helplessly in the fog. Send out a tug as soon as possible. Weare whistling one long, followed at once by one short, every sixtyseconds. 

(Signed) THE CAPTAIN. 

This was rolled up, wrapped in waterproof film, addressed to theSteamship Company, and lashed to the under side of Arnaux's middletail-feather. 

When thrown into the air, he circled round the ship, then round againhigher, then again higher in a wider circle, and he was lost to view;and still higher till quite out of sight and feeling of the ship. Shutout from the use of all his senses now but one, he gave himself up tothat. Strong in him it was, and untrammelled of that murderous despotFear. True as a needle to the Pole went Arnaux now, no hesitation, nodoubts; within one minute of leaving the coop he was speeding straightas a ray of light for the loft where he was born, the only place onearth where he could be made content. 

That afternoon Billy was on duty when the whistle of fast wings washeard; a blue Flyer flashed into the loft and made for thewater-trough. He was gulping down mouthful after mouthful, when Billygasped: "Why, Arnaux, it's you, you beauty. " Then, with the quick habitof the pigeon-man, he pulled out his watch and marked the time, 2:40P. M. A glance showed the tie string on the tail. He shut the door anddropped the catching-net quickly over Arnaux's head. A moment later hehad the roll in his hand; in two minutes he was speeding to the officeof the Company, for there was a fat tip in view. There he learned thatArnaux had made the two hundred and ten miles in fog, over sea, in fourhours and forty minutes, and within one hour the needful help had setout for the unfortunate steamer. 

Two hundred and ten miles in fog over sea in four hours and fortyminutes! This was a noble record. It was duly inscribed in the rolls ofthe Homing Club. Arnaux was held while the secretary, with rubber stampand indelible ink, printed on a snowy primary of his right wing therecord of the feat, with the date and reference number. 

Starback, the second bird, never was heard of again. No doubt heperished at sea. 

Blue Corner-box came back on the tug. 

III

That was Arnaux's first public record; but others came fast, andseveral curious scenes were enacted in that old pigeon-loft with Arnauxas the central figure. One day a carriage drove up to the stable; awhite-haired gentleman got out, climbed the dusty stairs, and sat allmorning in the loft with Billy. Peering from his gold-rimmed glasses, first at a lot of papers, next across the roofs of the city, waiting, watching, for what? News from a little place not forty miles away--newsof greatest weight to him, tidings that would make or break him, tidings that must reach him before it could be telegraphed: a telegrammeant at least an hour's delay at each end. What was faster than thatfor forty miles? In those days there was but one thing--a high-classHomer. Money would count for nothing if he could win. The best, thevery best at any price he must have, and Arnaux, with seven indeliblerecords on his pinions, was the chosen messenger. An hour went by, another, and a third was begun, when with whistle of wings, the bluemeteor flashed into the loft. Billy slammed the door and caught him. Deftly he snipped the threads and handed the roll to the banker. Theold man turned deathly pale, fumbled it open, then his color came back. "Thank God!" he gasped, and then went speeding to his Board meeting, master of the situation. Little Arnaux had saved him. 

The banker wanted to buy the Homer, feeling in a vague way that heought to honor and cherish him; but Billy was very clear about it. "What's the good? You can't buy a Homer's heart. You could keep him aprisoner, that's all; but nothing on earth could make him forsake theold loft where he was hatched. " So Arnaux stayed at 211 West NineteenthStreet. But the banker did not forget. 

There is in our country a class of miscreants who think a flying Pigeonis fair game, because it is probably far from home, or they shoot himbecause it is hard to fix the crime. Many a noble Homer, speeding witha life or death message, has been shot down by one of these wretchesand remorselessly made into a pot-pie. Arnaux's brother Arnolf, withthree fine records on his wings, was thus murdered in the act ofbearing a hasty summons for the doctor. As he fell dying at thegunner's feet, his superb wings spread out displayed his list ofvictories. The silver badge on his leg was there, and the gunner wassmitten with remorse. He had the message sent on; he returned the deadbird to the Homing Club, saying that he "found it. " The owner came tosee him; the gunner broke down under cross-examination, and was forcedto admit that he himself had shot the Homer, but did so in behalf of apoor sick neighbor who craved a pigeon-pie. 

There were tears in the wrath of the pigeon-man. "My bird, my beautifulArnolf, twenty times has he brought vital messages, three times has hemade records, twice has he saved human lives, and you'd shoot him for apot-pie. I could punish you under the law, but I have no heart for sucha poor revenge. I only ask you this, if ever again you have a sickneighbor who wants a pigeon-pie, come, we'll freely supply him withpie-breed squabs; but if you have a trace of manhood about you, youwill never, never again shoot, or allow others to shoot, our noble andpriceless messengers. "

This took place while the banker was in touch with the loft, while hisheart was warm for the Pigeons. He was a man of influence, and thePigeon Protective legislation at Albany was the immediate fruit ofArnaux's exploit. 

IV

Billy had never liked the Corner-box Blue (2600 C); notwithstanding thefact that he still continued in the ranks of the Silver Badge, Billybelieved he was poor stuff. The steamer incident seemed to prove himcoward; he certainly was a bully. 

One morning when Billy went in there was a row, two Pigeons, a largeand a small, alternately clinching and sparring all over the floor, feathers flying, dust and commotion everywhere. As soon as they wereseparated Billy found that the little one was Arnaux and the big onewas the Corner-box Blue. Arnaux had made a good fight, but wasovermatched, for the Big Blue was half as heavy again. 

Soon it was very clear what they had fought over--a pretty little ladyPigeon of the bluest Homing blood. The Big Blue cock had kept up astate of bad feeling by his bullying, but it was the Little Lady thathad made them close in mortal combat. Billy had no authority to wringthe Big Blue's neck, but he interfered as far as he could in behalf ofhis favorite Arnaux. 

Pigeon marriages are arranged somewhat like those of mankind. Propinquity is the first thing: force the pair together for a time andlet nature take its course. So Billy locked Arnaux and the Little Ladyup together in a separate apartment for two weeks, and to make doublysure he locked Big Blue up with an Available Lady in another apartmentfor two weeks. 

Things turned out just as was expected. The Little Lady surrendered toArnaux and the Available Lady to the Big Blue. Two nests were begun andeverything shaped for a "lived happily ever after. " But the Big Bluewas very big and handsome. He could blow out his crop and strut in thesun and make rainbows all round his neck in a way that might turn theheart of the staidest Homerine. 

Arnaux, though sturdily built, was small and except for his brillianteyes, not especially good-looking. Moreover, he was often away onimportant business, and the Big Blue had nothing to do but stay aroundthe loft and display his unlettered wings. 

It is the custom of moralists to point to the lower animals, andespecially to the Pigeon, for examples of love and constancy, andproperly so, but, alas there are exceptions. Vice is not by any meanslimited to the human race. 

Arnaux's wife had been deeply impressed with the Big Blue, at theoutset, and at length while her spouse was absent the dreadful thingtook place. 

Arnaux returned from Boston one day to find that the Big Blue, while heretained his own Available Lady in the corner-box, had also annexed thebox and wife that belonged to himself, and a desperate battle followed. The only spectators were the two wives, but they maintained anindifferent aloofness. Arnaux fought with his famous wings, but theywere none the better weapons because they now bore twenty records. Hisbeak and feet were small, as became his blood, and his stout littleheart could not make up for his lack of weight. The battle went againsthim. His wife sat unconcernedly in the nest, as though it were not heraffair, and Arnaux might have been killed but for the timely arrival ofBilly. He was angry enough to wring the Blue bird's neck, but the bullyescaped from the loft in time. Billy took tender care of Arnaux for afew days. At the end of a week he was well again, and in ten days hewas once more on the road. Meanwhile he had evidently forgiven hisfaithless wife, for, without any apparent feeling, he took up hisnesting as before. That month he made two new records. He brought amessage ten miles in eight minutes, and he came from Boston in fourhours. Every moment of the way he had been impelled by themaster-passion of home-love. But it was a poor home-coming if his wifefigured at all in his thoughts, for he found her again flirting withthe Big Blue cock. Tired as he was, the duel was renewed, and againwould have been to a finish but for Billy's interference. He separatedthe fighters, then shut the Blue cock up in a coop, determined to getrid of him in some way. Meanwhile the "Any Age Sweepstakes" handicapfrom Chicago to New York was on, a race of nine hundred miles. Arnauxhad been entered six months before. His forfeit-money was up, andnotwithstanding his domestic complications, his friends felt that hemust not fail to appear. 

The birds were sent by train to Chicago, to be liberated at intervalsthere according to their handicap, and last of the start was Arnaux. They lost no time, and outside of Chicago several of these prime Flyersjoined by common impulse into a racing flock that went through air onthe same invisible track. A Homer may make a straight line whenfollowing his general sense of direction, but when following a familiarback track he sticks to the well-remembered landmarks. Most of thebirds had been trained by way of Columbus and Buffalo. Arnaux knew theColumbus route, but also he knew that by Detroit, and after leavingLake Michigan, he took the straight line for Detroit. Thus he caught upon his handicap and had the advantage of many miles. Detroit, Buffalo, Rochester, with their familiar towers and chimneys, faded behind him, and Syracuse was near at hand. It was now late afternoon; six hundredmiles in twelve hours he had flown and was undoubtedly leading therace; but the usual thirst of the Flyer had attacked him. Skimming overthe city roofs, he saw a loft of Pigeons, and descending from his highcourse in two or three great circles, he followed the ingoing Birds tothe loft and drank greedily at the water-trough, as he had often donebefore, and as every pigeon-lover hospitably expects the messengers todo. The owner of the loft was there and noted the strange Bird. Hestepped quietly to where he could inspect him. One of his own Pigeonsmade momentary opposition to the stranger, and Arnaux, sparringsidewise with an open wing in Pigeon style, displayed the long array ofprinted records. The man was a fancier. His interest was aroused; hepulled the string that shut the flying door, and in a few minutesArnaux was his prisoner. 

The robber spread the much-inscribed wings, read record after record, and glancing at the silver badge--it should have been gold--he read hisname--Arnaux; then exclaimed: "Arnaux! Arnaux! Oh, I've heard of you, you little beauty, and it's glad I am to trap you. " He snipped themessage from his tail, unrolled it, and read: "Arnaux left Chicago thismorning at 4 A. M. , scratched in the Any Age Sweepstakes for New York. "

"Six hundred miles in twelve hours! By the powers, that's arecord-breaker. " And the pigeon-stealer gently, almost reverently, putthe fluttering Bird safely into a padded cage. "Well, " he added, "Iknow it's no use trying to make you stay, but I can breed from you andhave some of your strain. "

So Arnaux was shut up in a large and comfortable loft with severalother prisoners. The man, though a thief, was a lover of Homers; hegave his captive everything that could insure his comfort and safety. For three months he left him in that loft. At first Arnaux did nothingall day but walk up and down the wire screen, looking high and low formeans of escape; but in the fourth month he seemed to have abandonedthe attempt, and the watchful jailer began the second part of hisscheme. He introduced a coy young lady Pigeon. But it did not seem toanswer; Arnaux was not even civil to her. After a time the jailerremoved the female, and Arnaux was left in solitary confinement for amonth. Now a different female was brought in, but with no better luck;and thus it went on--for a year different charmers were introduced. Arnaux either violently repelled them or was scornfully indifferent, and at times the old longing to get away, came back with twofold power, so that he darted up and down the wire front or dashed with all hisforce against it. 

When the storied feathers of his wings began their annual moult, hisjailer saved them as precious things, and as each new feather came hereproduced on it the record of its owner's fame. 

Two years went slowly by, and the jailer had put Arnaux in a new loftand brought in another lady Pigeon. By chance she closely resembled thefaithless one at home. Arnaux actually heeded the newcomer. Once thejailer thought he saw his famous prisoner paying some slight attentionto the charmer, and, yes, he surely saw her preparing a nest. Thenassuming that they had reached a full understanding, the jailer, forthe first time, opened the outlet, and Arnaux was free. Did he hangaround in doubt? Did he hesitate? No, not for one moment. As soon asthe drop of the door left open the way, he shot through, he spreadthose wonderful blazoned wings, and, with no second thought for thelatest Circe, sprang from the hated prison loft--away and away. 

V

We have no means of looking into the Pigeon's mind; we may go wrong inconjuring up for it deep thoughts of love and welcome home; but we aresafe in this, we cannot too strongly paint, we cannot too highly praiseand glorify that wonderful God-implanted, mankind-fostered home-lovethat glows unquenchably in this noble bird. Call it what you like, amere instinct deliberately constructed by man for his selfish ends, explain it away if you will, dissect it, misname it, and it still isthere, in overwhelming, imperishable master-power, as long as the bravelittle heart and wings can beat. 

Home, home, sweet home! Never had mankind a stronger love of home thanArnaux. The trials and sorrows of the old pigeon-loft were forgotten inthat all-dominating force of his nature. Not years of prison bars, notlater loves, nor fear of death, could down its power; and Arnaux, hadthe gift of song been his, must surely have sung as sings a hero in hishighest joy, when sprang he from the 'lighting board, up-circling free, soaring, drawn by the only impulse that those glorious wings wouldhonor, --up, up, in widening, heightening circles of ashy blue in theblue, flashing those many-lettered wings of white, till they seemedlike jets of fire--up and on, driven by that home-love, faithful to hisonly home and to his faithless mate; closing his eyes, they say;closing his ears, they tell; shutting his mind, --we all believe, --tonearer things, to two years of his life, to one half of his prime, butsoaring in the blue, retiring, as a saint might do, into his innerself, giving himself up to that inmost guide. He was the captain of theship, but the pilot, the chart and compass, all, were thatdeep-implanted instinct. One thousand feet above the trees theinscrutable whisper came, and Arnaux in arrowy swiftness now waspointing for the south-southeast. The little flashes of white fire oneach side were lost in the low sky, and the reverent robber of Syracusesaw Arnaux nevermore. 

The fast express was steaming down the valley. It was far ahead, butArnaux overtook and passed it, as the flying wild Duck passes theswimming Muskrat. High in the valleys he went, low over the hills ofChenango, where the pines were combing the breezes. 

Out from his oak-tree eyrie a Hawk came wheeling and sailing, silent, for he had marked the Flyer, and meant him for his prey. Arnaux turnedneither right nor left, nor raised nor lowered his flight, nor lost awing-beat. The Hawk was in waiting in the gap ahead, and Arnaux passedhim, even as a Deer in his prime may pass by a Bear in his pathway. Home! home! was the only burning thought, the blinding impulse. 

Beat, beat, beat, those flashing pinions went with speed unslacked onthe now familiar road. In an hour the Catskills were at hand. In twohours he was passing over them. Old friendly places, swiftly comingnow, lent more force to his wings. Home! home! was the silent song thathis heart was singing. Like the traveller dying of thirst, that seesthe palm-trees far ahead, his brilliant eyes took in the distant smokeof Manhattan. 

Out from the crest of the Catskills there launched a Falcon. Swiftestof the race of rapine, proud of his strength, proud of his wings, herejoiced in a worthy prey. Many and many a Pigeon had been borne to hisnest, and riding the wind he came, swooping, reserving his strength, awaiting the proper time. Oh, how well he knew the very moment! Down, down like a flashing javelin; no wild Duck, no Hawk could elude him, for this was a Falcon. Turn back now, O Homer, and save yourself; goround the dangerous hills. Did he turn? Not a whit! for this wasArnaux. Home! home! home! was his only thought. To meet the danger, hemerely added to his speed; and the Peregrine stooped; stooped atwhat?--a flashing of color, a twinkling of whiteness--and went backempty. While Arnaux cleft the air of the valley as a stone from asling, to be lost--a white-winged bird--a spot with flashing halo--and, quickly, a speck in the offing. On down the dear valley of Hudson, thewell-known highway; for two years he had not seen it! Now he droppedlow as the noon breeze came north and ruffled the river below him. Home! home! home! and the towers of a city are coming in view! Home!home! past the great spider-bridge of Poughkeepsie, skimming, skirtingthe river-banks. Low now by the bank as the wind arose. Low, alas! toolow!

What fiend was it tempted a gunner in June to lurk on that hill by themargin? what devil directed his gaze to the twinkling of white thatcame from the blue to the northward? Oh, Arnaux, Arnaux, skimming low, forget not the gunner of old! Too low, too low you are clearing thathill. Too low--too late! Flash--bang! and the death-hail has reachedhim; reached, maimed, but not downed him. Out of the flashing pinionsbroken feathers printed with records went fluttering earthward. The"naught" of his sea record was gone. Not two hundred and ten, buttwenty-one miles it now read. Oh, shameful pillage! A dark stainappeared on his bosom, but Arnaux kept on. Home, home, homeward bound. The danger was past in an instant. Home, homeward he steered straightas before, but the wonderful speed was diminished; not a mile a minutenow; and the wind made undue sounds in his tattered pinions. The stainin his breast told of broken force; but on, straight on, he flew. Home, home was in sight, and the pain in his breast was forgotten. The talltowers of the city were in clear view of his far-seeing eye as heskimmed by the high cliffs of Jersey. On, on--the pinion might flag, the eye might darken, but the home-love was stronger and stronger. 

Under the tall Palisades, to be screened from the wind, he passed, overthe sparkling water, over the trees, under the Peregrines' eyrie, underthe pirates' castle where the great grim Peregrines sat; peering likeblack-masked highwaymen they marked the on-coming Pigeon. Arnaux knewthem of old. Many a message was lying undelivered in that nest, many arecord-bearing plume had fluttered away from its fastness. But Arnauxhad faced them before, and now he came as before--on, onward, swift, but not as he had been; the deadly gun had sapped his force, hadlowered his speed. On, on; and the Peregrines, biding their time, wentforth like two bow-bolts; strong and lightning-swift they went againstone weak and wearied. 

Why tell of the race that followed? Why paint the despair of a bravelittle heart in sight of the home he had craved in vain? in a minuteall was over. The Peregrines screeched in their triumph. Screeching andsailing, they swung to their eyrie, and the prey in their claws was thebody, the last of the bright little Arnaux. There on the rocks thebeaks and claws of the bandits were red with the life of the hero. Tornasunder were those matchless wings, and their records were scatteredunnoticed. In sun and in storm they lay till the killers themselveswere killed and their stronghold rifled. And none knew the fate of thepeerless Bird till deep in the dust and rubbish of that pirate-nest theavenger found, among others of its kind, a silver ring, the sacredbadge of the High Homer, and read upon it the pregnant inscription:"ARNAUX, 2590 C. "

BADLANDS BILLY

The Wolf that Won

I

THE HOWL BY NIGHT

Do you know the three calls of the hunting Wolf:--the long-drawn deephowl, the muster, that tells of game discovered but too strong for thefinder to manage alone; and the higher ululation that ringing andswelling is the cry of the pack on a hot scent; and the sharp barkcoupled with a short howl that, seeming least of all, is yet a gong ofdoom, for this is the cry "Close in"--this is the finish?

We were riding the Badland Buttes, King and I, with a pack of varioushunting Dogs stringing behind or trotting alongside. The sun had gonefrom the sky, and a blood-streak marked the spot where he died, awayover Sentinel Butte. The hills were dim, the valleys dark, when fromthe nearest gloom there rolled a long-drawn cry that all men recognizeinstinctively--melodious, yet with a tone in it that sends a shudder upthe spine, though now it has lost all menace for mankind. We listenedfor a moment. It was the Wolf-hunter who broke silence: "That'sBadlands Billy; ain't it a voice? He's out for his beef to-night. "

II

ANCIENT DAYS

In pristine days the Buffalo herds were followed by bands of Wolvesthat preyed on the sick, the weak, and the wounded. When the Buffalowere exterminated the Wolves were hard put for support, but the Cattlecame and solved the question for them by taking the Buffaloes' place. This caused the wolf-war. The ranchmen offered a bounty for each Wolfkilled, and every cowboy out of work, was supplied with traps andpoison for wolf-killing. The very expert made this their sole businessand became known as wolvers. King Ryder was one of these. He was aquiet, gentlespoken fellow, with a keen eye and an insight into animallife that gave him especial power over Broncos and Dogs, as well asWolves and Bears, though in the last two cases it was power merely tosurmise where they were and how best to get at them. He had been awolver for years, and greatly surprised me by saying that "never in allhis experience had he known a Gray-wolf to attack a human being. "

We had many camp-fire talks while the other men were sleeping, and thenit was I learned the little that he knew about Badlands Billy. "Sixtimes have I seen him and the seventh will be Sunday, you bet. He takeshis long rest then. " And thus on the very ground where it all fell out, to the noise of the night wind and the yapping of the Coyote, interrupted sometimes by the deep-drawn howl of the hero himself, Iheard chapters of this history which, with others gleaned in manyfields, gave me the story of the Big Dark Wolf of Sentinel Butte. 

III

IN THE CAŃON

Away back in the spring of '92 a wolver was "wolving" on the east sideof the Sentinel Mountain that so long was a principal landmark of theold Plainsmen. Pelts were not good in May, but the bounties were high, five dollars a head, and double for She-wolves. As he went down to thecreek one morning he saw a Wolf coming to drink on the other side. Hehad an easy shot, and on killing it found it was a nursing She-wolf. Evidently her family were somewhere near, so he spent two or three dayssearching in all the likely places, but found no clue to the den. 

Two weeks afterward, as the wolver rode down an adjoining cańon, he sawa Wolf come out of a hole. The ever-ready rifle flew up, and anotherten-dollar scalp was added to his string. Now he dug into the den andfound the litter, a most surprising one indeed, for it consisted not ofthe usual five or six Wolf-pups, but of eleven, and these, strange tosay, were of two sizes, five of them larger and older than the othersix. Here were two distinct families with one mother, and as he addedtheir scalps to his string of trophies the truth dawned on the hunter. One lot was surely the family of the She-wolf he had killed two weeksbefore. The case was clear: the little ones awaiting the mother thatwas never to come, had whined piteously and more loudly as theirhunger-pangs increased; the other mother passing had heard the Cubs;her heart was tender now, her own little ones had so recently come, andshe cared for the orphans, carried them to her own den, and wasproviding for the double family when the rifleman had cut the gentlechapter short. 

Many a wolver has dug into a wolf-den to find nothing. The old Wolvesor possibly the Cubs themselves often dig little side pockets and offgalleries, and when an enemy is breaking in they hide in these. Theloose earth conceals the small pocket and thus the Cubs escape. Whenthe wolver retired with his scalps he did not know that the biggest ofall the Cubs, was still in the den, and even had he waited about fortwo hours, he might have been no wiser. Three hours later the sun wentdown and there was a slight scratching afar in the hole; first twolittle gray paws, then a small black nose appeared in a soft sand-pileto one side of the den. At length the Cub came forth from his hiding. He had been frightened by the attack on the den; now he was perplexedby its condition. 

It was thrice as large as it had been and open at the top now. Lyingnear were things that smelled like his brothers and sisters, but theywere repellent to him. He was filled with fear as he sniffed at them, and sneaked aside into a thicket of grass, as a Night-hawk boomed overhis head. He crouched all night in that thicket. He did not dare to gonear the den, and knew not where else he could go. The next morningwhen two Vultures came swooping down on the bodies, the Wolf-cub ranoff in the thicket, and seeking its deepest cover, was led down aravine to a wide valley. Suddenly there arose from the grass a bigShe-wolf, like his mother, yet different, a stranger, and instinctivelythe stray Cub sank to the earth, as the old Wolf bounded on him. Nodoubt the Cub had been taken for some lawful prey, but a whiff set thatright. She stood over him for an instant. He grovelled at her feet. Theimpulse to kill him or at least give him a shake died away. He had thesmell of a young Cub. Her own were about his age, her heart wastouched, and when he found courage enough to put his nose up and smellher nose, she made no angry demonstration except a short half-heartedgrowl. Now, however, he had smelled something that he sorely needed. Hehad not fed since the day before, and when the old Wolf turned to leavehim, he tumbled after her on clumsy puppy legs. Had the Mother-wolfbeen far from home he must soon have been left behind, but the nearesthollow was the chosen place, and the Cub arrived at the den's mouthsoon after the Mother-wolf. 

A stranger is an enemy, and the old one rushing forth to the defense, met the Cub again, and again was restrained by something that rose inher responsive to the smell. The Cub had thrown himself on his back inutter submission, but that did not prevent his nose reporting to himthe good thing almost within reach. The She-wolf went into the den andcurled herself about her brood; the Cub persisted in following. Shesnarled as he approached her own little ones, but disarming wrath eachtime by submission and his very cubhood, he was presently among herbrood, helping himself to what he wanted so greatly, and thus headopted himself into her family. In a few days he was so much one ofthem that the mother forgot about his being a stranger. Yet he wasdifferent from them in several ways--older by two weeks, stronger, andmarked on the neck and shoulders with what afterward grew to be a darkmane. 

Little Duskymane could not have been happier in his choice of afoster-mother, for the Yellow Wolf was not only a good hunter with afund of cunning, but she was a Wolf of modern ideas as well. The oldtricks of tolling a Prairie Dog, relaying for Antelope, houghing aBronco or flanking a Steer she had learned partly from instinct andpartly from the example of her more experienced relatives, when theyjoined to form the winter bands. But, just as necessary nowadays, shehad learned that all men carry guns, that guns are irresistible, thatthe only way to avoid them is by keeping out of sight while the sun isup, and yet that at night they are harmless. She had a faircomprehension of traps, indeed she had been in one once, and though sheleft a toe behind in pulling free, it was a toe most advantageouslydisposed of; thenceforth, though not comprehending the nature of thetrap, she was thoroughly imbued with the horror of it, with the ideaindeed that iron is dangerous, and at any price it should be avoided. 

On one occasion, when she and five others were planning to raid a Sheepyard, she held back at the last minute because some newstrung wiresappeared. The others rushed in to find the Sheep beyond their reach, themselves in a death-trap. 

Thus she had learned the newer dangers, and while it is unlikely thatshe had any clear mental conception of them she had acquired awholesome distrust of all things strange, and a horror of one or two inparticular that proved her lasting safeguard. Each year she raised herbrood successfully and the number of Yellow Wolves increased in thecountry. Guns, traps, men and the new animals they brought had beenlearned, but there was yet another lesson before her--a terrible oneindeed. 

About the time Duskymane's brothers were a month old his foster-motherreturned in a strange condition. She was frothing at the mouth, herlegs trembled, and she fell in a convulsion near the doorway of theden, but recovering, she came in. Her jaws quivered, her teeth rattleda little as she tried to lick the little ones; she seized her own frontleg and bit it so as not to bite them, but at length she grew quieterand calmer. The Cubs had retreated in fear to a far pocket, but nowthey returned and crowded about her to seek their usual food. Themother recovered, but was very ill for two or three days, and thosedays with the poison in her system worked disaster for the brood. Theywere terribly sick; only the strongest could survive, and when thetrial of strength was over, the den contained only the old one and theBlack-maned Cub, the one she had adopted. Thus little Duskymane becameher sole charge; all her strength was devoted to feeding him, and hethrived apace. 

Wolves are quick to learn certain things. The reactions of smell arethe greatest that a Wolf can feel, and thenceforth both Cub andfoster-mother experienced a quick, unreasoning sense of fear and hatethe moment the smell of strychnine reached them. 

IV

THE RUDIMENTS OF WOLF TRAINING

With the sustenance of seven at his service the little Wolf had everyreason to grow, and when in the autumn he began to follow his mother onher hunting trips he was as tall as she was. Now a change of region wasforced on them, for numbers of little Wolves were growing up. SentinelButte, the rocky fastness of the plains, was claimed by many that werebig and strong; the weaker must move out, and with them Yellow Wolf andthe Dusky Cub. 

Wolves have no language in the sense that man has; their vocabulary isprobably limited to a dozen howls, barks, and grunts expressing thesimplest emotions; but they have several other modes of conveyingideas, and one very special method of spreading information--theWolf-telephone. Scattered over their range are a number of recognized"centrals. " Sometimes these are stones, sometimes the angle ofcross-trails, sometimes a Buffalo-skull--indeed, any conspicuous objectnear a main trail is used. A Wolf calling here, as a Dog does at atelegraph post, or a Muskrat at a certain mud-pie point, leaves hisbody-scent and learns what other visitors have been there recently todo the same. He learns also whence they came and where they went, aswell as something about their condition, whether hunted, hungry, gorged, or sick. By this system of registration a Wolf knows where hisfriends, as well as his foes, are to be found. And Duskymane, followingafter the Yellow Wolf, was taught the places and uses of the manysignal-stations without any conscious attempt at teaching on the partof his foster-mother. Example backed by his native instincts was indeedthe chief teacher, but on one occasion at least there was somethingvery like the effort of a human parent to guard her child in danger. 

The Dark Cub had learned the rudiments of Wolf life: that the way tofight Dogs is to run, and to fight as you run, never grapple, but snap, snap, snap, and make for the rough country where Horses cannot bringtheir riders. 

He learned not to bother about the Coyotes that follow for the pickingswhen you hunt; you cannot catch them and they do you no harm. 

He knew he must not waste time dashing after Birds that alight on theground; and that he must keep away from the little black and whiteAnimal with the bushy tail. It is not very good to eat, and it is very, very bad to smell. 

Poison! Oh, he never forgot that smell from the day when the den wascleared of all his foster-brothers. 

He now knew that the first move in attacking Sheep was to scatter them;a lone Sheep is a foolish and easy prey; that the way to round up aband of Cattle was to frighten a Calf. 

He learned that he must always attack a Steer behind, a Sheep in front, and a Horse in the middle, that is, on the flank, and never, neverattack a man at all, never even face him. But an important lesson wasadded to these, one in which the mother consciously taught him of asecret foe. 

V

THE LESSON ON TRAPS

A Calf had died in branding-time and now, two weeks later, was in itsbest state for perfect taste, not too fresh, not over-ripe--that is, ina Wolf's opinion--and the wind carried this information afar. TheYellow Wolf and Duskymane were out for supper, though not yet knowingwhere, when the tidings of veal arrived, and they trotted up the wind. The Calf was in an open place, and plain to be seen in the moonlight. ADog would have trotted right up to the carcass, an old-time Wolf mighthave done so, but constant war had developed constant vigilance in theYellow Wolf, and trusting nothing and no one but her nose, she slackedher speed to a walk. On coming in easy view she stopped, and for longswung her nose, submitting the wind to the closest possible chemicalanalysis. She tried it with her finest tests, blew all the membranesclean again and tried it once more; and this was the report of thetrusty nostrils, yes, the unanimous report. First, rich and racy smellof Calf, seventy per cent. ; smells of grass, bugs, wood, flowers, trees, sand, and other uninteresting negations, fifteen per cent. ;smell of her Cub and herself, positive but ignorable, ten per cent. ;smell of human tracks, two per cent. ; smell of smoke, one per cent. ; ofsweaty leather smell, one per cent. ; of human body-scent (notdiscernible in some samples), one-half per cent. ; smell of iron, atrace. 

The old Wolf crouched a little but sniffed hard with swinging nose; theyoung Wolf imitatively did the same. She backed off to a greaterdistance; the Cub stood. She gave a low whine; he followed unwillingly. She circled around the tempting carcass; a new smell wasrecorded--Coyote trail-scent, soon followed by Coyote body-scent. Yes, there they were sneaking along a near ridge, and now as she passed toone side the samples changed, the wind had lost nearly every trace ofCalf; miscellaneous, commonplace, and uninteresting smells were thereinstead. The human track-scent was as before, the trace of leather wasgone, but fully one-half per cent, of iron-odor, and body smell of manraised to nearly two per cent. 

Fully alarmed, she conveyed her fear to the Cub, by her rigid pose, herair intent, and her slightly bristling mane. 

She continued her round. At one time on a high place the human bodyscent was doubly strong, then as she dropped it faded. Then the windbrought the full calf-odor with several track-scents of Coyotes andsundry Birds. Her suspicions were lulling as in a smalling circle sheneared the tempting feast from the windward side. She had even advancedstraight toward it for a few steps when the sweaty leather sang loudand strong again, and smoke and iron mingled like two strands of aparti-colored yarn. Centring all her attention on this, she advancedwithin two leaps of the Calf. There on the ground was a scrap ofleather, telling also of a human touch, close at hand the Calf, and nowthe iron and smoke on the full vast smell of Calf were like a snaketrail across the trail of a whole Beef herd. It was so slight that theCub, with the appetite and impatience of youth, pressed up against hismother's shoulder to go past and eat without delay. She seized him bythe neck and flung him back. A stone struck by his feet rolled forwardand stopped with a peculiar clink. The danger smell was greatlyincreased at this, and the Yellow Wolf backed slowly from the feast, the Cub unwillingly following. 

As he looked wistfully he saw the Coyotes drawing nearer, mindfulchiefly to avoid the Wolves. He watched their really cautious advance;it seemed like heedless rushing compared with his mother's approach. The Calf smell rolled forth in exquisite and overpowering excellencenow, for they were tearing the meat, when a sharp clank was heard and ayelp from a Coyote. At the same time the quiet night was shocked with aroar and a flash of fire. Heavy shots spattered Calf and Coyotes, andyelping like beaten Dogs they scattered, excepting one that was killedand a second struggling in the trap set here by the ever-activewolvers. The air was charged with the hateful smells redoubled now, andhorrid smells additional. The Yellow Wolf glided down a hollow and ledher Cub away in flight, but, as they went, they saw a man rush from thebank near where the mother's nose had warned her of the human scent. They saw him kill the caught Coyote and set the traps for more. 

VI

THE BEGUILING OF THE YELLOW WOLF

The life game is a hard game, for we may win ten thousand times, and ifwe fail but once our gain is gone. How many hundred times had theYellow Wolf scorned the traps; how many Cubs she had trained to do thesame! Of all the dangers to her life she best knew traps. 

October had come; the Cub was now much taller than the mother. Thewolver had seen them once--a Yellow Wolf followed by another, whoselong, awkward legs, big, soft feet, thin neck, and skimpy tailproclaimed him this year's Cub. The record of the dust and sand saidthat the old one had lost a right front toe, and that the young one wasof giant size. 

It was the wolver that thought to turn the carcass of the Calf toprofit, but he was disappointed in getting Coyotes instead of Wolves. It was the beginning of the trapping season, for this month fur isprime. A young trapper often fastens the bait on the trap; anexperienced one does not. A good trapper will even put the bait at oneplace and the trap ten or twenty feet away, but at a spot that the Wolfis likely to cross in circling. A favorite plan is to hide three orfour traps around an open place, and scatter some scraps of meat in themiddle. The traps are buried out of sight after being smoked to hidethe taint of hands and iron. Sometimes no bait is used except a littlepiece of cotton or a tuft of feathers that may catch the Wolf's eye orpique its curiosity and tempt it to circle on the fateful, treacherousground. A good trapper varies his methods continually so that theWolves cannot learn his ways. Their only safeguards are perpetualvigilance and distrust of all smells that are known to be of man. 

The wolver, with a load of the strongest steel traps, had begun hisautumn work on the 'Cottonwood. '

An old Buffalo trail crossing the river followed a little draw thatclimbed the hills to the level upland. All animals use these trails, Wolves and Foxes as well as Cattle and Deer: they are the mainthoroughfares. A cottonwood stump not far from where it plunged to thegravelly stream was marked with Wolf signs that told the wolver of itsuse. Here was an excellent place for traps, not on the trail, forCattle were here in numbers, but twenty yards away on a level, sandyspot he set four traps in a twelve-foot square. Near each he scatteredtwo or three scraps of meat; three or four white feathers on a spear ofgrass in the middle completed the setting. No human eye, few animalnoses, could have detected the hidden danger of that sandy ground, whenthe sun and wind and the sand itself had dissipated the man-track taint. 

The Yellow Wolf had seen and passed, and taught her giant son to pass, such traps a thousand times before. 

The Cattle came to water in the heat of the day. They strung down theBuffalo path as once the Buffalo did. The little Vesper-birds flittedbefore them, the Cowbirds rode on them, and the Prairie-dogs chatteredat them, just as they once did at the Buffalo. 

Down from the gray-green mesa with its green-gray rocks, they marchedwith imposing solemnity, importance, and directness of purpose. Somefrolicsome Calves, playing along-side the trail, grew sober and walkedbehind their mothers as the river flat was reached. The old Cow thatheaded the procession sniffed suspiciously as she passed the "trapset, " but it was far away, otherwise she would have pawed and bellowedover the scraps of bloody beef till every trap was sprung and harmless. 

But she led to the river. After all had drunk their fill they lay downon the nearest bank till late afternoon. Then their unheard dinner-gongaroused them, and started them on the backward march to where therichest pastures grew. 

One or two small birds had picked at the scraps of meat, someblue-bottle flies buzzed about, but the sinking sun saw the sandy maskuntouched. 

A brown Marsh Hawk came skimming over the river flat as the sun beganhis color play. Blackbirds dashed into thickets, and easily avoided hisclumsy pounce. It was too early for the Mice, but, as he skimmed theground, his keen eye caught the flutter of feathers by the trap andturned his flight. The feathers in their uninteresting emptiness wereexposed before he was near, but now he saw the scraps of meat. Guileless of cunning, he alighted and was devouring a second lumpwhen--clank--the dust was flirted high and the Marsh Hawk was held byhis toes, struggling vainly in the jaws of a powerful wolf-trap. He wasnot much hurt. His ample wings winnowed from time to time, in effortsto be free, but he was helpless, even as a Sparrow might be in arat-trap, and when the sun had played his fierce chromatic scale, hisswan-song sung, and died as he dies only in the blazing west, and theshades had fallen on the melodramatic scene of the Mouse in theelephant-trap, there was a deep, rich sound on the high flat butte, answered by another, neither very long, neither repeated, and bothinstinctive rather than necessary. One was the muster-call of anordinary Wolf, the other the answer of a very big male, not a pair inthis case, but mother and son--Yellow Wolf and Duskymane. They cametrotting together down the Buffalo trail. They paused at the telephonebox on the hill and again at the old cottonwood root, and were makingfor the river when the Hawk in the trap fluttered his wings. The oldWolf turned toward him, -a wounded bird on the ground surely, and sherushed forward. Sun and sand soon burn all trail-scents; there wasnothing to warn her. She sprang on the flopping bird and a chop of herjaws ended his troubles, but a horrid sound--the gritting of her teethon steel--told her of peril. She dropped the Hawk and sprang backwardfrom the dangerous ground, but landed in the second trap. High on herfoot its death-grip closed, and leaping with all her strength, toescape, she set her fore foot in another of the lurking grips of steel. Never had a trap been so baited before. Never was she so unsuspicious. Never was catch more sure. Fear and fury filled the old Wolf's heart;she tugged and strained, she chewed the chains, she snarled and foamed. One trap with its buried log, she might have dragged; with two, she washelpless. Struggle as she might, it only worked those relentless jawsmore deeply into her feet. She snapped wildly at the air; she tore thedead Hawk into shreds; she roared the short, barking roar of a crazyWolf. She bit at the traps, at her cub, at herself. She tore her legsthat were held; she gnawed in frenzy at her flank, she chopped off hertail in her madness; she splintered all her teeth on the steel, andfilled her bleeding, foaming jaws with clay and sand. 

She struggled till she fell, and writhed about or lay like dead, tillstrong enough to rise and grind the chains again with her teeth. 

And so the night passed by. 

And Duskymane? Where was he? The feeling of the time when hisfoster-mother had come home poisoned, now returned; but he was evenmore afraid of her. She seemed filled with fighting hate. He held awayand whined a little; he slunk off and came back when she lay still, only to retreat again, as she sprang forward, raging at him, and thenrenewed her efforts at the traps. He did not understand it, but he knewthis much, she was in terrible trouble, and the cause seemed to be thesame as that which had scared them the night they had ventured near theCalf. 

Duskymane hung about all night, fearing to go near, not knowing what todo, and helpless as his mother. 

At dawn the next day a sheepherder seeking lost Sheep discovered herfrom a neighboring hill. A signal mirror called the wolver from hiscamp. Duskymane saw the new danger. He was a mere Cub, though so tall;he could not face the man, and fled at his approach. 

The wolver rode up to the sorry, tattered, bleeding She-wolf in thetrap. He raised his rifle and soon the struggling stopped. 

The wolver read the trail and the signs about, and remembering those hehad read before, he divined that this was the Wolf with the greatCub--the She-wolf of Sentinel Butte. 

Duskymane heard the "crack" as he scurried off into cover. He couldscarcely know what it meant, but he never saw his kind oldfoster-mother again. Thenceforth he must face the world alone. 

VII

THE YOUNG WOLF WINS A PLACE AND FAME

Instinct is no doubt a Wolf's first and best guide, but gifted parentsare a great start in life. The dusky-maned cub had had a mother of rareexcellence and he reaped the advantage of all her cleverness. He hadinherited an exquisite nose and had absolute confidence in itsadmonitions. Mankind has difficulty in recognizing the power ofnostrils. A Gray-wolf can glance over the morning wind as a man doesover his newspaper, and get all the latest news. He can swing over theground and have the minutest information of every living creature thathas walked there within many hours. His nose even tells which way itran, and in a word renders a statement of every animal that recentlycrossed his trail, whence it came, and whither it went. 

That power had Duskymane in the highest degree; his broad, moist nosewas evidence of it to all who are judges of such things. Added to this, his frame was of unusual power and endurance, and last, he had earlylearned a deep distrust of everything strange, and, call it what wewill, shyness, wariness or suspicion, it was worth more to him than allhis cleverness. It was this as much as his physical powers that made asuccess of his life. Might is right in wolf-land, and Duskymane and hismother had been driven out of Sentinel Butte. But it was a verydelectable land and he kept drifting back to his native mountain. Oneor two big Wolves there resented his coming. They drove him off severaltimes, yet each time he returned he was better able to face them; andbefore he was eighteen months old he had defeated all rivals andestablished himself again on his native ground; where he lived like arobber baron, levying tribute on the rich lands about him and findingsafety in the rocky fastness. 

Wolver Ryder often hunted in that country, and before long, he cameacross a five-and-one-half-inch track, the foot-print of a giant Wolf. Roughly reckoned, twenty to twenty-five pounds of weight or six inchesof stature is a fair allowance for each inch of a Wolf's foot; thisWolf therefore stood thirty-three inches at the shoulder and weighedabout one hundred and forty pounds, by far the largest Wolf he had evermet. King had lived in Goat country, and now in Goat language heexclaimed: "You bet, ain't that an old Billy?" Thus by trivial chanceit was that Duskymane was known to his foe, as 'Badlands Billy. '

Ryder was familiar with the muster-call of the Wolves, the long, smoothcry, but Billy's had a singular feature, a slurring that was alwaysdistinctive. Ryder had heard this before, in the Cottonwood Cańon, andwhen at length he got a sight of the big Wolf with the black mane, itstruck him that this was also the Cub of the old Yellow fury that hehad trapped. 

These were among the things he told me as we sat by the fire at night. I knew of the early days when any one could trap or poison Wolves, ofthe passing of those days, with the passing of the simple Wolves; ofthe new race of Wolves with new cunning that were defying the methodsof the ranchmen, and increasing steadily in numbers. Now the wolvertold me of the various ventures that Penroof had made with differentkinds of Hounds; of Foxhounds too thin-skinned to fight; of Greyhoundsthat were useless when the animal was out of sight; of Danes too heavyfor the rough country, and, last, of the composite pack with some ofall kinds, including at times a Bull-terrier to lead them in the finalfight. 

He told of hunts after Coyotes, which usually were successful becausethe Coyotes sought the plains, and were easily caught by theGreyhounds. He told of killing some small Gray-wolves with this verypack, usually at the cost of the one that led them; but above all hedwelt on the wonderful prowess of "that thar cussed old Black Wolf ofSentinel Butte, " and related the many attempts to run him down orcorner him--an unbroken array of failures. For the big Wolf, withexasperating persistence, continued to live on the finest stock of thePenroof brand, and each year was teaching more Wolves how to do thesame with perfect impunity. 

I listened even as gold-hunters listen to stories of treasure trove, for these were the things of my world. These things indeed wereuppermost in all our minds, for the Penroof pack was lying around ourcamp-fire now. We were out after Badlands Billy. 

VIII

THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT AND THE BIG TRACK IN THE MORNING

One night late in September after the last streak of light was gonefrom the west and the Coyotes had begun their yapping chorus, a deep, booming sound was heard. King took out his pipe, turned his head andsaid: "That's him--that's old Billy. He's been watching us all day fromsome high place, and now when the guns are useless he's here to have alittle fun with us. "

Two or three Dogs arose, with bristling manes, for they clearlyrecognized that this was no Coyote. They rushed out into the night, butdid not go far; their brawling sounds were suddenly varied by loudyelps, and they came running back to the shelter of the fire. One wasso badly cut in the shoulder that he was useless for the rest of thehunt. Another was hurt in the flank--it seemed the less serious wound, and yet next morning the hunters buried that second Dog. 

The men were furious. They vowed speedy vengeance, and at dawn were offon the trail. The Coyotes yelped their dawning song, but they meltedinto the hills when the light was strong. The hunters searched aboutfor the big Wolf's track, hoping that the Hounds would be able to takeit up and find him, but they either could not or would not. 

They found a Coyote, however, and within a few hundred yards theykilled him. It was a victory, I suppose, for Coyotes kill Calves andSheep, but somehow I felt the common thought of all: "Mighty brave Dogsfor a little Coyote, but they could not face the big Wolf last night. "

Young Penroof, as though in answer to one of the unput questions, said:

"Say, boys, I believe old Billy had a hull bunch of Wolves with himlast night. "

"Didn't see but one track, " said King gruffly. 

In this way the whole of October slipped by; all day hard riding afterdoubtful trails, following the Dogs, who either could not keep the bigtrail or feared to do so, and again and again we had news of damagedone by the Wolf; sometimes a cowboy would report it to us; andsometimes we found the carcasses ourselves. A few of these we poisoned, though it is considered a very dangerous thing to do while runningDogs. The end of the month found us a weather-beaten, dispirited lot ofmen, with a worn-out lot of Horses, and a foot-sore pack, reduced innumbers from ten to seven. So far we had killed only one Gray-wolf andthree Coyotes; Badlands Billy had killed at least a dozen Cows and Dogsat fifty dollars a head. Some of the boys decided to give it up and gohome, so King took advantage of their going, to send a letter, askingfor reënforcements including all the spare Dogs at the ranch. 

During the two days' wait we rested our Horses, shot some game, andprepared for a harder hunt. Late on the second day the new Dogsarrived--eight beauties--and raised the working pack to fifteen. 

The weather now turned much cooler, and in the morning, to the joy ofthe wolvers, the ground was white with snow. This surely meant success. With cool weather for the Dogs and Horses to run; with the big Wolf notfar away, for he had been heard the night before; and with trackingsnow, so that once found he could not baffle us, --escape for him wasimpossible. 

We were up at dawn, but before we could get away, three men came ridinginto camp. They were the Penroof boys back again. The change of weatherhad changed their minds; they knew that with snow we might have luck. 

"Remember now, " said King, as all were mounting, "we don't want any butBadlands Billy this trip. Get him an' we kin bust up the hullcombination. It is a five-and-a-half-inch track. "

And each measured off on his quirt handle, or on his glove, the exactfive and a half inches that was to be used in testing the tracks hemight find. 

Not more than an hour elapsed before we got a signal from the rider whohad gone westward. One shot: that means "attention, " a pause whilecounting ten, then two shots: that means "come on. "

King gathered the Dogs and rode direct to the distant figure on thehill. All hearts beat high with hope, and we were not disappointed. Some small Wolf tracks had been found, but here at last was the bigtrack, nearly six inches long. Young Penroof wanted to yell and set outat full gallop. It was like hunting a Lion; it was like findinghappiness long deferred. The hunter knows nothing more inspiring thanthe clean-cut line of fresh tracks that is leading to a wonderfulanimal, he has long been hunting in vain. How King's eye gleamed as hegloated over the sign!

IX

RUN DOWN AT LAST

It was the roughest of all rough riding. It was a far longer hunt thanwe had expected, and was full of little incidents, for that endlessline of marks was a minute history of all that the big Wolf had donethe night before. Here he had circled at the telephone box and lookedfor news; there he had paused to examine an old skull; here he hadshied off and swung cautiously up wind to examine something that provedto be an old tin can; there at length he had mounted a low hill and satdown, probably giving the muster-howl, for two Wolves had come to himfrom different directions, and they then had descended to the riverflat where the Cattle would seek shelter during the storm. Here allthree had visited a Buffalo skull; there they trotted in line; andyonder they separated, going three different ways, tomeet--yes--here--oh, what a sight, a fine Cow ripped open, left deadand uneaten. Not to their taste, it seems, for see! within a mile isanother killed by them. Not six hours ago, they had feasted. Here theirtrails scatter again, but not far, and the snow tells plainly how eachhad lain down to sleep. The Hounds' manes bristled as they sniffedthose places. King had held the Dogs well in hand, but now they weregreatly excited. We came to a hill whereon the Wolves had turned andfaced our way, then fled at full speed, --so said the trail, --and now itwas clear that they had watched us from that hill, and were not faraway. 

The pack kept well together, because the Greyhounds, seeing no quarry, were merely puttering about among the other Dogs, or running back withthe Horses. We went as fast as we could, for the Wolves were speeding. Up mesas and down coulees we rode, sticking closely to the Dogs, thoughit was the roughest country that could be picked. One gully afteranother, an hour and another hour, and still the threefold track wentbounding on; another hour and no change, but interminable climbing, sliding, struggling, through brush and over boulders, guided by thefar-away yelping of the Dogs. 

Now the chase led downward to the low valley of the river, where therewas scarcely any snow. Jumping and scrambling down hills, recklesslyleaping dangerous gullies and slippery rocks, we felt that we could nothold out much longer; when on the lowest, dryest level the pack split, some went up, some went down, and others straight on. Oh, how King didswear! He knew at once what it meant. The Wolves had scattered, and sohad divided the pack. Three Dogs after a Wolf would have no chance, four could not kill him, two would certainly be killed. And yet thiswas the first encouraging sign we had seen, for it meant that theWolves were hard pressed. We spurred ahead to stop the Dogs, to pickfor them the only trail. But that was not so easy. Without snow hereand with countless Dog tracks, we were foiled. All we could do was tolet the Dogs choose, but keep them to a single choice. Away we went asbefore, hoping, yet fearing that we were not on the right track. TheDogs ran well, very fast indeed. This was a bad sign, King said, but wecould not get sight of the track because the Dogs overran it before wecame. 

After a two-mile run the chase led upward again in snow country; theWolf was sighted, but to our disgust, we were on the track of thesmallest one. 

"I thought so, " growled young Penroof. "Dogs was altogether too keenfor a serious proposition. Kind o' surprised it ain't turned out aJack-rabbit. "

Within another mile he had turned to bay in a willow thicket. We heardhim howl the long-drawn howl for help, and before we could reach theplace King saw the Dogs recoil and scatter. A minute later there spedfrom the far side of the thicket a small Gray-wolf and a Black One ofvery much greater size. 

"By golly, if he didn't yell for help, and Billy come back to help him;that's great!" exclaimed the wolver. And my heart went out to the braveold Wolf that refused to escape by abandoning his friend. 

The next hour was a hard repetition of the gully riding, but it was onthe highlands where there was snow, and when again the pack was split, we strained every power and succeeded in keeping them on the big"five-fifty track, " that already was wearing for me the glamour ofromance. 

Evidently the Dogs preferred either of the others, but we got themgoing at last. Another half hour's hard work and far ahead, as I roseto a broad flat plain, I had my first glimpse of the Big Black Wolf ofSentinel Butte. 

"Hurrah! Badlands Billy! Hurrah! Badlands Billy!" I shouted in salute, and the others took up the cry. 

We were on his track at last, thanks to himself. The Dogs joined inwith a louder baying, the Greyhounds yelped and made straight for him, and the Horses sniffed and sprang more gamely as they caught thethrill. The only silent one was the black-maned Wolf, and as I markedhis size and power, and above all his long and massive jaws, I knew whythe Dogs preferred some other trail. 

With head and tail low he was bounding over the snow. His tongue waslolling long; plainly he was hard pressed. The wolvers' hands flew totheir revolvers, though he was three hundred yards ahead; they were outfor blood, not sport. But an instant later he had sunk from view in thenearest sheltered cańon. 

Now which way would he go, up or down the cańon? Up was toward hismountain, down was better cover. King and I thought "up, " so pressedwestward along the ridge. But the others rode eastward, watching for achance to shoot. 

Soon we had ridden out of hearing. We were wrong--the Wolf had gonedown, but we heard no shooting. The cańon was crossable here; wereached the other side and then turned back at a gallop, scanning thesnow for a trail, the hills for a moving form, or the wind for a soundof life. 

"Squeak, squeak, " went our saddle leathers, "puff-puff" our Horses, andtheir feet "ka-ka-lump, ka-ka-lump. "

X

WHEN BILLY WENT BACK TO HIS MOUNTAIN

We were back opposite to where the Wolf had plunged, but saw no sign. We rode at an easy gallop, on eastward, a mile, and still on, when Kinggasped out, "Look at that!" A dark spot was moving on the snow ahead. We put on speed. Another dark spot appeared, and another, but they werenot going fast. In five minutes we were near them, to find--three ofour own Greyhounds. They had lost sight of the game, and with thattheir interest waned. Now they were seeking us. We saw nothing there ofthe chase or of the other hunters. But hastening to the next ridge westumbled on the trail we sought and followed as hard as though in view. Another cańon came in our path, and as we rode and looked for a placeto cross, a wild din of Hounds came from its brushy depth. The clamorgrew and passed up the middle. 

We raced along the rim, hoping to see the game. The Dogs appeared nearthe farther side, not in a pack, but a long, straggling line. In fiveminutes more they rose to the edge, and ahead of them was the greatBlack Wolf. He was loping as before, head and tail low. Power was plainin every limb, and double power in his jaws and neck, but I thought hisbounds were shorter now, and that they had lost their spring. The Dogsslowly reached the upper level, and sighting him they broke into afeeble cry; they, too, were nearly spent. The Greyhounds saw the chase, and leaving us they scrambled down the cańon and up the other side atimpetuous speed that would surely break them down, while we rode, vainly seeking means of crossing. 

How the wolver raved to see the pack lead off in the climax of thechase, and himself held up behind. But he rode and wrathed and stillrode, up to where the cańon dwindled--rough land and a hard ride. As weneared the great flat mountain, the feeble cry of the pack was heardagain from the south, then toward the high Butte's side, and just atrifle louder now. We reined in on a hillock and scanned the snow. Amoving speck appeared, then others, not bunched, but in a stragglingtrain, and at times there was a far faint cry. They were headed towardus, coming on, yes! coming, but so slowly, for not one was reallyrunning now. There was the grim old Cow-killer limping over the ground, and far behind a Greyhound, and another, and farther still, the otherDogs in order of their speed, slowly, gamely, dragging themselves onthat pursuit. Many hours of hardest toil had done their work. The Wolfhad vainly sought to fling them off. Now was his hour of doom, for hewas spent; they still had some reserve. Straight to us for a time theycame, skirting the base of the mountain, crawling. 

We could not cross to join them, so held our breath and gazed withravenous eyes. They were nearer now, the wind brought feeble notes fromthe Hounds. The big Wolf turned to the steep ascent, up a well-knowntrail, it seemed, for he made no slip. My heart went with him, for hehad come back to rescue his friend, and a momentary thrill of pity cameover us both, as we saw him glance around and drag himself up thesloping way, to die on his mountain. There was no escape for him, besetby fifteen Dogs with men to back them. He was not walking, buttottering upward; the Dogs behind in line, were now doing a littlebetter, were nearing him. We could hear them gasping; we scarcely heardthem bay--they had no breath for that; upward the grim procession went, circling a spur of the Butte and along a ledge that climbed andnarrowed, then dropped for a few yards to a shelf that reared above thecańon. The foremost Dogs were closing, fearless of a foe so nearlyspent. 

Here in the narrowest place, where one wrong step meant death, thegreat Wolf turned and faced them. With fore-feet braced, with head lowand tail a little raised, his dusky mane a-bristling, his glitteringtusks laid bare, but uttering no sound that we could hear, he faced thecrew. His legs were weak with toil, but his neck, his jaws, and hisheart were strong, and--now all you who love the Dogs had better closethe book--on--up and down--fifteen to one, they came, the swiftestfirst, and how it was done, the eye could scarcely see, but even as astream of water pours on a rock to be splashed in broken Jets aside, that stream of Dogs came pouring down the path, in single fileperforce, and Duskymane received them as they came. A feeble spring, acounter-lunge, a gash, and "Fango's down, " has lost his foothold and isgone. Dander and Coalie close and try to clinch; a rush, a heave, andthey are fallen from that narrow path. Blue-spot then, backed by mightyOscar and fearless Tige--but the Wolf is next the rock and the flash ofcombat clears to show him there alone, the big Dogs gone; the restclose in, the hindmost force the foremost on--down-to their death. Slash, chop and heave, from the swiftest to the biggest, to the last, down--down--he sent them whirling from the ledge to the gaping gulchbelow, where rocks and snags of trunks were sharp to do their work. 

In fifty seconds it was done. The rock had splashed the streamaside--the Penroof pack was all wiped out; and Badlands Billy stoodthere, alone again on his mountain. 

A moment he waited to look for more to come. There were no more, thepack was dead; but waiting he got his breath, then raising his voicefor the first time in that fatal scene, he feebly gave a long yell oftriumph, and scaling the next low bank, was screened from view in acańon of Sentinel Butte. 

We stared like men of stone. The guns in our hands were forgotten. Itwas all so quick, so final. We made no move till the Wolf was gone. Itwas not far to the place: we went on foot to see if any had escaped. Not one was left alive. We could do nothing--we could say nothing. 

XI

THE HOWL AT SUNSET

A week later we were riding the upper trail back of the Chimney Pot, King and I. "The old man is pretty sick of it, " he said. "He'd sell outif he could. He don't know what's the next move. "

The sun went down beyond Sentinel Butte. It was dusk as we reached theturn that led to Dumont's place, and a deep-toned rolling howl camefrom the river flat below, followed by a number of higher-pitched howlsin answering chorus. We could see nothing, but we listened hard. Thesong was repeated, the hunting-cry of the Wolves. It faded, the nightwas stirred by another, the sharp bark and the short howl, the signal"close in"; a bellow came up, very short, for it was cut short. 

And King as he touched his Horse said grimly: "That's him, he is outwith the pack, an' thar goes another Beef. "

THE BOY AND THE LYNX

I

THE BOY

He was barely fifteen, a lover of sport and uncommonly keen, even for abeginner. Flocks of Wild Pigeons had been coming all day across theblue Lake of Cayggeonull, and perching in line on the dead limbs of thegreat rampikes that stood as monuments of fire, around the littleclearing in the forest, they afforded tempting marks; but he followedthem for hours in vain. They seemed to know the exact range of theold-fashioned shotgun and rose on noisy wings each time before he wasnear enough to fire. At length a small flock scattered among the lowgreen trees that grew about the spring, near the log shanty, and takingadvantage of the cover, Thorburn went in gently. He caught sight of asingle Pigeon close to him, took a long aim and fired. A sharp crackresounded at almost the same time and the bird fell dead. Thorburnrushed to seize the prize just as a tall young man stepped into viewand picked it up. 

"Hello, Corney! you got my bird!"

"Your burrud! Sure yours flew away thayre. I saw them settle hayer andthought I'd make sure of wan with the rifle. "

A careful examination showed that a rifle-ball as well as a charge ofshot had struck the Pigeon. The gunners had fired on the same bird. Both enjoyed the joke, though it had its serious side, for food as wellas ammunition was scarce in that backwoods home. 

Corney, a superb specimen of a six-foot Irish-Canadian in earlymanhood, now led away to the log shanty where the very scarcity ofluxuries and the roughness of their lives were sources of merriment. For the Colts, though born and bred in the backwoods of Canada, hadlost nothing of the spirit that makes the Irish blood a world-widesynonym of heartiness and wit. 

Corney was the eldest son of a large family. The old folks lived atPetersay, twenty-five miles to the southward. He had taken up a "claim"to carve his own home out of the woods at Fenebonk, and his grownsisters, Margat, staid and reliable, and Loo, bright and witty, werekeeping house for him. Thorburn Alder was visiting them. He had justrecovered from a severe illness and had been sent to rough it in thewoods in hope of winning some of the vigor of his hosts. Their home wasof unhewn logs, unfloored, and roofed with sods, which bore a luxuriantcrop of grass and weeds. The primitive woods around were broken in twoplaces: one where the roughest of roads led southward to Petersay; theother where the sparkling lake rolled on a pebbly shore and gave aglimpse of their nearest neighbor's house--four miles across the water. 

Their daily round had little change. Corney was up at daybreak to lightthe fire, call his sisters, and feed the horses while they preparedbreakfast. At six the meal was over and Corney went to his work. Atnoon, which Margat knew by the shadow of a certain rampike falling onthe spring, a clear notification to draw fresh water for the table, Loowould hang a white rag on a pole, and Corney, seeing the signal, wouldreturn from summer fallow or hayfield, grimy, swarthy, and ruddy, apicture of manly vigor and honest toil. Thor might be away all day, butat night, when they again assembled at the table, he would come fromlake or distant ridge and eat a supper like the dinner and breakfast, for meals as well as days were exact repeats: pork, bread, potatoes, and tea, with occasionally eggs supplied by a dozen hens around thelittle log stable, with, rarely, a variation of wild meat, for Thor wasnot a hunter and Corney had little time for anything but the farm. 

II

THE LYNX

A huge four-foot basswood had gone the way of all trees. Death had beengenerous--had sent the three warnings: it was the biggest of its kind, its children were grown up, it was hollow. The wintry blast that sentit down had broken it across and revealed a great hole where shouldhave been its heart. A long wooden cavern in the middle of a sunnyopening, it now lay, and presented an ideal home for a Lynx when shesought a sheltered nesting-place for her coming brood. 

Old was she and gaunt, for this was a year of hard times for theLynxes. A Rabbit plague the autumn before had swept away their mainsupport; a winter of deep snow and sudden crusts had killed off nearlyall the Partridges; a long wet spring had destroyed the few growingcoveys and had kept the ponds and streams so full that Fish and Frogswere safe from their armed paws, and this mother Lynx fared no betterthan her kind. 

The little ones--half starved before they came--were a double drain, for they took the time she might have spent in hunting. 

The Northern Hare is the favorite food of the Lynx, and in some yearsshe could have killed fifty in one day, but never one did she see thisseason. The plague had done its work too well. 

One day she caught a Red-squirrel which had run into a hollow log thatproved a trap. Another day a fetid Blacksnake was her only food. A daywas missed, and the little ones whined piteously for their natural foodand failing drink. One day she saw a large black animal of unpleasantbut familiar smell. Swiftly and silently she sprang to make attack. Shestruck it once on the nose, but the Porcupine doubled his head under, his tail flew up, and the mother Lynx was speared in a dozen placeswith the little stinging javelins. She drew them all with her teeth, for she had "learned Porcupine" years before, and only the hard push ofwant would have made her strike one now. 

A Frog was all she caught that day. On the next, as she ranged thefarthest woods in a long, hard hunt, she heard a singular callingvoice. It was new to her. She approached it cautiously, up wind, gotmany new odors and some more strange sounds in coming. The loud, clear, rolling call was repeated as the mother Lynx came to an opening in theforest. In the middle of it were two enormous muskrat or beaver-houses, far bigger than the biggest she ever before had seen. They were madepartly of logs and situated, not in a pond, but on a dry knoll. Walkingabout them were a number of Partridges, that is, birds like Partridges, only larger and of various colors, red, yellow, and white. 

She quivered with the excitement that in a man would have been calledbuck-fever. Food--food--abundance of food, and the old huntress sank toearth. Her breast was on the ground, her elbows above her back, as shemade stalk, her shrewdest, subtlest stalk; one of those Partridges shemust have at any price; no trick now must go untried, no error in thishunt; if it took hours--all day--she must approach with certainty towin before the quarry took to flight. 

Only a few bounds it was from wood shelter to the great rat-house, butshe was an hour in crawling that small space. From stump to brush, fromlog to bunch of grass she sneaked, a flattened form, and the Partridgessaw her not. They fed about, the biggest uttering the ringing call thatfirst had fallen on her ear. 

Once they seemed to sense their peril, but a long await dispelled thefear. Now they were almost in reach, and she trembled with all theeagerness of the hunting heart and the hungry maw. Her eye centred on awhite one not quite the nearest, but the color seemed to hold her gaze. 

There was an open space around the rat-house; outside that were tallweeds, and stumps were scattered everywhere. The white bird wanderedbehind these weeds, the red one of the loud voice flew to the top ofthe rat-mound and sang as before. The mother Lynx sank lower yet. Itseemed an alarm note; but no, the white one still was there; she couldsee its feathers gleaming through the weeds. An open space now layabout. The huntress, flattened like an empty skin, trailed slow andsilent on the ground behind a log no thicker than her neck; if shecould reach that tuft of brush she could get unseen to the weeds andthen would be near enough to spring. She could smell them now--the richand potent smell of life, of flesh and blood, that set her limbsa-tingle and her eyes a-glow. 

The Partridges still scratched and fed; another flew to the high top, but the white one remained. Five more slow-gliding, silent steps, andthe Lynx was behind the weeds, the white bird shining through; shegauged the distance, tried the footing, swung her hind legs to clearsome fallen brush, then leaped direct with all her force, and the whiteone never knew the death it died, for the fateful gray shadow dropped, the swift and deadly did their work, and before the other birds couldrealize the foe or fly, the Lynx was gone, with the white birdsquirming in her jaws. 

Uttering an unnecessary growl of inborn ferocity and joy she boundedinto the forest, and bee-like sped for home. The last quiver had gonefrom the warm body of the victim when she heard the sound of heavy feetahead. She leaped on a log. The wings of her prey were muffling hereyes, so she laid the bird down and held it safely with one paw. Thesound drew nearer, the bushes bent, and a Boy stepped into view. Theold Lynx knew and hated his kind. She had watched them at night, hadfollowed them, had been hunted and hurt by them. For a moment theystood face to face. The huntress growled a warning that was also achallenge and a defiance, picked up the bird and bounded from the loginto the sheltering bushes. It was a mile or two to the den, but shestayed not to eat till the sunlit opening and the big basswood came toview; then a low "prr-prr" called forth the little ones to revel withtheir mother in a plenteous meal of the choicest food. 

III

THE HOME OF THE LYNX

At first Thor, being town-bred, was timid about venturing into thewoods beyond the sound of Corney's axe; but day by day he went farther, guiding himself, not by unreliable moss on trees, but by sun, compass, and landscape features. His purpose was to learn about the wild animalsrather than to kill them; but the naturalist is close kin to thesportsman, and the gun was his constant companion. In the clearing, theonly animal of any size was a fat Woodchuck; it had a hole under astump some hundred yards from the shanty. On sunny mornings it used tolie basking on the stump, but eternal vigilance is the price of everygood thing in the woods. The Woodchuck was always alert and Thor triedin vain to shoot or even to trap him. 

"Hyar, " said Corney one morning, "time we had some fresh meat. " He tookdown his rifle, an old-fashioned brass-mounted small-bore, and loadingwith care that showed the true rifleman, he steadied the weapon againstthe door-jamb and fired. The Woodchuck fell backward and lay still. Thor raced to the place and returned in triumph with the animal, shouting: "Plumb through the head--one hundred and twenty yards. "

Corney controlled the gratified smile that wrestled with the corners ofhis mouth, but his bright eyes shone a trifle brighter for the moment. 

It was no mere killing for killing's sake, for the Woodchuck wasspreading a belt of destruction in the crop around his den. Its fleshsupplied the family with more than one good meal and Corney showed Thorhow to use the skin. First the pelt was wrapped in hardwood ashes fortwenty-four hours. This brought the hair off. Then the skin was soakedfor three days in soft soap and worked by hand, as it dried, till itcame out a white strong leather. 

Thor's wanderings extended farther in search of the things which alwayscame as surprises however much he was looking for them. Many days wereblanks and others would be crowded with incidents, for unexpectednessis above all the peculiar feature of hunting, and its lasting charm. One day he had gone far beyond the ridge in a new direction and passedthrough an open glade where lay the broken trunk of a huge basswood. The size impressed it on his memory. He swung past the glade to makefor the lake, a mile to the west, and twenty minutes later he startedback as his eye rested on a huge black animal in the crotch of ahemlock, some thirty feet from the ground. A Bear! At last, this wasthe test of nerve he had half expected all summer; had been wonderinghow that mystery "himself" would act under this very trial. He stoodstill; his right hand dived into his pocket and, bringing out three orfour buckshot, which he carried for emergency, he dropped them on topof the birdshot already in the gun, then rammed a wad to hold them down. 

The Bear had not moved and the boy could not see its head, but now hestudied it carefully. It was not such a large one--no, it was a smallone, yes, very small--a cub. A cub! That meant a mother Bear at hand, and Thor looked about with some fear, but seeing no signs of any exceptthe little one, he levelled the gun and fired. 

Then to his surprise down crashed the animal quite dead; it was not aBear, but a large Porcupine. As it lay there he examined it with wonderand regret, for he had no wish to kill such a harmless creature. On itsgrotesque face he found two or three long scratches which proved thathe had not been its only enemy. As he turned away he noticed some bloodon his trousers, then saw that his left hand was bleeding. He hadwounded himself quite severely on the quills of the animal withoutknowing it. He was sorry to leave the specimen there, and Loo, when shelearned of it, said it was a shame not to skin it when she "needed afur-lined cape for the winter. "

On another day Thor had gone without a gun, as he meant only to gathersome curious plants he had seen. They were close to the clearing; heknew the place by a fallen elm. As he came to it he heard a peculiarsound. Then on the log his eye caught two moving things. He lifted abough and got a clear view. They were the head and tail of an enormousLynx. It had seen him and was glaring and grumbling; and under its footon the log was a white bird that a second glance showed to be one oftheir own precious hens. How fierce and cruel the brute looked! HowThor hated it! and fairly gnashed his teeth with disgust that now, whenhis greatest chance was come, he for once was without his gun. He wasin not a little fear, too, and stood wondering what to do. The Lynxgrowled louder; its stumpy tail twitched viciously for a minute, thenit picked up its victim, and leaping from the log was lost to view. 

As it was a very rainy summer, the ground was soft everywhere, and theyoung hunter was led to follow tracks that would have defied an expertin dryer times. One day he came on piglike footprints in the woods. Hefollowed them with little difficulty, for they were new, and a heavyrain two hours before had washed out all other trails. After about halfa mile they led him to an open ravine, and as he reached its brow hesaw across it a flash of white; then his keen young eyes made out theforms of a Deer and a spotted Fawn gazing at him curiously. Though ontheir trail he was not a little startled. He gazed at themopen-mouthed. The mother turned and raised the danger flag, her whitetail, and bounded lightly away, to be followed by the youngster, clearing low trunks with an effortless leap, or bending down withcatlike suppleness when they came to a log upraised so that they mightpass below. 

He never again got a chance to shoot at them, though more than once hesaw the same two tracks, or believed they were the same, as for somecause never yet explained, Deer were scarcer in that unbroken forestthan they were in later years when clearings spread around. 

He never again saw them; but he saw the mother once--he thought it wasthe same--she was searching the woods with her nose, trying the groundfor trails; she was nervous and anxious, evidently seeking. Thorremembered a trick that Corney had told him. He gently stooped, took upa broad blade of grass, laid it between the edges of his thumbs, thenblowing through this simple squeaker he made a short, shrill bleat, afair imitation of a Fawn's cry for the mother, and the Deer, though along way off, came bounding toward him. He snatched his gun, meaning tokill her, but the movement caught her eye. She stopped. Her manebristled a little; she sniffed and looked inquiringly at him. Her bigsoft eyes touched his heart, held back his hand; she took a cautiousstep nearer, got a full whiff of her mortal enemy, bounded behind a bigtree and away before his merciful impulse was gone. "Poor thing, " saidThor, "I believe she has lost her little one. "

Yet once more the Boy met a Lynx in the woods. Half an hour afterseeing the lonely Deer he crossed the long ridge that lay some milesnorth of the shanty. He had passed the glade where the great basswoodlay when a creature like a big bob-tailed Kitten appeared and lookedinnocently at him. His gun went up, as usual, but the Kitten merelycocked its head on one side and fearlessly surveyed him. Then a secondone that he had not noticed before began to play with the first, pawingat its tail and inviting its brother to tussle. 

Thor's first thought to shoot was stayed as he watched their gambols, but the remembrance of his feud with their race came back. He hadalmost raised the gun when a fierce rumble close at hand gave him astart, and there, not ten feet from him, stood the old one, looking bigand fierce as a Tigress. It was surely folly to shoot at the young onesnow. The boy nervously dropped some buckshot on the charge while thesnarling growl rose and fell, but before he was ready to shoot at herthe old one had picked up something that was by her feet; the boy got aglimpse of rich brown with white spots--the limp form of a newly killedFawn. Then she passed out of sight. The Kittens followed, and he sawher no more until the time when, life against life, they were weighedin the balance together. 

IV

THE TERROR OF THE WOODS

Six weeks had passed in daily routine when one day the young giantseemed unusually quiet as he went about. His handsome face was verysober and he sang not at all that morning. 

He and Thor slept on a hay-bunk in one corner of the main room, andthat night the Boy awakened more than once to hear his companiongroaning and tossing in his sleep. Corney arose as usual in the morningand fed the horses, but lay down again while the sisters got breakfast. He roused himself by an effort and went back to work, but came homeearly. He was trembling from head to foot. It was hot summer weather, but he could not be kept warm. After several hours a reaction set inand Corney was in a high fever. The family knew well now that he hadthe dreaded chills and fever of the backwoods. Margat went out andgathered a lapful of pipsissewa to make tea, of which Corney wasencouraged to drink copiously. 

But in spite of all their herbs and nursing the young man got worse. Atthe end of ten days he was greatly reduced in flesh and incapable ofwork, so on one of the "well days" that are usual in the course of thedisease he said:

"Say, gurruls, I can't stand it no longer. Guess I better go home. I'mwell enough to drive to-day, for a while anyway; if I'm took down I'lllay in the wagon, and the horses will fetch me home. Mother'll have meall right in a week or so. If you run out of grub before I come backtake the canoe to Ellerton's. "

So the girls harnessed the horses; the wagon was partly filled withhay, and Corney, weak and white-faced, drove away on the long roughroad, and left them feeling much as though they were on a desert islandand their only boat had been taken from them. 

Half a week had scarcely gone before all three of them, Margat, Loo, and Thor, were taken down with a yet more virulent form of chills andfever. 

Corney had had every other a "well day, " but with these three therewere no "well days" and the house became an abode of misery. 

Seven days passed, and now Margat could not leave her bed and Loo wasbarely able to walk around the house. She was a brave girl with a fundof drollery which did much toward keeping up all their spirits, but hermerriest jokes fell ghastly from her wan, pinched face. Thor, thoughweak and ill, was the strongest and did for the others, cooking andserving each day a simple meal, for they could eat very little, fortunately, perhaps, as there was very little, and Corney could notreturn for another week. 

Soon Thor was the only one able to rise, and one morning when hedragged himself to cut the little usual slice of their treasured baconhe found, to his horror, that the whole piece was gone. It had beenstolen, doubtless by some wild animal, from the little box on the shadyside of the house, where it was kept safe from flies. Now they weredown to flour and tea. He was in despair, when his eye lighted on theChickens about the stable; but what's the use? In his feeble state hemight as well try to catch a Deer or a Hawk. Suddenly he remembered hisgun and very soon was preparing a fat Hen for the pot. He boiled itwhole as the easiest way to cook it, and the broth was the first reallytempting food they had had for some time. 

They kept alive for three wretched days on that Chicken, and when itwas finished Thor again took down his gun--it seemed a much heavier gunnow. He crawled to the barn, but he was so weak and shaky that hemissed several times before he brought down a fowl. Corney had takenthe rifle away with him and three charges of gun ammunition were allthat now remained. 

Thor was surprised to see how few Hens there were now, only three orfour. There used to be over a dozen. Three days later he made anotherraid. He saw but one Hen and he used up his last ammunition to get that. 

His daily routine now was a monotony of horror. In the morning, whichwas his "well time, " he prepared a little food for the household andgot ready for the night of raging fever by putting a bucket of water ona block at the head of each bunk. About one o'clock, with fearfulregularity, the chills would come on, with trembling from head to footand chattering teeth, and cold, cold, within and without. Nothingseemed to give any warmth--fire seemed to have lost its power. Therewas nothing to do but to lie and shake and suffer all the slow tortureof freezing to death and shaking to pieces. For six hours it would keepup, and to the torture, nausea lent its horrid aid throughout; thenabout seven or eight o'clock in the evening a change would come; aburning fever set in; no ice could have seemed cool to him then;water--water--was all he craved, and drank and drank until three orfour in the morning, when the fever would abate, and a sleep of totalexhaustion followed. 

"If you run out of food take the canoe to Ellerton's, " was thebrother's last word. Who was to take the canoe?

There was but half a Chicken now between them and starvation, and nosign of Corney. 

For three interminable weeks the deadly program dragged along. It wenton the same yet worse, as the sufferers grew weaker--a few days moreand the Boy also would be unable to leave his couch. Then what?

Despair was on the house and the silent cry of each was, "Oh, God! willCorney never come?"

V

THE HOME OF THE BOY

On the day of that last Chicken, Thor was all morning carrying waterenough for the coming three fevers. The chill attacked him sooner thanit was due and his fever was worse than ever before. 

He drank deeply and often from the bucket at his head. He had filledit, and it was nearly emptied when about two in the morning the feverleft him and he fell asleep. 

In the gray dawn he was awakened by a curious sound not far away--asplashing of water. He turned his head to see two glaring eyes within afoot of his face--a great Beast lapping the water in the bucket by hisbed. 

Thor gazed in horror for a moment, then closed his eyes, sure that hewas dreaming, certain that this was a nightmare of India with a Tigerby his couch; but the lapping continued. He looked up; yes, it stillwas there. He tried to find his voice but uttered only a gurgle. Thegreat furry head quivered, a sniff came from below the shiningeyeballs, and the creature, whatever it was, dropped to its front feetand went across the hut under the table. Thor was fully awake now; herose slowly on his elbow and feebly shouted "Sssh-hi, " at which theshining eyes reappeared under the table and the gray form came forth. Calmly it walked across the ground and glided under the lowest log at aplace where an old potato pit left an opening and disappeared. What wasit? The sick boy hardly knew--some savage Beast of prey, undoubtedly. He was totally unnerved. He shook with fear and a sense ofhelplessness, and the night passed in fitful sleep and sudden startsawake to search the gloom again for those fearful eyes and the greatgray gliding form. In the morning he did not know whether it were notall a delirium, yet he made a feeble effort to close the old cellarhole with some firewood. 

The three had little appetite, but even that they restrained since nowthey were down to part of a Chicken, and Corney, evidently he supposedthey had been to Ellerton's and got all the food they needed. 

Again that night, when the fever left him weak and dozing, Thor wasawakened by a noise in the room, a sound of crunching bones. He lookedaround to see dimly outlined against the little window, the form of alarge animal on the table. Thor shouted; he tried to hurl his boot atthe intruder. It leaped lightly to the ground and passed out of thehole, again wide open. 

It was no dream this time, he knew, and the women knew it, too; notonly had they heard the creature, but the Chicken, the last of theirfood, was wholly gone. 

Poor Thor barely left his couch that day. It needed all the querulouscomplaints of the sick women to drive him forth. Down by the spring hefound a few berries and divided them with the others. He made his usualpreparations for the chills and the thirst, but he added this--by theside of his couch he put an old fish-spear--the only weapon he couldfind, now the gun was useless--a pine-root candle and some matches. Heknew the Beast was coming back again--was coming hungry. It would findno food; what more natural, he thought, than take the living prey lyingthere so helpless? And a vision came of the limp brown form of thelittle Fawn, borne off in those same cruel jaws. 

Once again he barricaded the hole with firewood, and the night passedas usual, but without any fierce visitor. Their food that day was flourand water, and to cook it Thor was forced to use some of his barricade. Loo attempted some feeble joke, guessed she was light enough to fly nowand tried to rise, but she got no farther than the edge of the bunk. The same preparations were made, and the night wore on, but early inthe morning, Thor was again awakened rudely by the sound of lappingwater by his bed, and there, as before, were the glowing eyeballs, thegreat head, the gray form relieved by the dim light from the dawningwindow. 

Thor put all his strength into what was meant for a bold shout, but itwas merely a feeble screech. He rose slowly and called out: "Loo, Margat! The Lynx--here's the Lynx again!"

"May God help ye, for we can't, " was the answer. 

"Sssh-hi!" Thor tried again to drive the Beast away. It leaped on tothe table by the window and stood up growling under the useless gun. Thor thought it was going to leap through the glass as it faced thewindow a moment; but it turned and glared toward the Boy, for he couldsee both eyes shining. He rose slowly to the side of his bunk and heprayed for help, for he felt it was kill or be killed. He struck amatch and lighted his pine-root candle, held that in his left hand andin his right took the old fish-spear, meaning to fight, but he was soweak he had to use the fish-spear as a crutch. The great Beast stood onthe table still, but was crouching a little as though for a spring. Itseyes glowed red in the torchlight. Its short tail was switching fromside to side and its growling took a higher pitch. Thor's knees weresmiting together, but he levelled the spear and made a feeble lungetoward the brute. It sprang at the same moment, not at him, as he firstthought--the torch and the boy's bold front had had effect--it wentover his head to drop on the ground beyond and at once to slink underthe bunk. 

This was only a temporary repulse. Thor set the torch on a ledge of thelogs, then took the spear in both hands. He was fighting for his life, and he knew it. He heard the voices of the women feebly praying. He sawonly the glowing eyes under the bed and heard the growling in higherpitch as the Beast was nearing action. He steadied himself by a greateffort and plunged the spear with all the force he could give it. 

It struck something softer than the logs: a hideous snarl came forth. The boy threw all his weight on the weapon; the Beast was struggling toget at him; he felt its teeth and claws grating on the handle, and inspite of himself it was coming on; its powerful arms and claws werereaching for him now; he could not hold out long. He put on all hisforce, just a little more it was than before; the Beast lurched, therewas a growling, a crack, and a sudden yielding; the rotten oldspear-head had broken off, the Beast sprang out--at him--pasthim--never touched him, but across through the hole and away, to beseen no more. 

Thor fell on the bed and lost all consciousness. 

He lay there he knew not how long, but was awakened in broad daylightby a loud, cheery voice:

"Hello! Hello!--are ye all dead? Loo! Thor! Margat!"

He had no strength to answer, but there was a trampling of horsesoutside, a heavy step, the door was forced open, and in strode Corney, handsome and hearty as ever. But what a flash of horror and pain cameover his face on entering the silent shanty!

"Dead?" he gasped. "Who's dead--where are you? Thor?" Then, "Who is it?Loo? Margat?"

"Corney--Corney, " came feebly from the bunk. "They're in there. They'reawful sick. We have nothing to eat. "

"Oh, what a fool I be!" said Corney again and again. "I made sure ye'dgo to Ellerton's and get all ye wanted. "

"We had no chance, Corney; we were all three brought down at once, right after you left. Then the Lynx came and cleared up the Hens, andall in the house, too. "

"Well, ye got even with her, " and Corney pointed to the trail of bloodacross the mud floor and out under the logs. 

Good food, nursing, and medicine restored them all. 

A month or two later, when the women wanted a new leaching-barrel, Thorsaid: "I know where there is a hollow basswood as big as a hogshead. "

He and Corney went to the place, and when they cut off what theyneeded, they found in the far end of it the dried-up bodies of twolittle Lynxes with that of the mother, and in the side of the old onewas the head of a fish-spear broken from the handle. 

LITTLE WARHORSE

The History of a Jack-rabbit

The Little Warhorse knew practically all the Dogs in town. First, therewas a very large brown Dog that had pursued him many times, a Dog thathe always got rid of by slipping through a hole in a board fence. Second, there was a small active Dog that could follow through thathole, and him he baffled by leaping a twenty-foot irrigation ditch thathad steep sides and a swift current. The Dog could not make this leap. It was "sure medicine" for that foe, and the boys still call the place"Old Jacky's Jump. " But there was a Greyhound that could leap betterthan the Jack, and when he could not follow through a fence, he jumpedover it. He tried the Warhorse's mettle more than once, and Jacky onlysaved himself by his quick dodging, till they got to an Osage hedge, and here the Greyhound had to give it up. Besides these, there was intown a rabble of big and little Dogs that were troublesome, but easilyleft behind in the open. 

In the country there was a Dog at each farm-house, but only one thatthe Warhorse really feared; that was a long-legged, fierce, black Dog, a brute so swift and pertinacious that he had several times forced theWarhorse almost to the last extremity. 

For the town Cats he cared little; only once or twice had he beenthreatened by them. A huge Tom-cat flushed with many victories camecrawling up to where he fed one moonlight night. Jack Warhorse saw theblack creature with the glowing eyes, and a moment before the finalrush, he faced it, raised up on his haunches, --his hind legs, --at fulllength on his toes, --with his broad ears towering up yet six incheshigher; then letting out a loud churrr-churrr, his best attempt at aroar, he sprang five feet forward and landed on the Cat's head, drivingin his sharp hind nails, and the old Tom fled in terror from the weirdtwo-legged giant. This trick he had tried several times with success, but twice it turned out a sad failure: once, when the Cat proved to bea mother whose Kittens were near; then Jack Warhorse had to flee forhis life; and the other time was when he made the mistake of landinghard on a Skunk. 

But the Greyhound was the dangerous enemy, and in him the Warhorsemight have found his fate, but for a curious adventure with a happyending for Jack. 

He fed by night; there were fewer enemies about then, and it was easierto hide; but one day at dawn in winter he had lingered long at analfalfa stack and was crossing the open snow toward his favorite form, when, as ill-luck would have it, he met the Greyhound prowling outsidethe town. With open snow and growing daylight there was no chance tohide, nothing but a run in the open with soft snow that hindered theJack more than it did the Hound. 

Off they went--superb runners in fine fettle. How they skimmed acrossthe snow, raising it in little puff-puff-puffs, each time their nimblefeet went down. This way and that, swerving and dodging, went thechase. Everything favored the Dog, --his empty stomach, the coldweather, the soft snow, --while the Rabbit was handicapped by his heavymeal of alfalfa. But his feet went puff--puff so fast that a dozen ofthe little snow-jets were in view at once. The chase continued in theopen; no friendly hedge was near, and every attempt to reach a fencewas cleverly stopped by the Hound. Jack's ears were losing their boldup-cock, a sure sign of failing heart or wind, when all at once theseflags went stiffly up, as under sudden renewal of strength. TheWarhorse put forth all his power, not to reach the hedge to the north, but over the open prairie eastward. The Greyhound followed, and withinfifty yards the Jack dodged to foil his fierce pursuer; but on the nexttack he was on his eastern course again, and so tacking and dodging, hekept the line direct for the next farm-house, where was a very highboard fence with a hen-hole, and where also there dwelt his other hatedenemy, the big black Dog. An outer hedge delayed the Greyhound for amoment and gave Jack time to dash through the hen-hole into the yard, where he hid to one side. The Greyhound rushed around to the low gate, leaped over that among the Hens, and as they fled cackling andfluttering, some Lambs bleated loudly. Their natural guardian, the bigblack Dog, ran to the rescue, and Warhorse slipped out again by thehole at which he had entered. Horrible sounds of Dog hate and fury wereheard behind him in the hen-yard, and soon the shouts of men wereadded. How it ended he did not know or seek to learn, but it wasremarkable that he never afterward was troubled by the swift Greyhoundthat formerly lived in Newchusen. 

II

Hard times and easy times had long followed in turn and been taken asmatters of course; but recent years in the State of Kaskado had broughtto the Jack-rabbits a succession of remarkable ups and downs. In theold days they had their endless fight with Birds and Beasts of Prey, with cold and heat, with pestilence and with flies whose sting bred aloathsome disease, and yet had held their own. But the settling of thecountry by farmers made many changes. 

Dogs and guns arriving in numbers reduced the ranks of Coyotes, Foxes, Wolves, Badgers, and Hawks that preyed on the Jack, so that in a fewyears the Rabbits were multiplied in great swarms; but now Pestilencebroke out and swept them away. Only the strongest--thedouble-seasoned--remained. For a while a Jack-rabbit was a rarity; butduring this time another change came in. The Osage-orange hedgesplanted everywhere afforded a new refuge, and now the safety of aJack-rabbit was less often his speed than his wits, and the wise ones, when pursued by a Dog or Coyote, would rush to the nearest hedgethrough a small hole and escape while the enemy sought for a larger oneby which to follow. The Coyotes rose to this and developed the trick ofthe relay chase. In this one Coyote takes one field, another the next, and if the Rabbit attempts the "hedge-ruse" they work from each sideand usually win their prey. The Rabbit remedy for this, is keen eyes tosee the second Coyote, avoidance of that field, then good legs todistance the first enemy. 

Thus the Jack-rabbits, after being successively numerous, scarce, inmyriads, and rare, were now again on the increase, and those whichsurvived, selected by a hundred hard trials, were enabled to flourishwhere their ancestors could not have outlived a single season. 

Their favorite grounds were, not the broad open stretches of the bigranches, but the complicated, much-fenced fields of the farms, wherethese were so small and close as to be like a big straggling village. 

One of these vegetable villages had sprung up around the railwaystation of Newchusen. The country a mile away was well supplied withJack-rabbits of the new and selected stock. Among them was a littlelady Rabbit called "Bright-eyes, " from her leading characteristic asshe sat gray in the gray brush. She was a good runner, but wasespecially successful with the fence-play that baffled the Coyotes. Shemade her nest out in an open pasture, an untouched tract of the ancientprairie. Here her brood were born and raised. One like herself wasbright-eyed, in coat of silver-gray, and partly gifted with her readywits, but in the other, there appeared a rare combination of hismother's gifts with the best that was in the best strain of the newJack-rabbits of the plains. 

This was the one whose adventures we have been following, the one thatlater on the turf won the name of Little Warhorse and that afterwardachieved a world-wide fame. 

Ancient tricks of his kind he revived and put to new uses, and ancientenemies he learned to fight with new-found tricks. 

When a mere baby he discovered a plan that was worthy of the wisestRabbit in Kaskado. He was pursued by a horrible little Yellow Dog, andhe had tried in vain to get rid of him by dodging among the fields andfarms. This is good play against a Coyote, because the farmers and theDogs will often help the Jack, without knowing it, by attacking theCoyote. But now the plan did not work at all, for the little Dogmanaged to keep after him through one fence after another, and JackWarhorse, not yet full-grown, much less seasoned, was beginning to feelthe strain. His ears were no longer up straight, but angling back andat times drooping to a level, as he darted through a very little holein an Osage hedge, only to find that his nimble enemy had done the samewithout loss of time. In the middle of the field was a small herd ofcattle and with them a calf. 

There is in wild animals a curious impulse to trust any stranger whenin desperate straits. The foe behind they know means death. There isjust a chance, and the only one left, that the stranger may provefriendly; and it was this last desperate chance that drew Jack Warhorseto the Cows. 

It is quite sure that the Cows would have stood by in stolidindifference so far as the Rabbit was concerned, but they have adeep-rooted hatred of a dog, and when they saw the Yellow Cur comingbounding toward them, their tails and noses went up; they sniffedangrily, then closed up ranks, and led by the Cow that owned the Calf, they charged at the Dog, while Jack took refuge under a low thorn-bush. The Dog swerved aside to attack the Calf, at least the old Cow thoughthe did, and she followed him so fiercely that he barely escaped fromthat field with his life. 

It was a good old plan--one that doubtless came from the days whenBuffalo and Coyote played the parts of Cow and Dog. Jack never forgotit, and more than once it saved his life. 

In color as well as in power he was a rarity. 

Animals are colored in one or other of two general plans: one thatmatches them with their surroundings and helps them to hide--this iscalled "protective"; the other that makes them very visible for severalpurposes--this is called "directive. " Jack-rabbits are peculiar inbeing painted both ways. As they squat in their form in the gray brushor clods, they are soft gray on their ears, head, back, and sides; theymatch the ground and cannot be seen until close at hand--they areprotectively colored. But the moment it is clear to the Jack that theapproaching foe will find him, he jumps up and dashes away. He throwsoff all disguise now, the gray seems to disappear; he makes a lightningchange, and his ears show snowy white with black tips, the legs arewhite, his tail is a black spot in a blaze of white. He is ablack-and-white Rabbit now. His coloring is all directive. How is itdone? Very simply. The front side of the ear is gray, the back, blackand white. The black tail with its white halo, and the legs, are tuckedbelow. He is sitting on them. The gray mantle is pulled down andenlarged as he sits, but when he jumps up it shrinks somewhat, all hisblack-and-white marks are now shown, and just as his colors formerlywhispered, "I am a clod, " they now shout aloud, "I am a Jack-rabbit. "

Why should he do this? Why should a timid creature running for his lifethus proclaim to all the world his name instead of trying to hide?There must be some good reason. It must pay, or the Rabbit would neverhave done it. 

The answer is, if the creature that scared him up was one of his ownkind--i. E. , this was a false alarm--then at once, by showing hisnational colors, the mistake is made right. On the other hand, if it bea Coyote, Fox, or Dog, they see at once, this is a Jack-rabbit, andknow that it would be waste of time for them to pursue him. They say ineffect, "This is a Jack-rabbit, and I cannot catch a Jack in openrace. " They give it up, and that, of course, saves the Jack a greatdeal of unnecessary running and worry. The black-and-white spots arethe national uniform and flag of the Jacks. In poor specimens they areapt to be dull, but in the finest specimens they are not only larger, but brighter than usual, and the Little Warhorse, gray when he sat inhis form, blazed like charcoal and snow, when he flung his defiance tothe Fox and buff Coyote, and danced with little effort before them, first a black-and-white Jack, then a little white spot, and last aspeck of thistledown, before the distance swallowed him. 

Many of the farmers' Dogs had learned the lesson: "A grayish Rabbit youmay catch, but a very black-and-white one is hopeless. " They might, indeed, follow for a time, but that was merely for the fun of a chivvy, and his growing power often led Warhorse to seek the chase for the sakeof a little excitement, and to take hazards that others less giftedwere most careful to avoid. 

Jack, like all other wild animals, had a certain range or country whichwas home to him, and outside of this he rarely strayed. It was aboutthree miles across, extending easterly from the centre of the village. Scattered through this he had a number of "forms, " or "beds" as theyare locally called. These were mere hollows situated under a shelteringbush or bunch of grass, without lining excepting the accidental grassand in-blown leaves. But comfort was not forgotten. Some of them werefor hot weather; they faced the north, were scarcely sunk, were littlemore than shady places. Some for the cold weather were deep hollowswith southern exposure, and others for the wet were well roofed withherbage and faced the west. In one or other of these he spent the day, and at night he went forth to feed with his kind, sporting and rompingon the moonlight nights like a lot of puppy Dogs, but careful to begone by sunrise, and safely tucked in a bed that was suited to theweather. 

The safest ground for the Jacks was among the farms, where not onlyOsage hedges, but also the newly arrived barb-wire, made hurdles andhazards in the path of possible enemies. But the finest of the forageis nearer to the village among the truck-farms--the finest of forageand the fiercest of dangers. Some of the dangers of the plains werelacking, but the greater perils of men, guns, Dogs, and impassablefences are much increased. Yet those who knew Warhorse best were not atall surprised to find that he had made a form in the middle of amarket-gardener's melon-patch. A score of dangers beset him here, butthere was also a score of unusual delights and a score of holes in thefence for times when he had to fly, with at least twoscore ofexpedients to help him afterward. 

III

Newchusen was a typical Western town. Everywhere in it, were to be seenstrenuous efforts at uglification, crowned with unmeasured success. Thestreets were straight level lanes without curves or beauty-spots. Thehouses were cheap and mean structures of flimsy boards and tar paper, and not even honest in their ugliness, for each of them was pretendingto be something better than itself. One had a false front to make itlook like two stories, another was of imitation brick, a thirdpretended to be a marble temple. 

But all agreed in being the ugliest things ever used as humandwellings, and in each could be read the owner's secret thought--tostand it for a year or so, then move out somewhere else. The onlybeauties of the place, and those unintentional, were the long lines ofhand-planted shade-trees, uglified as far as possible with whitewashedtrunks and croppy heads, but still lovable, growing, living things. 

The only building in town with a touch of picturesqueness was the grainelevator. It was not posing as a Greek temple or a Swiss chalet, butsimply a strong, rough, honest, grain elevator. At the end of eachstreet was a vista of the prairie, with its farm-houses, windmillpumps, and long lines of Osage-orange hedges. Here at least wassomething of interest--the gray-green hedges, thick, sturdy, and high, were dotted with their golden mock-oranges, useless fruit, but morewelcome here than rain in a desert; for these balls were things ofbeauty, and swung on their long tough boughs they formed with the softgreen leaves a color-chord that pleased the weary eye. 

Such a town is a place to get out of, as soon as possible, so thoughtthe traveller who found himself laid over here for two days in latewinter. He asked after the sights of the place. A white Muskrat stuffedin a case "down to the saloon"; old Baccy Bullin, who had been scalpedby the Indians forty years ago; and a pipe once smoked by Kit Carson, proved unattractive, so he turned toward the prairie, still white withsnow. 

A mark among the numerous Dog tracks caught his eye: it was the trackof a large Jack-rabbit. He asked a passer-by if there were any Rabbitsin town. 

"No, I reckon not. I never seen none, " was the answer. A mill-hand gavethe same reply, but a small boy with a bundle of newspapers said: "Youbet there is; there's lots of them out there on the prairie, and theycome in town a-plenty. Why, there's a big, big feller lives right roundSi Kalb's melon-patch--oh, an awful big feller, and just as black andas white as checkers!" and thus he sent the stranger eastward on hiswalk. 

The "big, big, awful big one" was the Little Warhorse himself. Hedidn't live in Kalb's melon-patch; he was there only at odd times. Hewas not there now; he was in his west-fronting form or bed, because araw east wind was setting in. It was due east of Madison Avenue, and asthe stranger plodded that way the Rabbit watched him. As long as theman kept the road the Jack was quiet, but the road turned shortly tothe north, and the man by chance left it and came straight on. Then theJack saw trouble ahead. The moment the man left the beaten track, hebounded from his form, and wheeling, he sailed across the prairie dueeast. 

A Jack-rabbit running from its enemy ordinarily covers eight or ninefeet at a bound, and once in five or six bounds, it makes anobservation hop, leaping not along, but high in the air, so as to getabove all herbage and bushes and take in the situation. A silly youngJack will make an observation hop as often as one in four, and so wastea great deal of time. A clever Jack will make one hop in eight or nine, do for observation. But Jack Warhorse as he sped, got all theinformation he needed, in one hop out of a dozen, while ten to fourteenfeet were covered by each of his flying bounds. Yet another personalpeculiarity showed in the trail he left. When a Cottontail or aWood-hare runs, his tail is curled up tight on his back, and does nottouch the snow. When a Jack runs, his tail hangs downward or backward, with the tip curved or straight, according to the individual; in some, it points straight down, and so, often leaves a little stroke behindthe foot-marks. The Warhorse's tail of shining black, was of unusuallength, and at every bound, it left in the snow, a long stroke, so longthat that alone was almost enough to tell which Rabbit had made thetrack. 

Now some Rabbits seeing only a man without any Dog would have feltlittle fear, but Warhorse, remembering some former stinging experienceswith a far-killer, fled when the foe was seventy-five yards away, andskimming low, he ran southeast to a fence that ran easterly. Behindthis he went like a low-flying Hawk, till a mile away he reachedanother of his beds; and here, after an observation taken as he stoodon his heels, he settled again to rest. 

But not for long. In twenty minutes his great megaphone ears, so closeto the ground, caught a regular sound--crunch, crunch, crunch--thetramp of a human foot, and he started up to see the man with theshining stick in his hand, now drawing near. 

Warhorse bounded out and away for the fence. Never once did he rise toa "spy-hop" till the wire and rails were between him and his foe, anunnecessary precaution as it chanced, for the man was watching thetrail and saw nothing of the Rabbit. 

Jack skimmed along, keeping low and looking out for other enemies. Heknew now that the man was on his track, and the old instinct born ofancestral trouble with Weasels was doubtless what prompted him to dothe double trail. He ran in a long, straight course to a distant fence, followed its far side for fifty yards, then doubling back he retracedhis trail and ran off in a new direction till he reached another of hisdens or forms. He had been out all night and was very ready to rest, now that the sun was ablaze on the snow; but he had hardly got theplace a little warmed when the "tramp, tramp, tramp" announced theenemy, and he hurried away. 

After a half-a-mile run he stopped on a slight rise and marked the manstill following, so he made a series of wonderful quirks in his trail, a succession of blind zigzags that would have puzzled most trailers;then running a hundred yards past a favorite form, he returned to itfrom the other side, and settled to rest, sure that now the enemy wouldbe finally thrown off the scent. 

It was slower than before, but still it came--"tramp, tramp, tramp. "

Jack awoke, but sat still. The man tramped by on the trail one hundredyards in front of him, and as he went on, Jack sprang out unseen, realizing that this was an unusual occasion needing a special effort. They had gone in a vast circle around the home range of the Warhorseand now were less than a mile from the farm-house of the black Dog. There was that wonderful board fence with the happily planned hen-hole. It was a place of good memory--here more than once he had won, hereespecially he had baffled the Greyhound. 

These doubtless were the motive thoughts rather than any plan ofplaying one enemy against another, and Warhorse bounded openly acrossthe snow to the fence of the big black Dog. 

The hen-hole was shut, and Warhorse, not a little puzzled, sneakedaround to find another, without success, until, around the front, herewas the gate wide open, and inside lying on some boards was the bigDog, fast asleep. The Hens were sitting hunched up in the warmestcorner of the yard. The house Cat was gingerly picking her way frombarn to kitchen, as Warhorse halted in the gateway. 

The black form of his pursuer was crawling down the far white prairieslope. Jack hopped quietly into the yard. A long-legged Rooster, thatought to have minded his own business, uttered a loud cackle as he sawthe Rabbit hopping near. The Dog lying in the sun raised his head andstood up, and Jack's peril was dire. He squatted low and turned himselfinto a gray clod. He did it cleverly, but still might have been lostbut for the Cat. Unwittingly, unwillingly, she saved him. The black Doghad taken three steps toward the Warhorse, though he did not know theRabbit was there, and was now blocking the only way of escape from theyard, when the Cat came round the corner of the house, and leaping to awindow-ledge brought a flower-pot rolling down. By that single awkwardact she disturbed the armed neutrality existing between herself and theDog. She fled to the barn, and of course a flying foe is all that isneeded to send a Dog on the war-path. They passed within thirty feet ofthe crouching Rabbit. As soon as they were well gone, Jack turned, andwith-out even a "Thank you, Pussy, " he fled to the open and away on thehard-beaten road. 

The Cat had been rescued by the lady of the house; the Dog was oncemore sprawling on the boards when the man on Jack's trail arrived. Hecarried, not a gun, but a stout stick, sometimes called "dog-medicine, "and that was all that prevented the Dog attacking the enemy of his prey. 

This seemed to be the end of the trail. The trick, whether planned ornot, was a success, and the Rabbit got rid of his troublesome follower. 

Next day the stranger made another search for the Jack and found, nothimself, but his track. He knew it by its tail-mark, its long leaps andfew spy-hops, but with it and running by it was the track of a smallerRabbit. Here is where they met, here they chased each other in play, for no signs of battle were there to be seen; here they fed or sattogether in the sun, there they ambled side by side, and here againthey sported in the snow, always together. There was only oneconclusion: this was the mating season. This was a pair ofJack-rabbits--the Little Warhorse and his mate. 

IV

Next summer was a wonderful year for the Jack-rabbits. A foolish lawhad set a bounty on Hawks and Owls and had caused a general massacre ofthese feathered policemen. Consequently the Rabbits had multiplied insuch numbers that they now were threatening to devastate the country. 

The farmers, who were the sufferers from the bounty law, as well as themakers of it, decided on a great Rabbit drive. All the county wasinvited to come, on a given morning, to the main road north of thecounty, with the intention of sweeping the whole region up-wind and atlength driving the Rabbits into a huge corral of close wire netting. Dogs were barred as unmanageable, and guns as dangerous in a crowd; butevery man and boy carried a couple of long sticks and a bag full ofstones. Women came on horseback and in buggies; many carried rattles orhorns and tins to make a noise. A number of the buggies trailed astring of old cans or tied laths to scrape on the wheel-spokes, andthus add no little to the deafening clatter of the drive. As Rabbitshave marvellously sensitive hearing, a noise that is distracting tomankind, is likely to prove bewildering to them. 

The weather was right, and at eight in the morning the word to advancewas given. The line was about five miles long at first, and there was aman or a boy every thirty or forty yards. The buggies and riders keptperforce almost entirely to the roads; but the beaters were supposed, as a point of honor, to face everything, and keep the front unbroken. The advance was roughly in three sides of a square. Each man made asmuch noise as he could, and threshed every bush in his path. A numberof Rabbits hopped out. Some made for the lines, to be at once assailedby a shower of stones that laid many of them low. One or two did getthrough and escaped, but the majority were swept before the drive. Atfirst the number seen was small, but before three miles were coveredthe Rabbits were running ahead in every direction. After fivemiles--and that took about three hours--the word for the wings to closein was given. The space between the men was shortened up till they wereless than ten feet apart, and the whole drive converged on the corralwith its two long guide wings or fences; the end lines joined thesewings, and the surround was complete. The drivers marched rapidly now;scores of the Rabbits were killed as they ran too near the beaters. Their bodies strewed the ground, but the swarms seemed to increase; andin the final move, before the victims were cooped up in the corral, thetwo-acre space surrounded was a whirling throng of skurrying, jumping, bounding Rabbits. Round and round they circled and leaped, looking fora chance to escape; but the inexorable crowd grew thicker as the ringgrew steadily smaller, and the whole swarm was forced along the chuteinto the tight corral, some to squat stupidly in the middle, some torace round the outer wall, some to seek hiding in corners or under eachother. 

And the Little Warhorse--where was he in all this? The drive had swepthim along, and he had been one of the first to enter the corral. But acurious plan of selection had been established. The pen was to be adeath-trap for the Rabbits, except the best, the soundest. And manywere there that were unsound; those that think of all wild animals aspure and perfect things, would have been shocked to see how many halt, maimed, and diseased there were in that pen of four thousand or fivethousand Jack-rabbits. 

It was a Roman victory--the rabble of prisoners was to be butchered. The choicest were to be reserved for the arena. The arena? Yes, that isthe Coursing Park. 

In that corral trap, prepared beforehand for the Rabbits, were a numberof small boxes along the wall, a whole series of them, five hundred atleast, each large enough to hold one Jack. 

In the last rush of driving, the swiftest Jacks got first to the pen. Some were swift and silly; when once inside they rushed wildly roundand round. Some were swift and wise; they quickly sought the hidingafforded by the little boxes; all of these were now full. Thus fivehundred of the swiftest and wisest had been selected, in, not by anymeans an infallible way, but the simplest and readiest. These fivehundred were destined to be coursed by Greyhounds. The surging mass ofover four thousand were ruthlessly given to slaughter. 

Five hundred little boxes with five hundred bright-eyed Jack-rabbitswere put on the train that day, and among them was Little Jack Warhorse. 

V

Rabbits take their troubles lightly, and it is not to be supposed thatany great terror was felt by the boxed Jacks, once the uproar of themassacre was over; and when they reached the Coursing Park near thegreat city and were turned out one by one, very gently, --yes, gently;the Roman guards were careful of their prisoners, being responsible forthem, --the Jacks found little to complain of, a big inclosure withplenty of good food, and no enemies to annoy them. 

The very next morning their training began. A score of hatchways wereopened into a much larger field--the Park. After a number of Jacks hadwandered out through these doors a rabble of boys appeared and drovethem back, pursuing them noisily until all were again in the smallerfield, called the Haven. A few days of this taught the Jack-rabbitsthat when pursued their safety was to get back by one of the hatchesinto the Haven. 

Now the second lesson began. The whole band were driven out of a sidedoor into a long lane which led around three sides of the Park toanother inclosure at the far end. This was the Starting Pen. Its doorinto the arena--that is, the Park--was opened, the Rabbits drivenforth, and then a mob of boys and Dogs in hiding, burst forth andpursued them across the open. The whole army went bobbing and boundingaway, some of the younger ones soaring in a spy-hop, as a matter ofhabit; but low skimming ahead of them all was a gorgeousblack-and-white one; clean-limbed and bright-eyed, he had attractedattention in the pen, but now in the field he led the band with easylope that put him as far ahead of them all as they were ahead of therabble of common Dogs. 

"Luk at thot, would ye--but ain't he a Little Warhorse?" shouted avillainous-looking Irish stable-boy, and thus he was named. Whenhalfway across the course the Jacks remembered the Haven, and all swepttoward it and in like a snow-cloud over the drifts. 

This was the second lesson--to lead straight for the Haven as soon asdriven from the Pen. In a week all had learned it, and were ready forthe great opening meet of the Coursing Club. 

The Little Warhorse was now well known to the grooms and hangers-on;his colors usually marked him clearly, and his leadership was in ameasure recognized by the long-eared herd that fled with him. Hefigured more or less with the Dogs in the talk and betting of the men. 

"Wonder if old Dignam is going to enter Minkie this year?"

"Faix, an' if he does I bet the Little Warhorse will take the gimp outav her an' her runnin' mate. "

"I'll bet three to one that my old Jen will pick the Warhorse up beforehe passes the grand stand, " growled a dog-man. 

"An' it's meself will take thot bet in dollars, " said Mickey, "an', moore than thot, Oi'll put up a hull month's stuff thot there ain't adog in the mate thot kin turrn the Warrhorrse oncet on the hull coorse. "

So they wrangled and wagered, but each day, as they put the Rabbitsthrough their paces, there were more of those who believed that theyhad found a wonderful runner in the Warhorse, one that would give thebest Greyhounds something that is rarely seen, a straight stern chasefrom Start to Grand Stand and Haven. 

VI

The first morning of the meet arrived bright and promising. The GrandStand was filled with a city crowd. The usual types of a racecourseappeared in force. Here and there were to be seen the dog-groomsleading in leash single Greyhounds or couples, shrouded in blankets, but showing their sinewy legs, their snaky necks, their shapely headswith long reptilian jaws, and their quick, nervous yellow eyes--hybridsof natural force and human ingenuity, the most wonderfulrunning-machines ever made of flesh and blood. Their keepers guardedthem like jewels, tended them like babies, and were careful to keepthem from picking up odd eatables, as well as prevent them smellingunusual objects or being approached by strangers. Large sums werewagered on these Dogs, and a cunningly placed tack, a piece of doctoredmeat, yes, an artfully compounded smell, has been known to turn asuperb young runner into a lifeless laggard, and to the owner thismight spell ruin. The Dogs entered in each class are paired off, aseach contest is supposed to be a duel; the winners in the first seriesare then paired again. In each trial, a Jack is driven from theStarting-pen; close by in one leash are the rival Dogs, held by theslipper. As soon as the Hare is well away, the man has to get the Dogsevenly started and slip them together. On the field is the judge, scarlet-coated and well mounted. He follows the chase. The Hare, mindful of his training, speeds across the open, toward the Haven, infull view of the Grand Stand. The Dogs follow the Jack. As the firstone comes near enough to be dangerous, the Hare balks him by dodging. Each time the Hare is turned, scores for the Dog that did it, and afinal point is made by the kill. 

Sometimes the kill takes place within one hundred yards of thestart--that means a poor Jack; mostly it happens in front of the GrandStand; but on rare occasions it chances that the Jack goes sailingacross the open Park a good half-mile and, by dodging for time, runs tosafety in the Haven. Four finishes are possible: a speedy kill; aspeedy winning of the Haven; new Dogs to relieve the first runners, whowould suffer heart-collapse in the terrific strain of their pace, ifkept up many minutes in hot weather; and finally, for Rabbits that bycontinued dodging defy and jeopardize the Dogs, and yet do not win theHaven, there is kept a loaded shotgun. 

There is just as much jockeying at a Kaskado coursing as at a Kaskadohorse-race, just as many attempts at fraud, and it is just as necessaryto have the judge and slipper beyond suspicion. 

The day before the next meet a man of diamonds saw Irish Mickey--bychance. A cigar was all that visibly passed, but it had a green wrapperthat was slipped off before lighting. Then a word: "If you wuz slipperto-morrow and it so came about that Dignam's Minkie gets done, wall, --it means another cigar. "

"Faix, an' if I wuz slipper I could load the dice so Minkie would flyerscore a p'int, but her runnin' mate would have the same bad luck. "

"That so?" The diamond man looked interested. "All right--fix it so; itmeans two cigars. "

Slipper Slyman had always dealt on the square, had scorned manyapproaches--that was well known. Most believed in him, but there weresome malcontents, and when a man with many gold seals approached theSteward and formulated charges, serious and well-backed, they mustperforce suspend the slipper pending an inquiry, and thus Mickey Dooreigned in his stead. 

Mickey was poor and not over-scrupulous. Here was a chance to make ayear's pay in a minute, nothing wrong about it, no harm to the Dog orthe Rabbit either. 

One Jack-rabbit is much like another. Everybody knows that; it wassimply a question of choosing your Jack. 

The preliminaries were over. Fifty Jacks had been run and killed. Mickey had done his work satisfactorily; a fair slip had been given toevery leash. He was still in command as slipper. Now came the final forthe cup--the cup and the large stakes. 

VII

There were the slim and elegant Dogs awaiting their turn. Minkie andher rival were first. Everything had been fair so far, and who can saythat what followed was unfair? Mickey could turn out which Jack hepleased. 

"Number three!" he called to his partner. 

Out leaped the Little Warhorse, --black and white his great ears, easyand low his five-foot bounds; gazing wildly at the unwonted crowd aboutthe Park, he leaped high in one surprising spy-hop. 

"Hrrrrr!" shouted the slipper, and his partner rattled a stick on thefence. The Warhorse's bounds increased to eight or nine feet. 

"Hrrrrrr!" and they were ten or twelve feet. At thirty yards the Houndswere slipped--an even slip; some thought it could have been done attwenty yards. 

"Hrrrrrr! Hrrrrrrr!" and the Warhorse was doing fourteen-foot leaps, not a spy-hop among them. 

"Hrrrrr!" wonderful Dogs! how they sailed; but drifting ahead of them, like a white sea-bird or flying scud, was the Warhorse. Away past theGrand Stand. And the Dogs--were they closing the gap of start? Closing!It was lengthening! In less time than it takes to tell it, thatblack-and-white thistledown had drifted away through the Havendoor, --the door so like that good old hen-hole, --and the Grey-houndspulled up amidst a roar of derision and cheers for the Little Warhorse. How Mickey did laugh! How Dignam did swear! How the newspaper men didscribble--scribble--scribble!

Next day there was a paragraph in all the papers: "WONDERFUL FEAT OF AJACKRABBIT. The Little Warhorse, as he has been styled, completelyskunked two of the most famous Dogs on the turf, " etc. 

There was a fierce wrangle among the dog-men. This was a tie, sinceneither had scored, and Minkie and her rival were allowed to run again;but that half-mile had been too hot, and they had no show for the cup. 

Mickey met "Diamonds" next day, by chance. 

"Have a cigar, Mickey. "

"Oi will thot, sor. Faix, thim's so foine; I'd loike two--thank ye, sor. "

VIII

From that time the Little Warhorse became the pride of the Irish boy. Slipper Slyman had been honorably reinstated and Mickey reduced to therank of Jack-starter, but that merely helped to turn his sympathiesfrom the Dogs to the Rabbits, or rather to the Warhorse, for of all thefive hundred that were brought in from the drive he alone had wonrenown. There were several that crossed the Park to run again anotherday, but he alone had crossed the course without getting even a turn. Twice a week the meets took place; forty or fifty Jacks were killedeach time, and the five hundred in the pen had been nearly all eaten ofthe arena. 

The Warhorse had run each day, and as often had made the Haven. Mickeybecame wildly enthusiastic about his favorite's powers. He begot apositive affection for the clean-limbed racer, and stoutly maintainedagainst all that it was a positive honor to a Dog to be disgraced bysuch a Jack. 

It is so seldom that a Rabbit crosses the track at all, that when Jackdid it six times without having to dodge, the papers took note of it, and after each meet there appeared a notice: "The Little Warhorsecrossed again today; old-timers say it shows how our Dogs aredeteriorating. "

After the sixth time the rabbit-keepers grew enthusiastic, and Mickey, commander-in-chief of the brigade, became intemperate in hisadmiration. "Be jabers, he has a right to be torned loose. He has wonhis freedom loike ivery Amerikin done, " he added, by way of appeal tothe patriotism of the Steward of the race, who was, of course, the realowner of the Jacks. 

"All right, Mick; if he gets across thirteen times you can ship himback to his native land, " was the reply. 

"Shure now, an' won't you make it tin, sor?"

"No, no; I need him to take the conceit out of some of the new Dogsthat are coming. "

"Thirteen toimes and he is free, sor; it's a bargain. "

A new lot of Rabbits arrived about this time, and one of these wascolored much like Little Warhorse. He had no such speed, but to preventmistakes Mickey caught his favorite by driving him into one of thepadded shipping-boxes, and proceeded with the gate-keeper's punch toearmark him. The punch was sharp; a clear star was cut out of the thinflap, when Mickey exclaimed: "Faix, an' Oi'll punch for ivery toime yecross the coorse. " So he cut six stars in a row. "Thayer now, Warrhorrse, shure it's a free Rabbit ye'll be when ye have yer thirteenstars like our flag of liberty hed when we got free. "

Within a week the Warhorse had vanquished the new Greyhounds and hadstars enough to go round the right ear and begin on the left. In a weekmore the thirteen runs were completed, six stars in the left ear andseven in the right, and the newspapers had new material. 

"Whoop!" How Mickey hoorayed! "An' it's a free Jack ye are, Warrhorrse!Thirteen always wuz a lucky number. I never knowed it to fail. "

IX

"Yes, I know I did, " said the Steward. "But I want to give him one morerun. I have a bet on him against a new Dog here. It won't hurt him now;he can do it. Oh, well. Here now, Mickey, don't you get sassy. One runmore this afternoon. The Dogs run two or three times a day; why not theJack?"

"They're not shtakin' thayre loives, sor. "

"Oh, you get out. "

Many more Rabbits had been added to the pen, --big and small, peacefuland warlike, --and one big Buck of savage instincts, seeing JackWarhorse's hurried dash into the Haven that morning, took advantage ofthe moment to attack him. 

At another time Jack would have thumped his skull, as he once did theCat's, and settled the affair in a minute; but now it took severalminutes, during which he himself got roughly handled; so when theafternoon came he was suffering from one or two bruises and stiffeningwounds; not serious, indeed, but enough to lower his speed. 

The start was much like those of previous runs. The Warhorse steamingaway low and lightly, his ears up and the breezes whistling through histhirteen stars. 

Minkie with Fango, the new Dog, bounded in eager pursuit, but, to thesurprise of the starters, the gap grew smaller. The Warhorse was losingground, and right before the Grand Stand old Minkie turned him, and acheer went up from the dog-men, for all knew the runners. Within fiftyyards Fango scored a turn, and the race was right back to the start. There stood Slyman and Mickey. The Rabbit dodged, the Greyhoundsplunged; Jack could not get away, and just as the final snap seemednear, the Warhorse leaped straight for Mickey, and in an instant washidden in his arms, while the starter's feet flew out in energetickicks to repel the furious Dogs. It is not likely that the Jack knewMickey for a friend; he only yielded to the old instinct to fly from acertain enemy to a neutral or a possible friend, and, as luck wouldhave it, he had wisely leaped and well. A cheer went up from thebenches as Mickey hurried back with his favorite. But the dog-menprotested "it wasn't a fair run--they wanted it finished. " Theyappealed to the Steward. He had backed the Jack against Fango. He wassore now, and ordered a new race. 

An hour's rest was the best Mickey could get for him. Then he went asbefore, with Fango and Minkie in pursuit. He seemed less stiff now--heran more like himself; but a little past the Stand he was turned byFango and again by Minkie, and back and across, and here and there, leaping frantically and barely eluding his foes. For several minutes itlasted. Mickey could see that Jack's ears were sinking. The new Dogleaped. Jack dodged almost under him to escape, and back only to meetthe second Dog; and now both ears were flat on his back. But the Houndswere suffering too. Their tongues were lolling out; their jaws andheaving sides were splashed with foam. The Warhorse's ears went upagain. His courage seemed to revive in their distress. He made astraight dash for the Haven; but the straight dash was just what theHounds could do, and within a hundred yards he was turned again, tobegin another desperate game of zigzag. Then the dog-men saw danger fortheir Dogs, and two new ones were slipped--two fresh Hounds; surelythey could end the race. But they did not. The first two werevanquished--gasping--out of it, but the next two were racing near. TheWarhorse put forth all his strength. He left the first two farbehind--was nearly to the Haven when the second two came up. 

Nothing but dodging could save him now. His ears were sinking, hisheart was pattering on his ribs, but his spirit was strong. He flunghimself in wildest zigzags. The Hounds tumbled over each other. Againand again they thought they had him. One of them snapped off the end ofhis long black tail, yet he escaped; but he could not get to the Haven. The luck was against him. He was forced nearer to the Grand Stand. Athousand ladies were watching. The time limit was up. The second Dogswere suffering, when Mickey came running, yelling like amadman--words--imprecations--crazy sounds:

"Ye blackguard hoodlums! Ye dhirty, cowardly bastes!" and he rushedfuriously at the Dogs, intent to do them bodily harm. 

Officers came running and shouting, and Mickey, shrieking hatred anddefiance, was dragged from the field, reviling Dogs and men with everyhorrid, insulting name he could think of or invent. 

"Fair play! Whayer's yer fair play, ye liars, ye dhirty cheats, yebloody cowards!" And they drove him from the arena. The last he saw ofit was the four foaming Dogs feebly dodging after a weak and worn-outJack-rabbit, and the judge on his Horse beckoning to the man with thegun. 

The gate closed behind him, and Mickey heard a bang-bang, an unusualuproar mixed with yelps of Dogs, and he knew that Little Jack Warhorsehad been served with finish No. 4. 

All his life he had loved Dogs, but his sense of fair play wasoutraged. He could not get in, nor see in from where he was. He racedalong the lane to the Haven, where he might get a good view, andarrived in time to see--Little Jack Warhorse with his half-masted earslimp into the Haven; and he realized at once that the man with the gunhad missed, had hit the wrong runner, for there was the crowd at theStand watching two men who were carrying a wounded Greyhound, while aveterinary surgeon was ministering to another that was panting on theground. 

Mickey looked about, seized a little shipping-box, put it at the angleof the Haven, carefully drove the tired thing into it, closed the lid, then, with the box under his arm, he scaled the fence unseen in theconfusion and was gone. 

'It didn't matter; he had lost his job anyway. ' He tramped away fromthe city. He took the train at the nearest station and travelled somehours, and now he was in Rabbit country again. The sun had long gonedown; the night with its stars was over the plain when among the farms, the Osage and alfalfa, Mickey Doo opened the box and gently put theWarhorse out. 

Grinning as he did so, he said: "Shure an' it's ould Oireland thot'sproud to set the thirteen stars at liberty wance moore. "

For a moment the Little Warhorse gazed in doubt, then took three orfour long leaps and a spy-hop to get his bearings. Now spreading hisnational colors and his honor-marked ears, he bounded into his hard-wonfreedom, strong as ever, and melted into the night of his native plain. 

He has been seen many times in Kaskado, and there have been many Rabbitdrives in that region, but he seems to know some means of baffling themnow, for, in all the thousands that have been trapped and corralled, they have never since seen the star-spangled ears of Little jackWarhorse. 

SNAP

THE STORY OF A BULL-TERRIER

I

It was dusk on Hallowe'en when first I saw him. Early in the morning Ihad received a telegram from my college chum Jack: "Lest we forget. Amsending you a remarkable pup. Be polite to him; it's safer. " It wouldhave been just like Jack to have sent an infernal machine or a Skunkrampant and called it a pup, so I awaited the hamper with curiosity. When it arrived I saw it was marked "Dangerous, " and there came fromwithin a high-pitched snarl at every slight provocation. On peeringthrough the wire netting I saw it was not a baby Tiger but a smallwhite Bull-terrier. He snapped at me and at any one or anything thatseemed too abrupt or too near for proper respect, and his snarlinggrowl was unpleasantly frequent. Dogs have two growls: onedeep-rumbled, and chesty; that is polite warning--the retort courteous;the other mouthy and much higher in pitch: this is the last word beforeactual onslaught. The Terrier's growls were all of the latter kind. Iwas a dog-man and thought I knew all about Dogs, so, dismissing theporter, I got out my all-roundjackknife--toothpick--nailhammer-hatchet-toolbox-fire-shovel, aspecialty of our firm, and lifted the netting. Oh, yes, I knew allabout Dogs. The little fury had been growling out a whole-souled growlfor every tap of the tool, and when I turned the box on its side, hemade a dash straight for my legs. Had not his foot gone through thewire netting and held him, I might have been hurt, for his heart wasevidently in his work; but I stepped on the table out of reach andtried to reason with him. I have always believed in talking to animals. I maintain that they gather something of our intention at least, evenif they do not understand our words; but the Dog evidently put me downfor a hypocrite and scorned my approaches. At first he took his postunder the table and kept up a circular watch for a leg trying to getdown. I felt sure I could have controlled him with my eye, but I couldnot bring it to bear where I was, or rather where he was; thus I wasleft a prisoner. I am a very cool person, I flatter myself; in fact, Irepresent a hardware firm, and, in coolness, we are not excelled by anybut perhaps the nosy gentlemen that sell wearing-apparel. I got out acigar and smoked tailor-style on the table, while my little tyrantbelow kept watch for legs. I got out the telegram and read it:"Remarkable pup. Be polite to him; it's safer. " I think it was mycoolness rather than my politeness that did it, for in half an hour thegrowling ceased. In an hour he no longer jumped at a newspapercautiously pushed over the edge to test his humor; possibly theirritation of the cage was wearing off, and by the time I had lit mythird cigar, he waddled out to the fire and lay down; not ignoring me, however, I had no reason to complain of that kind of contempt. He keptone eye on me, and I kept both eyes, not on him, but on his stumpytail. If that tail should swing sidewise once I should feel I waswinning; but it did not swing. I got a book and put in time on thattable till my legs were cramped and the fire burned low. About 10 P. M. It was chilly, and at half-past ten the fire was out. My Hallowe'enpresent got up, yawned and stretched, then walked under my bed, wherehe found a fur rug. By stepping lightly from the table to the dresser, and then on to the mantel-shelf, I also reached bed, and, very quietlyundressing, got in without provoking any criticism from my master. Ihad not yet fallen asleep when I heard a slight scrambling and felt"thump-thump" on the bed, then over my feet and legs; Snap evidentlyhad found it too cool down below, and proposed to have the best myhouse afforded. 

He curled up on my feet in such a way that I was very uncomfortable andtried to readjust matters, but the slightest wriggle of my toe wasenough to make him snap at it so fiercely that nothing but thickwoollen bedclothes saved me from being maimed for life. 

I was an hour moving my feet--a hair's-breadth at a time--till theywere so that I could sleep in comfort; and I was awakened several timesduring the night by angry snarls from the Dog--I suppose because Idared to move a toe without his approval, though once I believe he didit simply because I was snoring. 

In the morning I was ready to get up before Snap was. You see, I callhim Snap-Ginger-snap in full. Some Dogs are hard to name, and some donot seem to need it--they name themselves. 

I was ready to rise at seven. Snap was not ready till eight, so we roseat eight. He had little to say to the man who made the fire. He allowedme to dress without doing it on the table. As I left the room to getbreakfast, I remarked:

"Snap, my friend, some men would whip you into a different way, but Ithink I know a better plan. The doctors nowadays favor the'no-breakfast cure. ' I shall try that. "

It seemed cruel, but I left him without food all day. It cost mesomething to repaint the door where he scratched it, but at night hewas quite ready to accept a little food at my hands. 

In a week we were very good friends. He would sleep on my bed now andallow me to move my feet without snapping at them, intent to do meserious bodily harm. The no-breakfast cure had worked wonders; in threemonths we were--well, simply man and Dog, and he amply justified thetelegram he came with. 

He seemed to be without fear. If a small Dog came near, he would takenot the slightest notice; if a medium-sized Dog, he would stick hisstub of a tail rigidly up in the air, then walk around him, scratchingcontemptuously with his hind feet, and looking at the sky, thedistance, the ground, anything but the Dog, and noting his presenceonly by frequent high-pitched growls. If the stranger did not move onat once, the battle began, and then the stranger usually moved on veryrapidly. Snap sometimes got worsted, but no amount of sad experiencecould ever inspire him with a grain of caution. Once, while riding in acab during the Dog Show, Snap caught sight of an elephantine St. Bernard taking an airing. Its size aroused such enthusiasm in the Pup'slittle breast that he leaped from the cab window to do battle, andbroke his leg. 

Evidently fear had been left out of his make-up and its place suppliedwith an extra amount of ginger, which was the reason of his full name. He differed from all other Dogs I have ever known. For example, if aboy threw a stone at him, he ran, not away, but toward the boy, and ifthe crime was repeated, Snap took the law into his own hands; thus hewas at least respected by all. Only myself and the porter at the officeseemed to realize his good points, and we only were admitted to thehigh honor of personal friendship, an honor which I appreciated more asmonths went on, and by midsummer not Carnegie, Vanderbilt, and Astortogether could have raised money enough to buy a quarter of a share inmy little Dog Snap. 

II

Though not a regular traveller, I was ordered out on the road in theautumn, and then Snap and the landlady were left together, withunfortunate developments. Contempt on his part--fear on hers; and hateon both. 

I was placing a lot of barb-wire in the northern tier of States. Myletters were forwarded once a week, and I got several complaints fromthe landlady about Snap. 

Arrived at Mendoza, in North Dakota, I found a fine market for wire. Ofcourse my dealings were with the big storekeepers, but I went aboutamong the ranchmen to get their practical views on the differentstyles, and thus I met the Penroof Brothers' Cow-outfit. 

One cannot be long in Cow country now without hearing a great dealabout the depredations of the ever wily and destructive Gray-wolf. Theday has gone by when they can be poisoned wholesale, and they are aserious drain on the rancher's profits. The Penroof Brothers, like mostlive cattle-men, had given up all attempts at poisoning and trapping, and were trying various breeds of Dogs as Wolf-hunters, hoping to get alittle sport out of the necessary work of destroying the pests. 

Foxhounds had failed--they were too soft for fighting; Great Danes weretoo clumsy, and Greyhounds could not follow the game unless they couldsee it. Each breed had some fatal defect, but the cow-men hoped tosucceed with a mixed pack, and the day when I was invited to join in aMendoza Wolf-hunt, I was amused by the variety of Dogs that followed. There were several mongrels, but there were also a few highly bredDogs--in particular, some Russian Wolfhounds that must have cost a lotof money. 

Hilton Penroof, the oldest boy, "The Master of Hounds, " was unusuallyproud of them, and expected them to do great things. 

"Greyhounds are too thin-skinned to fight a Wolf, Danes are too slow, but you'll see the fur fly when the Russians take a hand. "

Thus the Greyhounds were there as runners, the Danes as heavy backers, and the Russians to do the important fighting. There were also two orthree Foxhounds, whose fine noses were relied on to follow the trail ifthe game got out of view. 

It was a fine sight as we rode away among the Badland Buttes thatOctober day. The air was bright and crisp, and though so late, therewas neither snow nor frost. The Horses were fresh, and once or twiceshowed me how a Cow-pony tries to get rid of his rider. 

The Dogs were keen for sport, and we did start one or two gray spots inthe plain that Hilton said were Wolves or Coyotes. The Dogs trailedaway at full cry, but at night, beyond the fact that one of theGreyhounds had a wound on his shoulder, there was nothing to show thatany of them had been on a Wolf-hunt. 

"It's my opinion yer fancy Russians is no good, Hilt, " said Garvin, theyounger brother. "I'll back that little black Dane against the lot, mongrel an' all as he is. "

"I don't unnerstan' it, " growled Hilton. "There ain't a Coyote, letalone a Gray-wolf, kin run away from them Greyhounds; them Foxhoundskin folly a trail three days old, an' the Danes could lick a Grizzly. "

"I reckon, " said the father, "they kin run, an' they kin track, an'they kin lick a Grizzly, maybe, but the fac' is they don't want totackle a Gray-wolf. The hull darn pack is scairt--an' I wish we had ourmoney out o' them. "

Thus the men grumbled and discussed as I drove away and left them. 

There seemed only one solution of the failure. The Hounds were swiftand strong, but a Gray-wolf seems to terrorize all Dogs. They have notthe nerve to face him, and so, each time he gets away, and my thoughtsflew back to the fearless little Dog that had shared my bed for thelast year. How I wished he was out here, then these lubberly giants ofHounds would find a leader whose nerve would not fail at the moment oftrial. 

At Baroka, my next stop, I got a batch of mail including two lettersfrom the landlady; the first to say that "that beast of a Dog wasacting up scandalous in my room, " and the other still more forcible, demanding his immediate removal. "Why not have him expressed toMendoza?" I thought. "It's only twenty hours; they'll be glad to havehim. I can take him home with me when I go through. "

III

My next meeting with Gingersnap was not as different from the first asone might have expected. He jumped on me, made much vigorous pretenseto bite, and growled frequently, but it was a deep-chested growl andhis stump waggled hard. 

The Penroofs had had a number of Wolf-hunts since I was with them, andwere much disgusted at having no better success than before. The Dogscould find a Wolf nearly every time they went out, but they could notkill him, and the men were not near enough at the finish to learn why. 

Old Penroof was satisfied that "thar wasn't one of the hull miserablegang that had the grit of a Jack-rabbit. "

We were off at dawn the next day--the same procession of fine Horsesand superb riders; the big blue Dogs, the yellow Dogs, the spottedDogs, as before; but there was a new feature, a little white Dog thatstayed close by me, and not only any Dogs, but Horses that came toonear were apt to get a surprise from his teeth. I think he quarrelledwith every man, Horse, and Dog in the country, with the exception of aBull-terrier belonging to the Mendoza hotel man. She was the only onesmaller than himself, and they seemed very good friends. 

I shall never forget the view of the hunt I had that day. We were onone of those large, flat-headed buttes that give a kingdom to the eye, when Hilton, who had been scanning the vast country with glasses, exclaimed: "I see him. There he goes, toward Skull Creek. Guess it's aCoyote. "

Now the first thing is to get the Greyhounds to see the prey--not aneasy matter, as they cannot use the glasses, and the ground was coveredwith sage-brush higher than the Dogs' heads. 

But Hilton called, "Hu, hu, Dander, " and leaned aside from his saddle, holding out his foot at the same time. With one agile bound Danderleaped to the saddle and there stood balancing on the Horse whileHilton kept pointing. "There he is, Dander; sic him--see him downthere. " The Dog gazed earnestly where his master pointed, then seemingto see, he sprang to the ground with a slight yelp and sped away. Theother Dogs followed after, in an ever-lengthening procession, and werode as hard as we could behind them, but losing time, for the groundwas cut with gullies, spotted with badger-holes, and covered with rocksand sage that made full speed too hazardous. 

We all fell behind, and I was last, of course, being least accustomedto the saddle. We got several glimpses of the Dogs flying over thelevel plain or dropping from sight in gullies to reappear at the otherside. Dander, the Greyhound, was the recognized leader, and as wemounted another ridge we got sight of the whole chase--a Coyote at fullspeed, the Dogs a quarter of a mile behind, but gaining. When next wesaw them the Coyote was dead, and the Dogs sitting around panting, allbut two of the Foxhounds and Gingersnap. 

"Too late for the fracas, " remarked Hilton, glancing at these lastFoxhounds. Then he proudly petted Dander. "Didn't need yer purp afterall, ye see. "

"Takes a heap of nerve for ten big Dogs to face one little Coyote, "remarked the father, sarcastically. "Wait till we run onto a Gray. "

Next day we were out again, for I made up my mind to see it to a finish. 

From a high point we caught sight of a moving speck of gray. A movingwhite speck stands for Antelope, a red speck for Fox, a gray speck foreither Gray-wolf or Coyote, and which of these is determined by itstail. If the glass shows the tail down, it is a Coyote; if up, it isthe hated Gray-wolf. 

Dander was shown the game as before and led the motley mixedprocession--as he had before--Greyhounds, Wolfhounds, Foxhounds, Danes, Bull-terrier, horsemen. We got a momentary view of the pursuit; aGray-wolf it surely was, loping away ahead of the Dogs. Somehow Ithought the first Dogs were not running so fast now as they had afterthe Coyote. But no one knew the finish of the hunt. The Dogs came backto us one by one, and we saw no more of that Wolf. 

Sarcastic remarks and recrimination were now freely indulged in by thehunters. 

"Pah--scairt, plumb scairt, " was the father's disgusted comment on thepack. "They could catch up easy enough, but when he turned on them, they lighted out for home--pah!"

"Where's that thar onsurpassable, fearless, scaired-o'-nort Tarrier?"asked Hilton, scornfully. 

"I don't know, " said I. "I am inclined to think he never saw the Wolf;but if he ever does, I'll bet he sails in for death or glory. "

That night several Cows were killed close to the ranch, and we werespurred on to another hunt. 

It opened much like the last. Late in the afternoon we sighted a grayfellow with tail up, not half a mile off. Hilton called Dander up onthe saddle. I acted on the idea and called Snap to mine. His legs wereso short that he had to leap several times before he made it, scrambling up at last with my foot as a half-way station. I pointed and"sic-ed" for a minute before he saw the game, and then he started outafter the Greyhounds, already gone, with energy that was full ofpromise. 

The chase this time led us, not to the rough brakes along the river, but toward the high open country, for reasons that appeared later. Wewere close together as we rose to the upland and sighted the chase halfa mile off, just as Dander came up with the Wolf and snapped at hishaunch. The Gray-wolf turned round to fight, and we had a fine view. The Dogs came up by twos and threes, barking at him in a ring, tilllast the little white one rushed up. He wasted no time barking, butrushed straight at the Wolf's throat and missed it, yet seemed to gethim by the nose; then the ten big Dogs closed in, and in two minutesthe Wolf was dead. We had ridden hard to be in at the finish, andthough our view was distant, we saw at least that Snap had lived up tothe telegram, as well as to my promises for him. 

Now it was my turn to crow, and I did not lose the chance. Snap hadshown them how, and at last the Mendoza pack had killed a Gray-wolfwithout help from the men. 

There were two things to mar the victory somewhat: first, it was ayoung Wolf, a mere Cub, hence his foolish choice of country; second, Snap was wounded--the Wolf had given him a bad cut in the shoulder. 

As we rode in proud procession home, I saw he limped a little. "Here, "I cried, "come up, Snap. " He tried once or twice to jump to the saddle, but could not. "Here, Hilton, lift him up to me. "

"Thanks; I'll let you handle your own rattlesnakes, " was the reply, forall knew now that it was not safe to meddle with his person. "Here, Snap, take hold, " I said, and held my quirt to him. He seized it, andby that I lifted him to the front of my saddle and so carried him home. I cared for him as though he had been a baby. He had shown thoseCattle-men how to fill the weak place in their pack; the Foxhounds maybe good and the Greyhounds swift and the Russians and Danes fighters, but they are no use at all without the crowning moral force of grit, that none can supply so well as a Bull-terrier. On that day theCattlemen learned how to manage the Wolf question, as you will find ifever you are at Mendoza; for every successful Wolf pack there has withit a Bull-terrier, preferably of the Snap-Mendoza breed. 

IV

Next day was Hallowe'en, the anniversary of Snap's advent. The weatherwas clear, bright, not too cold, and there was no snow on the ground. The men usually celebrated the day with a hunt of some sort, and now, of course, Wolves were the one object. To the disappointment of all, Snap was in bad shape with his wound. He slept, as usual, at my feet, and bloody stains now marked the place. He was not in condition tofight, but we were bound to have a Wolf-hunt, so he was beguiled to anouthouse and locked up, while we went off, I, at least, with a sense ofimpending disaster. I knew we should fail without my Dog, but I did notrealize how bad a failure it was to be. 

Afar among the buttes of Skull Creek we had roamed when a white ballappeared bounding through the sage-brush, and in a minute more Snapcame, growling and stump-waggling, up to my Horse's side. I could notsend him back; he would take no such orders, not even from me. Hiswound was looking bad, so I called him, held down the quirt, and jumpedhim to my saddle. 

"There, " I thought, "I'll keep you safe till we get home. " 'Yes, Ithought; but I reckoned not with Snap. The voice of Hilton, "Hu, hu, "announced that he had sighted a Wolf. Dander and Riley, his rival, bothsprang to the point of observation, with the result that they collidedand fell together, sprawling, in the sage. But Snap, gazing hard, hadsighted the Wolf, not so very far off, and before I knew it, he leapedfrom the saddle and bounded zigzag, high, low, in and under the sage, straight for the enemy, leading the whole pack for a few minutes. Notfar, of course. The great Greyhounds sighted the moving speck, and theusual procession strung out on the plain. It promised to be a finehunt, for the Wolf had less than half a mile start and all the Dogswere fully interested. 

"They 'ye turned up Grizzly Gully, " cried Garvin. "This way, and we canhead them off. "

So we turned and rode hard around the north side of Hulmer's Butte, while the chase seemed to go round the south. 

We galloped to the top of Cedar Ridge and were about to ride down, whenHilton shouted, "By George, here he is! We're right onto him. " Heleaped from his Horse, dropped the bridle, and ran forward. I did thesame. A great Gray-wolf came lumbering across an open plain toward us. His head was low, his tail out level, and fifty yards behind him wasDander, sailing like a Hawk over the ground, going twice as fast as theWolf. In a minute the Hound was alongside and snapped, but boundedback, as the Wolf turned on him. They were just below us now and notfifty feet away. Garvin drew his revolver, but in a fateful momentHilton interfered: "No; no; let's see it out. " In a few seconds thenext Greyhound arrived, then the rest in order of swiftness. Each cameup full of fight and fury, determined to go right in and tear theGray-wolf to pieces; but each in turn swerved aside, and leaped andbarked around at a safe distance. After a minute or so the Russiansappeared--fine big Dogs they were. Their distant intention no doubtwas to dash right at the old Wolf; but his fearless front, his sinewyframe and death-dealing jaws, awed them long before they were near him, and they also joined the ring, while the desperado in the middle facedthis way and that, ready for any or all. 

Now the Danes came up, huge-limbed creatures, any one of them as heavyas the Wolf. I heard their heavy breathing tighten into a threateningsound as they plunged ahead; eager to tear the foe to pieces; but whenthey saw him there, grim fearless, mighty of jaw, tireless of limb, ready to die if need be, but sure of this, he would not diealone--well, those great Danes--all three of them--were stricken, asthe rest had been, with a sudden bashfulness: Yes, they would go rightin presently--not now, but as soon as they had got their breath; theywere not afraid of a Wolf, oh, no. I could read their courage in theirvoices. They knew perfectly well that the first Dog to go in was goingto get hurt, but never mind that--presently; they would bark a littlemore to get up enthusiasm. 

And as the ten big Dogs were leaping round the silent Wolf at bay, there was a rustling in the sage at the far side of place; then asnow-white rubber ball, it seemed, came bounding, but grew into alittle Bull-terrier, and Snap, slowest of the pack, and last, camepanting hard, so hard he seemed gasping. Over the level open he made, straight to the changing ring around the Cattle-killer whom none daredface. Did he hesitate? Not for an instant; through the ring of theyelping pack, straight for the old despot of range, right for histhroat he sprang; and the Gray-wolf struck with his twenty scimitars. But the little one, if fooled at all, sprang again, and then what cameI hardly knew. There was a whirling mass of Dogs. I thought I saw thelittle White One clinched on the Gray-wolf's nose. The pack was allaround; we could not help them now. But they did not need us; they hada leader of dauntless mettle, and when in a little while the finalscene was done, there on the ground lay the Gray-wolf, a giant of hiskind, and clinched on his nose was the little white Dog. 

We were standing around within fifteen feet, ready to help, but had nochance till were not needed. 

The Wolf was dead, and I hallooed to Snap, but he did not move. I bentover him. "Snap--Snap, it's all over; you've killed him. " But the Dogwas very still, and now I saw two deep wounds in his body. I tried tolift him. "Let go, old fellow; it's all over. " He growled feebly, andat last go of the Wolf. The rough cattle-men were kneeling around himnow; old Penroof's voice was trembling as he muttered, "I wouldn't hadhim hurt for twenty steers. " I lifted him in my arms, called to himand stroked his head. He snarled a little, a farewell as it proved, for he licked my hand as he did so, then never snarled again. 

That was a sad ride home for me. There was the skin of a monstrousWolf, but no other hint of triumph. We buried the fearless one on abutte back of the Ranch-house. Penroof, as he stood by, was heard togrumble: "By jingo, that was grit--cl'ar grit! Ye can't raise Cattlewithout grit. "

THE WINNIPEG WOLF

I

It was during the great blizzard of 1882 that I first met the WinnipegWolf. I had left St. Paul in the middle of March to cross the prairiesto Winnipeg, expecting to be there in twenty-four hours, but the StormKing had planned it otherwise and sent a heavy-laden eastern blast. Thesnow came down in a furious, steady torrent, hour after hour. Neverbefore had I seen such a storm. All the world was lost in snow--snow, snow, snow--whirling, biting, stinging, drifting snow--and the puffing, monstrous engine was compelled to stop at the command of those tinyfeathery crystals of spotless purity. 

Many strong hands with shovels came to the delicately curled snowdriftsthat barred our way, and in an hour the engine could pass--only tostick in another drift yet farther on. It was dreary work--day afterday, night after night, sticking in the drifts, digging ourselves out, and still the snow went whirling and playing about us. 

"Twenty-two hours to Emerson, " said the official; but nearly two weeksof digging passed before we did reach Emerson, and the poplar countrywhere the thickets stop all drifting of the snow. Thenceforth the trainwent swiftly, the poplar woods grew more thickly--we passed for milesthrough solid forests, then perhaps through an open space. As we nearedSt. Boniface, the eastern outskirts of Winnipeg, we dashed across alittle glade fifty yards wide, and there in the middle was a group thatstirred me to the very soul. 

In plain view was a great rabble of Dogs, large and small, black, white, and yellow, wriggling and heaving this way and that way in arude ring; to one side was a little yellow Dog stretched and quiet inthe snow; on the outer part of the ring was a huge black Dog boundingabout and barking, but keeping ever behind the moving mob. And in themidst, the centre and cause of it all, was a great, grim, Wolf. 

Wolf? He looked like a Lion. There he stood, allalone--resolute-calm--with bristling mane, and legs braced firmly, glancing this way and that, to be ready for an attack in any direction. There was a curl on his lips--it looked like scorn, but I suppose itwas really the fighting snarl of tooth display. Led by awolfish-looking Dog that should have been ashamed, the pack dashed in, for the twentieth time no doubt. But the great gray form leaped hereand there, and chop, chop, chop went those fearful jaws, no other soundfrom the lonely warrior; but a death yelp from more than one of hisfoes, as those that were able again sprang back, and left himstatuesque as before, untamed, unmaimed, and contemptuous of them all. 

How I wished for the train to stick in a snowdrift now, as so oftenbefore, for all my heart went out to that Gray-wolf; I longed to go andhelp him. But the snow-deep glade flashed by, the poplar trunks shutout the view, and we went on to our journey's end. 

This was all I saw, and it seemed little; but before many days hadpassed I knew surely that I had been favored with a view, in broaddaylight, of a rare and wonderful creature, none less than the WinnipegWolf. 

His was a strange history--a Wolf that preferred the city to thecountry, that passed by the Sheep to kill the Dogs, and that alwayshunted alone. 

In telling the story of le Garou, as he was called by some, although Ispeak of these things as locally familiar, it is very sure that to manycitizens of the town they were quite unknown. The smug shopkeeper onthe main street had scarcely heard of him until the day after the finalscene at the slaughter-house, when his great carcass was carried toHine's taxidermist shop and there mounted, to be exhibited later at theChicago World's Fair, and to be destroyed, alas! in the fire thatreduced the Mulvey Grammar School to ashes in 1896. 

II

It seems that Fiddler Paul, the handsome ne'er-do-well of thehalf-breed world, readier to hunt than to work, was prowling with hisgun along the wooded banks of the Red River by Kildonan, one day in theJune of 1880. He saw a Gray-wolf come out of a hole in a bank and fireda chance shot that killed it. Having made sure, by sending in his Dog, that no other large Wolf was there, he crawled into the den, and found, to his utter amazement and delight, eight young Wolves--nine bountiesof ten dollars each. How much is that? A fortune surely. He used astick vigorously, and with the assistance of the yellow Cur, all thelittle ones were killed but one. There is a superstition about the lastof a brood--it is not lucky to kill it. So Paul set out for town withthe scalp of the old Wolf, the scalps of the seven young, and the lastCub alive. 

The saloon-keeper, who got the dollars for which the scalps wereexchanged, soon got the living Cub. He grew up at the end of a chain, but developed a chest and jaws that no Hound in town could match. Hewas kept in the yard for the amusement of customers, and this amusementusually took the form of baiting the captive with Dogs. The young Wolfwas bitten and mauled nearly to death on several occasions, but herecovered, and each month there were fewer Dogs willing to face him. His life was as hard as it could be. There was but one gleam ofgentleness in it all, and that was the friendship that grew up betweenhimself and Little Jim, the son of the saloonkeeper. 

Jim was a wilful little rascal with a mind of his own. He took to theWolf because it had killed a Dog that had bitten him. He thenceforthfed the Wolf and made a pet of it, and the Wolf responded by allowinghim to take liberties which no one else dared venture. 

Jim's father was not a model parent. He usually spoiled his son, but attimes would get in a rage and beat him cruelly for some trifle. Thechild was quick to learn that he was beaten, not because he had donewrong, but because he had made his father angry. If, therefore, hecould keep out of the way until that anger had cooled, he had nofurther cause for worry. One day, seeking safety in flight with hisfather behind him, he dashed into the Wolf's kennel, and his grizzlychum thus unceremoniously awakened turned to the door, displayed adouble row of ivories, and plainly said to the father: "Don't you dareto touch him. "

If Hogan could have shot the Wolf then and there he would have done so, but the chances were about equal of killing his son, so he let themalone and, half an hour later, laughed at the whole affair. ThenceforthLittle Jim made for the Wolf's den whenever he was in danger, andsometimes the only notice any one had that the boy had been in mischiefwas seeing him sneak in behind the savage captive. 

Economy in hired help was a first principle with Hogan. Therefore his"barkeep" was a Chinaman. He was a timid, harmless creature, so Pauldes Roches did not hesitate to bully him. One day, finding Hogan out, and the Chinaman alone in charge, Paul, already tipsy, demanded a drinkon credit, and Tung Ling, acting on standing orders, refused. Hisartless explanation, "No good, neber pay, " so far from clearing up thedifficulty, brought Paul staggering back of the bar to avenge theinsult. The Celestial might have suffered grievous bodily hurt, butthat Little Jim was at hand and had a long stick, with which headroitly tripped up the Fiddler and sent him sprawling. He staggered tohis feet swearing he would have Jim's life. But the child was near theback door and soon found refuge in the Wolf's kennel. 

Seeing that the boy had a protector, Paul got the long stick, and froma safe distance began to belabor the Wolf, The grizzly creature ragedat the end of the chain, but, though he parried many cruel blows byseizing the stick in his teeth, he was suffering severely, when Paulrealized that Jim, whose tongue had not been idle, was fumbling awaywith nervous fingers to set the Wolf loose, and soon would succeed. Indeed, it would have been done already but for the strain that theWolf kept on the chain. 

The thought of being in the yard at the mercy of the huge animal thathe had so enraged, gave the brave Paul a thrill of terror. 

Jim's wheedling voice was heard--"Hold on now, Wolfie; back up just alittle, and you shall have him. Now do; there's a good Wolfie"--thatwas enough; the Fiddler fled and carefully closed all doors behind him. 

Thus the friendship between Jim and his pet grew stronger, and theWolf, as he developed his splendid natural powers, gave daily evidencealso of the mortal hatred he bore to men that smelt of whiskey and toall Dogs, the causes of his sufferings. This peculiarity, coupled withhis love for the child--and all children seemed to be included to someextent--grew with his growth and seemed to prove the ruling force ofhis life. 

III

At this time--that is, the fall of 1881--there were great complaintsamong the Qu'Appelle ranchmen that the Wolves were increasing in theircountry and committing great depredations among the stock. Poisoningand trapping had proved failures, and when a distinguished Germanvisitor appeared at the Club in Winnipeg and announced that he wasbringing some Dogs that could easily rid the country of Wolves, he waslistened to with unusual interest. For the cattle-men are fond ofsport, and the idea of helping their business by establishing a kennelof Wolfhounds was very alluring. 

The German soon produced as samples of his Dogs, two magnificent Danes, one white, the other blue with black spots and a singular white eyethat completed an expression of unusual ferocity. Each of these greatcreatures weighed nearly two hundred pounds. They were muscled likeTigers, and the German was readily believed when he claimed that thesetwo alone were more than a match for the biggest Wolf. He thusdescribed their method of hunting: "All you have to do is show them thetrail and, even if it is a day old, away they go on it. They cannot beshaken off. They will soon find that Wolf, no matter how he doubles andhides. Then they close on him. He turns to run, the blue Dog takes himby the haunch and throws him like this, " and the German jerked a rollof bread into the air; "then before he touches the ground the white Doghas his head, the other his tail, and they pull him apart like that. "

It sounded all right; at any rate every one was eager to put it to theproof. Several of the residents said there was a fair chance of findinga Gray-wolf along the Assiniboine, so a hunt was organized. But theysearched in vain for three days and were giving it up when some onesuggested that down at Hogan's saloon was a Wolf chained up, that theycould get for the value of the bounty, and though little more than ayear old he would serve to show what the Dogs could do. 

The value of Hogan's Wolf went up at once when he knew the importanceof the occasion; besides, "he had conscientious scruples. " All hisscruples vanished, however, when his views as to price were met. Hisfirst care was to get Little Jim out of the way by sending him on anerrand to his grandma's; then the Wolf was driven into his box andnailed in. The box was put in a wagon and taken to the open prairiealong the Portage trail. 

The Dogs could scarcely be held back, they were so eager for the fray, as soon as they smelt the Wolf. But several strong men held theirleash, the wagon was drawn half a mile farther, and the Wolf was turnedout with some difficulty. At first he looked scared and sullen. Hetried to get out of sight, but made no attempt to bite. However, onfinding himself free, as well as hissed and hooted at, he started offat a slinking trot toward the south, where the land seemed broken. TheDogs were released at that moment, and, baying furiously, they boundedaway after the young Wolf. The men cheered loudly and rode behind them. From the very first it was clear that he had no chance. The Dogs weremuch swifter; the white one could run like a Greyhound. The German waswildly enthusiastic as she flew across the prairie, gaining visibly onthe Wolf at every second. Many bets were offered on the Dogs, but therewere no takers. The only bets accepted were Dog against Dog. The youngWolf went at speed now, but within a mile the white Dog was rightbehind him--was closing in. 

The German shouted: "Now watch and see that Wolf go up in the air. "

In a moment the runners were together. Both recoiled, neither went upin the air, but the white Dog rolled over with a fearful gash in hershoulder--out of the fight, if not killed. Ten seconds later theBlue-spot arrived, open-mouthed. This meeting was as quick and almostas mysterious as the first. The animals barely touched each other. Thegray one bounded aside, his head out of sight for a moment in the flashof quick movement. Spot reeled and showed a bleeding flank. Urged on bythe men, he assaulted again, but only to get another wound that taughthim to keep off. 

Now came the keeper with four more huge Dogs. They turned these loose, and the men armed with clubs and lassos were closing to help infinishing the Wolf, when a small boy came charging over the plain on aPony. He leaped to the ground and wriggling through the ring flung hisarms around the Wolf's neck. He called him his "Wolfie pet, " his "dearWolfie"--the Wolf licked his face and wagged its tail--then the childturned on the crowd and through his streaming tears, he--Well it wouldnot do to print what he said. He was only nine, but he was veryold-fashioned, as well as a rude little boy. He had been brought up ina low saloon, and had been an apt pupil at picking up the vile talk ofthe place. He cursed them one and all and for generations back; he didnot spare even his own father. 

If a man had used such shocking and insulting language he might havebeen lynched, but coming from a baby, the hunters did not know what todo, so finally did the best thing. They laughed aloud--not atthemselves, that is not considered good form--but they all laughed atthe German whose wonderful Dogs had been worsted by a half-grown Wolf. 

Jimmie now thrust his dirty, tear-stained little fist down into hisvery-much-of-a-boy's pocket, and from among marbles and chewing-gum, aswell as tobacco, matches, pistol cartridges, and other contraband, hefished out a flimsy bit of grocer's twine and fastened it around theWolf's neck. Then, still blubbering a little, he set out for home onthe Pony, leading the Wolf and hurling a final threat and anathema atthe German nobleman: "Fur two cents I'd sic him on you, gol darn ye. "

IV

Early that winter Jimmie was taken down with a fever. The Wolf howledmiserably in the yard when he missed his little friend, and finally onthe boy's demand was admitted to the sick-room, and there this greatwild Dog--for that is all a Wolf is--continued faithfully watching byhis friend's bedside. 

The fever had seemed slight at first, so that every one was shockedwhen there came suddenly a turn for the worse, and three days beforeChristmas Jimmie died. He had no more sincere mourner than his"Wolfie. " The great gray creature howled in miserable answer to thechurch-bell tolling when he followed the body on Christmas Eve to thegraveyard at St. Boniface. He soon came back to the premises behind thesaloon, but when an attempt was made to chain him again, he leaped aboard fence and was finally lost sight of. 

Later that same winter old Renaud, the trapper, with his prettyhalf-breed daughter, Ninette, came to live in a little log-cabin on theriver bank. He knew nothing about Jimmie Hogan, and he was not a littlepuzzled to find Wolf tracks and signs along the river on both sidesbetween St. Boniface and Fort Garry. He listened with interest anddoubt to tales that the Hudson Bay Company's men told of a greatGray-wolf that had come to live in the region about, and even to enterthe town at night, and that was in particular attached to the woodsabout St. Boniface Church. 

On Christmas Eve of that year when the bell tolled again as it had donefor Jimmie, a lone and melancholy howling from the woods almostconvinced Renaud that the stories were true. He knew thewolf-cries--the howl for help, the love song, the lonely wail, and thesharp defiance of the Wolves. This was the lonely wail. 

The trapper went to the riverside and gave an answering howl. A shadowyform left the far woods and crossed on the ice to where the man sat, log-still, on a log. It came up near him, circled past and sniffed, then its eye glowed; it growled like a Dog that is a little angry, andglided back into the night. 

Thus Renaud knew, and before long many townfolk began to learn, that ahuge Gray-wolf was living in their streets, "a Wolf three times as bigas the one that used to be chained at Hogan's gin-mill. " He was theterror of Dogs, killing them on all possible occasions, and some said, though it was never proven, that he had devoured more than onehalf-breed who was out on a spree. 

And this was the Winnipeg Wolf that I had seen that day in the wintrywoods. I had longed to go to his help, thinking the odds so hopelesslyagainst him, but later knowledge changed the thought. I do not know howthat fight ended, but I do know that he was seen many times afterwardand some of the Dogs were not. 

Thus his was the strangest life that ever his kind had known. Free ofall the woods and plains, he elected rather to lead a life of dailyhazard in the town--each week at least some close escape, and every daya day of daring deeds; finding momentary shelter at times under thevery boardwalk crossings. Hating the men and despising the Dogs, hefought his daily way and held the hordes of Curs at bay or slew themwhen he found them few or single; harried the drunkard, evaded men withguns, learned traps--learned poison, too--just how, we cannot tell, butlearn it he did, for he passed it again and again, or served it onlywith a Wolf's contempt. 

Not a street in Winnipeg that he did not know; not a policeman inWinnipeg that had not seen his swift and shadowy form in the gray dawnas he passed where he would; not a Dog in Winnipeg that did not cowerand bristle when the telltale wind brought proof that old Garou wascrouching near. His only path was the warpath, and all the world hisfoes. But throughout this lurid, semi-mythic record there was onerecurring pleasant thought--Garou never was known to harm a child. 

V

Ninette was a desert-born beauty like her Indian mother, but gray-eyedlike her Normandy father, a sweet girl of sixteen, the belle of herset. She might have married any one of the richest and steadiest youngmen of the country, but of course, in feminine perversity her heart wasset on that ne'er-do-well, Paul des Roches. A handsome fellow, a gooddancer and a fair violinist, Fiddler Paul was in demand at allfestivities, but he was a shiftless drunkard and it was even whisperedthat he had a wife already in Lower Canada. Renaud very properlydismissed him when he came to urge his suit, but dismissed him in vain. Ninette, obedient in all else, would not give up her lover. The veryday after her father had ordered him away she promised to meet him inthe woods just across the river. It was easy to arrange this, for shewas a good Catholic, and across the ice to the church was shorter thangoing around by the bridge. As she went through the snowy wood to thetryst she noticed that a large gray Dog was following. It seemed quitefriendly, and the child (for she was still that) had no fear, but whenshe came to the place where Paul was waiting, the gray Dog went forwardrumbling in its chest. Paul gave one look, knew it for a huge Wolf, then fled like the coward he was. He afterward said he ran for his gun. He must have forgotten where it was, as he climbed the nearest tree tofind it. Meanwhile Ninette ran home across the ice to tell Paul'sfriends of his danger. Not finding any firearms up the tree, thevaliant lover made a spear by fastening his knife to a branch andsucceeded in giving Garou a painful wound on the head. The savage, creature growled horribly but thenceforth kept at a safe distance, though plainly showing his intention to wait till the man came down. But the approach of a band of rescuers changed his mind, and he wentaway. 

Fiddler Paul found it easier to explain matters to Ninette than hewould to any one else. He still stood first in her affections, but sohopelessly ill with her father that they decided on an elopement, assoon as he should return from Fort Alexander, whither he was to go forthe Company, as dog-driver. The Factor was very proud of his trainDogs--three great Huskies with curly, bushy tails, big and strong asCalves, but fierce and lawless as pirates. With these the Fiddler Paulwas to drive to Fort Alexander from Fort Garry--the bearer of severalimportant packets. He was an expert Dog-driver, which usually meansrelentlessly cruel. He set off blithely down the river in the morning, after the several necessary drinks of whiskey. He expected to be gone aweek, and would then come back with twenty dollars in his pocket, andhaving thus provided the sinews of war, would carry out the plan ofelopement. Away they went down the river on the ice. The big Dogspulled swiftly but sulkily as he cracked the long whip and shouted, "Allez, allez, marchez. " They passed at speed by Renaud's shanty on thebank, and Paul, cracking his whip and running behind the train, wavedhis hand to Ninette as she stood by the door. Speedily the cariole withthe sulky Dogs and drunken driver disappeared around the bend--and thatwas the last ever seen of Fiddler Paul. 

That evening the Huskies came back singly to Fort Garry. They werespattered with frozen blood, and were gashed in several places. Butstrange to tell they were quite "unhungry. "

Runners went on the back trail and recovered the packages. They werelying on the ice unharmed. Fragments of the sled were strewn for a mileor more up the river; not far from the packages were shreds of clothingthat had belonged to the Fiddler. 

It was quite clear, the Dogs had murdered and eaten their driver. 

The Factor was terribly wrought up over the matter. It might cost himhis Dogs. He refused to believe the report and set off to sift theevidence for himself. Renaud was chosen to go with him, and before theywere within three miles of the fatal place Renaud pointed to a verylarge track crossing from the east to the west bank of the river, justafter the Dog sled. He ran it backward for a mile or more on theeastern bank, noted how it had walked when the Dogs walked and run whenthey ran, before he turned to the Factor and said: "A beeg Voolf--hecome after ze cariole all ze time. "

Now they followed the track where it had crossed to the west shore. Twomiles above Kildonan woods the Wolf had stopped his gallop to walk overto the sled trail, had followed it a few yards, then had returned tothe woods. 

"Paul he drop somesin' here, ze packet maybe; ze Voolf he come forsmell. He follow so--now he know zat eez ze drunken Paul vot slash heemon ze head. "

A mile farther the Wolf track came galloping on the ice behind thecariole. The man track disappeared now, for the driver had leaped onthe sled and lashed the Dogs. Here is where he cut adrift the bundles. That is why things were scattered over the ice. See how the Dogs werebounding under the lash. Here was the Fiddler's knife in the snow. Hemust have dropped it in trying to use it on the Wolf. And here-what!the Wolf track disappears, but the sled track speeds along. The Wolfhas leaped on the sled. The Dogs, in terror, added to their speed; buton the sleigh behind them there is a deed of vengeance done. In amoment it is over; both roll off the sled; the Wolf track reappears onthe east side to seek the woods. The sled swerves to the west bank, where, after half a mile, it is caught and wrecked on a root. 

The snow also told Renaud how the Dogs, entangled in the harness, hadfought with each other, had cut themselves loose, and trotting homewardby various ways up the river, had gathered at the body of their latetyrant and devoured him at a meal. 

Bad enough for the Dogs, still they were cleared of the murder. Thatcertainly was done by the Wolf, and Renaud, after the shock of horrorwas past, gave a sigh of relief and added, "Eet is le Garou. He habsave my leel girl from zat Paul. He always was good to children. "

VI

This was the cause of the great final hunt that they fixed forChristmas Day just two years after the scene at the grave of LittleJim. It seemed as though all the Dogs in the country were broughttogether. The three Huskies were there--the Factor considered themessential--there were Danes and trailers and a rabble of farm Dogs andnondescripts. They spent the morning beating all the woods east of St. Boniface and had no success. But a telephone message came that thetrail they sought had been seen near the Assiniboine woods west of thecity, and an hour later the hunt was yelling on the hot scent of theWinnipeg Wolf. 

Away they went, a rabble of Dogs, a motley rout of horsemen, a mob ofmen and boys on foot. Garou had no fear of the Dogs, but men he knewhad guns and were dangerous. He led off for the dark timber line of theAssiniboine, but the horsemen had open country and they headed himback. He coursed along the Colony Creek hollow and so eluded thebullets already flying. He made for a barb-wire fence, and passing thathe got rid of the horsemen for a time, but still must keep the hollowthat baffled the bullets. The Dogs were now closing on him. All hemight have asked would probably have been to be left alone withthem--forty or fifty to one as they were--he would have taken the odds. The Dogs were all around him now, but none dared to close in, A lankyHound, trusting to his speed, ran alongside at length and got a sidechop from Garou that laid him low. The horsemen were forced to take adistant way around, but now the chase was toward the town, and more menand Dogs came running out to join the fray. 

The Wolf turned toward the slaughter-house, a familiar resort, and theshooting ceased on account of the houses, as well as the Dogs, being sonear. These were indeed now close enough to encircle him and hinder allfurther flight. He looked for a place to guard his rear for a finalstand, and seeing a wooden foot-bridge over a gutter he sprang in, there faced about and held the pack at bay. The men got bars anddemolished the bridge. He leaped out, knowing now that he had to die, but ready, wishing only to make a worthy fight, and then for the firsttime in broad day view of all his foes he stood--the shadowyDog-killer, the disembodied voice of St. Boniface woods, the wonderfulWinnipeg Wolf. 

VII

At last after three long years of fight he stood before them alone, confronting twoscore Dogs, and men with guns to back them--but facingthem just as resolutely as I saw him that day in the wintry woods. Thesame old curl was on his lips--the hard-knit flanks heaved just alittle, but his green and yellow eye glowed steadily. The Dogs closedin, led not by the huge Huskies from the woods--they evidently knew toomuch for that--but by a Bulldog from the town; there was scuffling ofmany feet; a low rumbling for a time replaced the yapping of the pack;a flashing of those red and grizzled jaws, a momentary hurl back of theonset, and again he stood alone and braced, the grim and grand oldbandit that he was. Three times they tried and suffered. Their boldestwere lying about him. The first to go down was the Bulldog. Learningwisdom now, the Dogs held back, less sure; but his square-built chestshowed never a sign of weakness yet, and after waiting impatiently headvanced a few steps, and thus, alas! gave to the gunners theirlong-expected chance. Three rifles rang, and in the snow Garou wentdown at last, his life of combat done. 

He had made his choice. His days were short and crammed with quickevents. His tale of many peaceful years was spent in three of dailybrunt. He picked his trail, a new trail, high and short. He chose todrink his cup at a single gulp, and break the glass-but he left adeathless name. 

Who can look into the mind of the Wolf? Who can show us his wellspringof motive? Why should he still cling to a place of endless tribulation?It could not be because he knew no other country, for the region islimitless, food is everywhere, and he was known at least as far asSelkirk. Nor could his motive be revenge. No animal will give up itswhole life to seeking revenge; that evil kind of mind is found in manalone. The brute creation seeks for peace. 

There is then but one remaining bond to chain him, and that thestrongest claim that anything can own--the mightiest force on earth. 

The Wolf is gone. The last relic of him was lost in the burning GrammarSchool, but to this day the sexton of St. Boniface Church avers thatthe tolling bell on Christmas Eve never fails to provoke that weird andmelancholy Wolf-cry from the wooded graveyard a hundred steps away, where they laid his Little Jim, the only being on earth that ever methim with the touch of love. 

THE LEGEND OF THE WHITE REINDEER

 Skoal! Skoal! For Norway Skoal! Sing ye the song of the Vand-dam troll. When I am hiding Norway's luck On a White Storbuk Comes riding, riding. 

Bleak, black, deep, and cold is Utrovand, a long pocket of glacialwater, a crack in the globe, a wrinkle in the high Norwegian mountains, blocked with another mountain, and flooded with a frigid flood, threethousand feet above its Mother Sea, and yet no closer to its Father Sun. 

Around its cheerless shore is a belt of stunted trees, that sends along tail up the high valley, till it dwindles away to sticks and moss, as it also does some half-way up the granite hills that rise a thousandfeet, encompassing the lake. This is the limit of trees, the end of thegrowth of wood. The birch and willow are the last to drop out of thelong fight with frost. Their miniature thickets are noisy with thecries of Fieldfare, Pipit, and Ptarmigan, but these are left behind onnearing the upper plateau, where shade of rock and sough of wind areall that take their place. The chilly Hoifjeld rolls away, a rugged, rocky plain, with great patches of snow in all the deeper hollows, andthe distance blocked by snowy peaks that rise and roll and whitergleam, till, dim and dazzling in the north, uplifts the Jotunheim, thehome of spirits, of glaciers, and of the lasting snow. 

The treeless stretch is one vast attest to the force of heat. Eachfailure of the sun by one degree is marked by a lower realm of life. The northern slope of each hollow is less boreal than its southernside. The pine and spruce have given out long ago; the mountain-ashwent next; the birch and willow climbed up half the slope. Here, nothing grows but creeping plants and moss. The plain itself is palegrayish green, one vast expanse of reindeer-moss, but warmed at spotsinto orange by great beds of polytrichum, and, in sunnier nooks, deepened to a herbal green. The rocks that are scattered everywhere areof a delicate lilac, but each is variegated with spreading frill-edgedplasters of gray-green lichen or orange powder-streaks and beauty-spotsof black. These rocks have great power to hold the heat, so that eachof them is surrounded by a little belt of heat-loving plants that couldnot otherwise live so high. Dwarfed representatives of the birch andwillow both are here, hugging the genial rock, as an old Frenchhabitant hugs his stove in winter-time, spreading their branches overit, instead of in the frigid air. A foot away is seen a chillier beltof heath, and farther off, colder, where none else can grow, is theomnipresent gray-green reindeer-moss that gives its color to theupland. The hollows are still filled with snow, though now it is June. But each of these white expanses is shrinking, spending itself inice-cold streams that somehow reach the lake. These snö-flaks show nosign of life, not even the 'red-snow' tinge, and around each is a beltof barren earth, to testify that life and warmth can never be divorced. 

Birdless and lifeless, the gray-green snow-pied waste extends over allthe stretch that is here between the timber-line and the snow-line, above which winter never quits its hold. Farther north both come lower, till the timber-line is at the level of the sea; and all the land is inthat treeless belt called Tundra in the Old World, and Barrens in theNew, and that everywhere is the Home of the Reindeer--the Realm of theReindeer-moss. 

I

In and out it flew, in and out, over the water and under, as theVarsimle', the leader doe of the Reindeer herd, walked past on thevernal banks, and it sang:--

"Skoal! Skoal! Gamle Norge Skoal!" and more about "a White Reindeer andNorway's good luck, " as though the singer were gifted with specialinsight. 

When old Sveggum built the Vand-dam on the Lower Hoifjeld, just abovethe Utrovand, and set his ribesten a-going, he supposed that he was theowner of it all. But some one was there before him. And in and out ofthe spouting stream this some one dashed, and sang songs that he madeup to fit the place and the time. He skipped from skjaeke to skjaeke ofthe wheel, and did many things which Sveggum could set down only toluck--whatever that is; and some said that Sveggum's luck was aWheel-troll, a Water-fairy, with a brown coat and a white beard, onethat lived on land or in water, as he pleased. 

But most of Sveggum's neighbors saw only a Fossekal, the littleWaterfall Bird that came each year and danced in the stream, or divedwhere the pool is deep. And maybe both were right, for some of the veryoldest peasants will tell you that a Fairy-troll may take the form of aman or the form of a bird. Only this bird lived a life no bird canlive, and sang songs that men never had sung in Norway. Wonderfulvision had he, and sights he saw that man never saw. For the Fieldfarewould build before him, and the Lemming fed its brood under his veryeyes. Eyes were they to see; for the dark speck on Suletind that mancould barely glimpse was a Reindeer, with half-shed coat, to him andthe green slime on the Vandren was beautiful green pasture with abanquet spread. 

Oh, Man is so blind, and makes himself so hated! But Fossekal harmednone, so none were afraid of him. Only he sang, and his songs weresometimes mixed with fun and prophecy, or perhaps a little scorn. 

From the top of the tassel-birch he could mark the course of theVand-dam stream past the Nystuen hamlet to lose itself in the gloomywaters of Utrovand or by a higher flight he could see across the barrenupland that rolled to Jotunheim in the north. 

The great awakening was on now. The springtime had already reached thewoods; the valleys were a-throb with life; new birds coming from thesouth, winter sleepers reappearing, and the Reindeer that had winteredin the lower woods should soon again be seen on the uplands. 

Not without a fight do the Frost Giants give up the place so long theirown; a great battle was in progress; but the Sun was slowly, surelywinning, and driving them back to their Jotunheim. At every hollow andshady place they made another stand, or sneaked back by night, only tosuffer another defeat. Hard hitters these, as they are stubbornfighters; many a granite rock was split and shattered by their blows inreckless fight, so that its inner fleshy tints were shown and warmlygleamed among the gray-green rocks that dotted the plain, like thecountless flocks of Thor. More or less of these may be found at everyplace of battle-brunt, and straggled along the slope of Suletind was ahost that reached for half a mile. But stay! these moved. Not rockswere they, but living creatures. 

They drifted along erratically, yet one way, all up the wind. Theyswept out of sight in a hollow, to reappear on a ridge much nearer, andserried there against the sky, we marked their branching horns, andknew them for the Reindeer in their home. 

The band came drifting our way, feeding like Sheep, grunting like onlythemselves. Each one found a grazing-spot, stood there till it wascleared off, then trotted on crackling hoofs to the front in search ofanother. So the band was ever changing in rank and form. But one therewas that was always at or near the van--a large and well-favoredSimle', or Hind. However much the band might change and spread, she wasin the forefront, and the observant would soon have seen signs that shehad an influence over the general movement--that she, indeed, was theleader. Even the big Bucks, in their huge velvet-clad antlers, admittedthis untitular control; and if one, in a spirit of independence, evinced a disposition to lead elsewhere, he soon found himselfuncomfortably alone. 

The Varsimle', or leading Hind, had kept the band hovering, for thelast week or two, along the timber-line, going higher each day to thebaring uplands, where the snow was clearing and the deer-flies wereblown away. As the pasture zone had climbed she had followed in herdaily foraging, returning to the sheltered woods at sundown, for thewild things fear the cold night wind even as man does. But now thedeer-flies were rife in the woods, and the rocky hillside nooks warmenough for the nightly bivouac, so the woodland was deserted. 

Probably the leader of a band of animals does not consciously prideitself on leadership, yet has an uncomfortable sensation when notfollowed. But there are times with all when solitude is sought. TheVarsimle' had been fat and well through the winter, yet now waslistless, and lingered with drooping head as the grazing herd movedpast her. 

Sometimes she stood gazing blankly while the unchewed bunch of mosshung from her mouth, then roused to go on to the front as before; butthe spells of vacant stare and the hankering to be alone grew stronger. She turned downward to seek the birch woods, but the whole band turnedwith her. She stood stock-still, with head down. They grazed andgrunted past, leaving her like a statue against the hillside. When allhad gone on, she slunk quietly away; walked a few steps, looked about, made a pretense of grazing, snuffed the ground, looked after the herd, and scanned the hills; then downward fared toward the sheltering woods. 

Once as she peered over a bank she sighted another Simle', a doeReindeer, uneasily wandering by itself. But the Varsimle' wished notfor company. She did not know why, but she felt that she must hide awaysomewhere. 

She stood still until the other had passed on, then turned aside, andwent with faster steps and less wavering, till she came in view ofUtrovand, away down by the little stream that turns old Sveggum'sribesten. Up above the dam she waded across the limpid stream, fordeep-laid and sure is the instinct of a wild animal to put runningwater between itself and those it shuns. Then, on the farther bank, nowbare and slightly green, she turned, and passing in and out among thetwisted trunks, she left the noisy Vand-dam. On the higher groundbeyond she paused, looked this way and that, went on a little, butreturned; and here, completely shut in by softly painted rocks, andbirches wearing little springtime hangers, she seemed inclined to rest;yet not to rest, for she stood uneasily this way and that, driving awaythe flies that settled on her legs, heeding not at all the growinggrass, and thinking she was hid from all the world. 

But nothing escapes the Fossekal. He had seen her leave the herd, andnow he sat on a gorgeous rock that overhung, and sang as though he hadwaited for this and knew that the fate of the nation might turn on whatpassed in this far glen. He sang:

 Skoal! Skoal! For Norway Skoal! Sing ye the song of the Vand-dam troll. When I am hiding Norway's luck On a White Storbuk Comes riding, riding. 

There are no Storks in Norway, and yet an hour later there was awonderful little Reindeer lying beside the Varsimle'. She was brushinghis coat, licking and mothering him, proud and happy as though this wasthe first little Renskalv ever born. There might be hundreds born inthe herd that month, but probably no more like this one, for he wassnowy white, and the song of the singer on the painted rock was about

 Good luck, good luck, And a White Storbuk, as though he foresaw clearly the part that the White Calf was to playwhen he grew to be a Storbuk. 

But another wonder now came to pass. Before an hour, there was a secondlittle Calf--a brown one this time. Strange things happen, and hardthings are done when they needs must. Two hours later, when theVarsimle' led the White Calf away from the place, there was no BrownCalf, only some flattened rags with calf-hair on them. 

The mother was wise: better one strongling than two weaklings. Within afew days the Simle' once more led the band, and running by her side wasthe White Calf. The Varsimle' considered him in all things, so that hereally set the pace for the band, which suited very well all themothers that now had Calves with them. Big, strong, and wise was theVarsimle', in the pride of her strength, and this White Calf was theflower of her prime. He often ran ahead of his mother as she led theherd, and Rol, coming on them one day, laughed aloud at the sight asthey passed, old and young, fat Simle' and antlered Storbuk, a greatbrown herd, all led, as it seemed, by a little White Calf. 

So they drifted away to the high mountains, to be gone all summer. "Gone to be taught by the spirits who dwell where the Black Loonlaughs on the ice, " said Lief of the Lower Dale; but Sveggum, who hadalways been among the Reindeer, said: "Their mothers are the teachers, even as ours are. "

When the autumn came, old Sveggum saw a moving sno-flack far off on thebrown moor-land; but the Troll saw a white yearling, a Nekbuk; and whenthey ranged alongside of Utrovand to drink, the still sheet seemedfully to reflect the White One, though it barely sketched in theothers, with the dark hills behind. 

Many a little Calf had come that spring, and had drifted away on themoss-barrens, to come back no more; for some were weaklings and somewere fools; some fell by the way, for that is law; and some would notlearn the rules, and so died. But the White Calf was strongest of themall, and he was wise, so he learned of his mother, who was wisest ofthem all. He learned that the grass on the sun side of a rock is sweet, and though it looks the same in the dark hollows, it is thereworthless. He learned that when his mother's hoofs crackled he must beup and moving, and when all the herd's hoofs crackled there was danger, and he must keep by his mother's side. For this crackling is like thewhistling of a Whistler Duck's wings: it is to keep the kinds together. He learned that where the little Bomuldblomster hangs its Cotton tuftsis dangerous bog; that the harsh cackle of the Ptarmigan means thatclose at hand are Eagles, as dangerous for Fawn as for Bird. He learnedthat the little troll-berries are deadly, that when the verra-fliescome stinging he must take refuge on a snow-patch, and that of allanimal smells only that of his mother was to be fully trusted. Helearned that he was growing. His flat calf sides and big joints werechanging to the full barrel and clean limbs of the Yearling, and thelittle bumps which began to show on his head when he was only afortnight old were now sharp, hard spikes that could win in fight. 

More than once they had smelt that dreaded destroyer of the north thatmen call the Gjerv or Wolverene; and one day, as this danger-scent camesuddenly and in great strength, a huge blot of dark brown sprangrumbling from a rocky ledge, and straight for the foremost--the WhiteCalf. His eye caught the flash of a whirling, shaggy mass, withgleaming teeth and eyes, hot-breathed and ferocious. Blank horror sethis hair on end; his nostrils flared in fear: but before he fled thererose within another feeling--one of anger at the breaker of his peace, a sense that swept all fear away, braced his legs, and set his horns atcharge. The brown brute landed with a deep-chested growl, to bereceived on the young one's spikes. They pierced him deeply, but theshock was overmuch; it bore the White One down, and he might yet havebeen killed but that his mother, alert and ever near, now charged theattacking monster, and heavier, better armed, she hurled and spearedhim to the ground. And the White Calf, with a very demon glare in hisonce mild eyes, charged too; and even after the Wolverene was a merehairy mass, and his mother had retired to feed, he came, snorting outhis rage, to drive his spikes into the hateful thing, till his snowyhead was stained with his adversary's blood. 

Thus he showed that below the ox-like calm exterior was the fightingbeast; that he was like the men of the north, rugged, square-built, calm, slow to wrath, but when aroused "seeing red. "

When they ranked together by the lake that fall, the Fossekal sang hisold song:

 When I am hiding Norway's luck On a White Storbuk Comes riding, riding, as though this was something he had awaited, then disappeared no oneknew where. Old Sveggum had seen it flying through the stream, as birdsfly through the air, walking in the bottom of a deep pond as aPtarmigan walks on the rocks, living as no bird can live; and now theold man said it had simply gone southward for the winter. But oldSveggum could neither read nor write: how should he know?

II

Each springtime when the Reindeer passed over Sveggum's mill-run, asthey moved from the lowland woods to the bleaker shore of Utrovand, theFossekal was there to sing about the White Storbuk, which each yearbecame more truly the leader. 

That first spring he stood little higher than a Hare. When he came todrink in the autumn, his back was above the rock where Sveggum's streamenters Utrovand. Next year he barely passed under the stunted birch, and the third year the Fossekal on the painted rock was looking up, notdown, at him as he passed. This was the autumn when Rol and Sveggumsought the Hoifjeld to round up their half-wild herd and select some ofthe strongest for the sled. There was but one opinion about theStorbuk. Higher than the others, heavier, white as snow, with a manethat swept the shallow drifts, breasted like a Horse and with hornslike a storm-grown oak, he was king of the herd, and might easily beking of the road. 

There are two kinds of deer-breakers, as there are two kinds ofhorse-breakers: one that tames and teaches the animal, and gets aspirited, friendly helper; one that aims to break its spirit, and getsonly a sullen slave, ever ready to rebel and wreak its hate. Many aLapp and many a Norsk has paid with his life for brutality to hisReindeer, and Rol's days were shortened by his own pulk-Ren. ButSveggum was of gentler sort. To him fell the training of the WhiteStorbuk. It was slow, for the Buck resented all liberties from man, ashe did from his brothers; but kindness, not fear, was the power thattamed him, and when he had learned to obey and glory in the sled race, it was a noble sight to see the great white mild-eyed beast stridingdown the long snow-stretch of Utrovand, the steam jetting from hisnostrils, the snow swirling up before like the curling waves on asteamer's bow, sled, driver, and Deer all dim in flying white. 

Then came the Yule-tide Fair, with the races on the ice, and Utrovandfor once was gay. The sullen hills about reechoed with merry shouting. The Reindeer races were first, with many a mad mischance for laughter. Rol himself was there with his swiftest sled Deer, a tall, dark, five-year-old, in his primest prime. But over-eager, over-brutal, heharried the sullen, splendid slave till in mid-race--just when in a wayto win--it turned at a cruel blow, and Rol took refuge under theupturned sled until it had vented its rage against the wood; and so helost the race, and the winner was the young White Storbuk. Then he wonthe five-mile race around the lake; and for each triumph Sveggum hung alittle silver bell on his harness, so that now he ran and won to merrymusic. 

Then came the Horse races, --running races these; the Reindeer onlytrots, --and when Balder, the victor Horse, received his ribbon and hisowner the purse, came Sveggum with all his winnings in his hand, andsaid: "Ho, Lars, thine is a fine Horse, but mine is a better Storbuk;let us put our winnings together and race, each his beast, for all. "

A Ren against a Race-horse--such a race was never seen till now. Off atthe pistol-crack they flew. "Ho, Balder! (cluck!) Ho, hi, Balder!" Awayshot the beautiful Racer, and the Storbuk, striding at a slower trot, was left behind. 

"Ho, Balder!" "Hi, Storbuk!" How the people cheered as the Horse wentbounding and gaining! But he had left the line at his top speed; theStorbuk's rose as he flew--faster--faster. The Pony ceased to gain. Amile whirled by; the gap began to close. The Pony had over-spurted atthe start, but the Storbuk was warming to his work--striding evenly, swiftly, faster yet, as Sveggum cried in encouragement: "Ho, Storbuk!good Storbuk!" or talked to him only with a gentle rein. At theturning-point the pair were neck and neck; then the Pony--though welldriven and well shod-slipped on the ice, and thenceforth held back asthough in fear, so the Storbuk steamed away. The Pony and his driverwere far behind when a roar from every human throat in Filefjeld toldthat the Storbuk had passed the wire and won the race. And yet all thiswas before the White Ren had reached the years of his full strength andspeed. 

Once that day Rol essayed to drive the Storbuk. They set off at a goodpace, the White Buk ready, responsive to the single rein, and his mildeyes veiled by his drooping lashes. But, without any reason other thanthe habit of brutality, Rol struck him. In a moment there was a change. The Racer's speed was checked, all four legs braced forward till hestood; the drooping lids were raised, the eyes rolled--there was agreen light in them now. Three puffs of steam were jetted from eachnostril. Rol shouted, then, scenting danger, quickly upset the sled andhid beneath. The Storbuk turned to charge the sled, sniffing andtossing the snow with his foot; but little Knute, Sveggum's son, ranforward and put his arms around the Storbuk's neck; then the fiercelook left the Reindeer's eye, and he suffered the child to lead himquietly back to the starting-point. Beware, O driver! the Reindeer, too, "sees red. "

This was the coming of the White Storbuk for the folk of Filefjeld. 

In the two years that followed he became famous throughout that countryas Sveggum's Storbuk, and many a strange exploit was told of him. Intwenty minutes he could carry old Sveggum round the six-mile rim ofUtrovand. When the snow-slide buried all the village of Holaker, it wasthe Storbuk that brought the word for help to Opdalstole and returnedagain over the forty miles of deep snow in seven hours, to carrybrandy, food, and promise of speedy aid. 

When over-venturesome young Knute Sveggumsen broke through the new thinice of Utrovand, his cry for help brought the Storbuk to the rescue;for he was the gentlest of his kind and always ready to come at call. 

He brought the drowning boy in triumph to the shore, and as theycrossed the Vand-dam stream, there was the Troll-bird to sing:

 Good luck, good luck, With the White Storbuk. 

After which he disappeared for months--doubtless dived into somesubaqueous cave to feast and revel all winter; although Sveggum did notbelieve it was so. 

III

How often is the fate of kingdoms given into child hands, or evencommitted to the care of Bird or Beast! A She-wolf nursed the RomanEmpire. A Wren pecking crumbs on a drum-head aroused the Orange army, it is said, and ended the Stuart reign in Britain. Little wonder, then, that to a noble Reindeer Buk should be committed the fate of Norway:that the Troll on the wheel should have reason in his rhyme. 

These were troublous times in Scandinavia. Evil men, traitors at heart, were sowing dissension between the brothers Norway and Sweden. "Downwith the Union!" was becoming the popular cry. 

Oh, unwise peoples! If only you could have been by Sveggum's wheel tohear the Troll when he sang:

 The Raven and the Lion They held the Bear at bay; But he picked the bones of both When they quarrelled by the way. 

Threats of civil war, of a fight for independence, were heardthroughout Norway. Meetings were held more or less secretly, and ateach of them was some one with well-filled pockets and glib tongue, toenlarge on the country's wrongs, and promise assistance from an outsideirresistible power as soon as they showed that they meant to strike forfreedom. No one openly named the power. That was not necessary; it waseverywhere felt and understood. Men who were real patriots began tobelieve in it. Their country was wronged. Here was one to set herright. Men whose honor was beyond question became secret agents of thispower. The state was honeycombed and mined; society was a tangle ofplots. The king was helpless, though his only wish was for the people'swelfare. Honest and straightforward, what could he do against thisfar-reaching machination? The very advisers by his side were corruptedthrough mistaken patriotism. The idea that they were playing into thehands of the foreigner certainly never entered into the minds of thesedupes--at least, not those of the rank and file. One or two, tried, selected, and bought by the arch-enemy, knew the real object in view, and the chief of these was Borgrevinck, a former lansman of Nordlands. A man of unusual gifts, a member of the Storthing, a born leader, hemight have been prime minister long ago, but for the distrust inspiredby several unprincipled dealings. Soured by what he considered want ofappreciation, balked in his ambition, he was a ready tool when theforeign agent sounded him. At first his patriotism had to be sopped, but that necessity disappeared as the game went on, and perhaps healone, of the whole far-reaching conspiracy, was prepared to strike atthe Union for the benefit of the foreigner. 

Plans were being perfected, --army officers being secretly misled andwon over by the specious talk of "their country's wrongs, " and eachmove made Borgrevinck more surely the head of it all, --when a quarrelbetween himself and the "deliverer" occurred over the question ofrecompense. Wealth untold they were willing to furnish; but regalpower, never. The quarrel became more acute. Borgrevinck continued toattend all meetings, but was ever more careful to centre all power inhimself, and even prepared to turn round to the king's party ifnecessary to further his ambition. The betrayal of his followers wouldpurchase his own safety. But proofs he must have, and he set aboutgetting signatures to a declaration of rights which was simply a veiledconfession of treason. Many of the leaders he had deluded into signingthis before the meeting at Laersdalsoren. Here they met in the earlywinter, some twenty of the patriots, some of them men of position, allof them men of brains and power. Here, in the close and stiflingparlor, they planned, discussed, and questioned. Great hopes wereexpressed, great deeds were forecast, in that stove-hot room. 

Outside, against the fence, in the winter night, was a Great WhiteReindeer, harnessed to a sled, but lying down with his head doubledback on his side as he slept, calm, unthoughtful, ox-like. Which seemedlikelier to decide the nation's fate, the earnest thinkers indoors, orthe ox-like sleeper without? Which seemed more vital to Israel, thebearded council in King Saul's tent, or the light-hearted shepherd-boyhurling stones across the brook at Bethlehem? At Laersdalsoren it wasas before: deluded by Borgrevinck's eloquent plausibility, all puttheir heads in the noose, their lives and country in his hands, seeingin this treacherous monster a very angel of self-sacrificingpatriotism. All? No, not all. Old Sveggum was there. He could neitherread nor write. That was his excuse for not signing. He could not reada letter in a book, but he could read something of the hearts of men. As the meeting broke up he whispered to Axel Tanberg: "Is his own nameon that paper?" And Axel, starting at the thought, said: "No. " Thensaid Sveggum: "I don't trust that man. They ought to know of this atNystuen. " For there was to be the really important meeting. But how tolet them know was the riddle. Borgrevinck was going there at once withhis fast Horses. 

Sveggum's eye twinkled as he nodded toward the Storbuk, standing tiedto the fence. Borgrevinck leaped into his sleigh and went off at speed, for he was a man of energy. Sveggum took the bells from the harness, untied the Reindeer, stepped into the pulk. He swung the single rein, clucked to the Storbuk, and also turned his head toward Nystuen. Thefast Horses had a long start, but before they had climbed the eastwardhill Sveggum needs must slack, so as not to overtake them. He held backtill they came to the turn above the woods at Maristuen; then he quitthe road, and up the river flat he sped the Buk, a farther way, but theonly way to bring them there ahead. 

Squeak, crack-squeak, crack-squeak, crack--at regular intervals fromthe great spreading snow-shoes of the Storbuk, and the steady sough ofhis breath was like the Nordland as she passes up the Hardanger Fjord. High up, on the smooth road to the left, they could hear the jingle ofthe horse-bells and the shouting of Borgrevinck's driver, who, underorders, was speeding hard for Nystuen. 

The highway was a short road and smooth, and the river valley was longand rough; but when, in four hours, Borgrevinck got to Nystuen, therein the throng was a face that he had just left at Laersdalsoren. Heappeared not to notice, though nothing ever escaped him. 

At Nystuen none of the men would sign. Some one had warned them. Thiswas serious; might be fatal at such a critical point. As he thought itover, his suspicions turned more and more to Sveggum, the old fool thatcould not write his name at Laersdalsoren. But how did he get therebefore himself with his speedy Horses?

There was a dance at Nystuen that night; the dance was necessary tomask the meeting; and during that Borgrevinck learned of the swiftWhite Ren. 

The Nystuen trip had failed, thanks to the speed of the White Buk. Borgrevinck must get to Bergen before word of this, or all would belost. There was only one way, to be sure of getting there before anyone else. Possibly word had already gone from Laersdalsoren. But evenat that, Borgrevinck could get there and save himself, at the price ofall Norway, if need be, provided he went with the White Storbuk. Hewould not be denied. He was not the man to give up a point, though ittook all the influence he could bring to bear, this time, to get oldSveggum's leave. 

The Storbuk was quietly sleeping in the corral when Sveggum came tobring him. He rose leisurely, hind legs first, stretched one, then theother, curling his tail tight on his back as he did so, shook the hayfrom the great antlers as though they were a bunch of twigs, and slowlyfollowed Sveggum at the end of the tight halter. He was so sleepy andslow that Borgrevinck impatiently gave him a kick, and got for responsea short snort from the Buk, and from Sveggum an earnest warning, bothof which were somewhat scornfully received. The tinkling bells on theharness had been replaced, but Borgrevinck wanted them removed. Hewished to go in silence. Sveggum would not be left behind when hisfavorite Ren went forth, so he was given a seat in the horse-sleighwhich was to follow, and the driver thereof received from his master asecret hint to delay. 

Then, with papers on his person to death-doom a multitude of misguidedmen, with fiendish intentions in his heart as well as the power tocarry them out, and with the fate of Norway in his hands, Borgrevinckwas made secure in the sled, behind the White Storbuk, and sped at dawnon his errand of desolation. 

At the word from Sveggum the White Ren set off with a couple of boundsthat threw Borgrevinck back in the pulk. This angered him, but heswallowed his wrath on seeing that it left the horse-sleigh behind. Heshook the line, shouted, and the Buk settled down to a long, swingingtrot. His broad hoofs clicked double at every stride. His nostrils, outlevel, puffed steady blasts of steam in the frosty morning as hesettled to his pace. The pulk's prow cut two long shears of snow, thatswirled up over man and sled till all were white. And the great ox-eyesof the King Ren blazed joyously in the delight of motion, and ofconquest too, as the sound of the horse-bells faded far behind. 

Even masterful Borgrevinck could not but mark with pleasure the noblecreature that had balked him last night and now was lending its speedto his purpose; for it was his intention to arrive hours before thehorse-sleigh, if possible. 

Up the rising road they sped as though downhill, and the driver'sspirits rose with the exhilarating speed. The snow groaned ceaselesslyunder the prow of the pulk, and the frosty creaking under the hoofs ofthe flying Ren was like the gritting of mighty teeth. Then came thelevel stretch from Nystuen's hill to Dalecarl's, and as they whirled byin the early day, little Carl chanced to peep from a window, and gotsight of the Great White Ren in a white pulk with a white driver, justas it is in the stories of the Giants, and clapped his hands, andcried, "Good, good!"

But his grandfather, when he caught a glimpse of the white wonder thatwent without even sound of bells, felt a cold chill in his scalp, andwent back to light a candle that he kept at the window till the sun washigh, for surely this was the Storbuk of Jotunheim. 

But the Ren whirled on, and the driver shook the reins and thought onlyof Bergen. He struck the White Steed with the loose end of the rope. The Buk gave three great snorts and three great bounds, then fasterwent, and as they passed by Dyrskaur, where the Giant sits on the edge, his head was muffled in scud, which means that a storm is coming. TheStorbuk knew it. He sniffed, and eyed the sky with anxious look, andeven slacked a little; but Borgrevinck yelled at the speeding beast, though going yet as none but he could go, and struck him once, twice, and thrice, and harder yet. So the pulk was whirled along like a skiffin a steamer's wake; but there was blood in the Storbuk's eye now; andBorgrevinck was hard put to balance the sled. The miles flashed by likeroods till Sveggum's bridge appeared. The storm-wind now was blowing, but there was the Troll. Whence came he now, none knew, but there hewas, hopping on the keystone and singing of

 Norway's fate and Norway's luck, Of the hiding Troll and the riding Buk. 

Down the winding highway they came, curving inward as they swung aroundthe corner. At the voice on the bridge the Deer threw back his ears andslackened his pace. Borgrevinck, not knowing whence it came, strucksavagely at the Ren. The red light gleamed in those ox-like eyes. Hesnorted in anger and shook the great horns, but he did not stop toavenge the blow. For him was a vaster vengeance still. He onward spedas before, but from that time Borgrevinck had lost all control. The onevoice that the Ren would hear had been left behind. They whirled aside, off the road, before the bridge was reached. The pulk turned over, butrighted itself, and Borgrevinck would have been thrown out and killedbut for the straps. It was not to be so; it seemed rather as though theevery curse of Norway had been gathered into the sled for a purpose. Bruised and battered, he reappeared. The Troll from the bridge leapedlightly to the Storbuk's head, and held on to the horns as he dancedand sang his ancient song, and a new song, too:

 Ha! at last! Oh, lucky day, Norway's curse to wipe away!

Borgrevinck was terrified and furious. He struck harder at the Storbukas he bounded over the rougher snow, and vainly tried to control him. He lost his head in fear. He got out his knife, at last, to strike atthe wild Buk's hamstrings, but a blow from the hoof sent it flying fromhis hand. Their speed on the road was slow to that they now made: nolonger striding at the trot, but bounding madly, great five-stridebounds, the wretched Borgrevinck strapped in the sled, alone andhelpless through his own contriving, screaming, cursing, and praying. The Storbuk with bloodshot eyes, madly steaming, careered up the ruggedascent, up to the broken, stormy Hoifjeld; mounting the hills as aPetrel mounts the rollers, skimming the flats as a Fulmar skims theshore, he followed the trail where his mother had first led histottering steps, up from the Vand-dam nook. He followed the oldfamiliar route that he had followed for five years, where thewhite-winged Rype flies aside, where the black rock mountains, shiningwhite, come near and block the sky, "where the Reindeer find theirmysterie. "

On like the little snow-wreath that the storm-wind sends dancing beforethe storm, on like a whirlwind over the shoulder of Suletind, over theknees of Torholmenbrae--the Giants that sit at the gateway. Faster thanman or beast could follow, up--up--up--and on; and no one saw them go, but a Raven that swooped behind, and flew as Raven never flew, and theTroll, the same old Troll that sang by the Vand-dam, and now danced andsang between the antlers:

 Good luck, good luck for Norway With the White Storbuk comes riding. 

Over Tvindehoug they faded like flying scud on the moorlands, on to thegloomy distance, away toward Jotunheim, the home of the Evil Spirits, the Land of the Lasting Snow. Their every sign and trail was wiped awayby the drifting storm, and the end of them no man knows. 

The Norse folk awoke as from a horrid nightmare. Their national ruinwas averted; there were no deaths, for there were no proofs; and thetalebearer's strife was ended. 

The one earthly sign remaining from that drive is the string of silverbells that Sveggum had taken from the Storbuk's neck--the victorybells, each the record of a triumph won; and when the old man came tounderstand, he sighed, and hung to the string a final bell, the largestof them all. 

Nothing more was ever seen or heard of the creature who so nearly soldhis country, or of the White Storbuk who balked him. Yet those who livenear Jotunheim say that on stormy nights, when the snow is flying andthe wind is raving in the woods, there sometimes passes, at frightfulspeed, an enormous White Reindeer with fiery eyes, drawing a snow-whitepulk, in which is a screaming wretch in white, and on the head of theDeer, balancing by the horns, is a brown-clad, white-bearded Troll, bowing and grinning pleasantly at him, and singing

 Of Norway's luck And a White Storbuk--

the same, they say, as the one that with prophetic vision sang bySveggum's Vand-dam on a bygone day when the birches wore theirspringtime hangers, and a great mild-eyed Varsimle' came alone, to goaway with a little white Renskalv walking slowly, demurely, by her side.