"See if they like my swamp. I forgot my pack board, Johnny. Will you
loan me one?"
"Sure thing."
"Would you mind letting me pick them up after dark?"
"Any time you say. You'd just as soon keep it private, huh?"
"I'd just as soon," Andy agreed. "Nobody will know I have them if I take
them in after dark."
* * * * *
A moment before the sack landed in the brush, all three kittens turned
so that the entire trio landed on their feet. This was not an
instinctive move but a planned one that was possible because a cat
thinks so swiftly. They would not have been hurt if they'd been thrown
on rocks.
As it was, the yielding branches of the brush broke their fall, so that
they came to earth almost gently. Wild-eyed, panting, the two gray
kittens stretched full-length and waited tensely. As tense as his
brothers, Frosty was not satisfied merely to wait. A true son of the
black-and-white tom, he had inherited all that old warrior's character,
courage and spirit.
Before he did anything else, to the best of his ability, Frosty
determined what lay about them.
Normally he depended on his ears, his eyes, and to a lesser extent, his
nose. Now his eyes were almost useless, but the sun shone brightly and
some light penetrated the sack. Just overhead, a leafy branch was moving
in the gentle wind, and when the branch moved, its shadow shifted across
the sack. Frosty studied it intently, trying to determine exactly what
it was and why it should be. Unable to do so, after the shadow had moved
back and forth a dozen times, he did satisfy himself that it was
harmless. He then gave himself over to the use of his ears and nose.
Faintly in the distance, he still heard the measured hoofbeats of Luke
Trull's horse. The animal was going farther away and therefore he need
not concern himself with it, but indelibly graven on Frosty's mind was
the image of Luke Trull himself. The man was a deadly enemy and had
proven himself such. He must never be considered as anything else, but
enemies could harm or be harmed only when they were near and Luke Trull
was gone with his horse. There were more immediate problems.
For a short space the only sounds were the horse's hoofbeats, the
sighing of the gentle breeze and the kittens' panting. Then a mottled
thrush that had been startled into hasty flight when the hurled sack
came his way, cocked his head in the chokecherry tree to which he had
flown. The sack seemed harmless. At any rate, it did not pursue.
Curious, the thrush flew back to the copse, tilted on a twig and gave
voice to a few questioning notes.
Frosty heard and interpreted correctly. He had seen birds and even
stalked them, when he and his brothers played outside the shed. He was
not particularly concerned about the thrush. It was unlikely to offer a
battle; all the birds he'd ever seen had avoided him. Frosty started
suddenly.
Winging in solitary flight over the mountain, a jet-black crow voiced
its raucous song. Frosty heard and marveled. Never before had such a
sound crossed his ears and he waited to hear it again. When the crow did
not repeat its call, Frosty sank back. But he knew no peace. His
curiosity, aroused and unsatisfied, tormented him and would continue to
do so until he heard another crow call and identified the source of a
sound so intriguing.
The sun burned hotly and the gray kitten that had mewed before, cried
again. The weakest of the three, the kitten was suffering far more than
his brothers. Frosty looked once toward his protesting brother and
turned his head away. He too was hungry and thirsty, but it was not in
him to cry. He poked experimentally at a tiny hole in the gunny sack.
Unable to thrust his paw through, he turned his attention elsewhere. He
was too smart to waste time trying the obviously impossible. When he
laid plans, they would succeed.
The only scents that reached his nostrils were those of sun-warmed
foliage and earth and the heavy, rank odor of a rotting log that lay
nearby. The weakening gray kitten mewed again and Frosty twisted
uncomfortably. It was long past feeding time and hunger was an ache. But
thirst was becoming a torture.
The fine hairs in Frosty's inner ears quivered like stretched wires and
he turned his head toward the rotting log. The sound that originated
there was so faint and wispy that only a very sensitive ear could have
detected it. A chipmunk ran up the log, saw the sack, stopped, sat up
for a better view, squeaked in frenzied alarm and turned to flash back
along the log. He dived into its hollow interior.
The weakening gray kitten twisted, laid his ears back, snarled and
sprang upon and slashed viciously at his gray brother. The attacked
kitten slashed back. Exhausted by its own tremendous effort, the feeble
kitten sank down apathetically and closed its eyes. In a grim way, it
was the luckiest of the three, for it would be the first to die.
Frosty unsheathed and sheathed his claws. He looked meaningfully at the
second gray kitten, which flattened its ears and spat at him. Frosty
turned around to face his brother.
The sun went down and when it did a chill fell on the mountain. But it
brought no relief from raging thirst, though hunger was forgotten. The
weakest kitten, past caring what happened, stretched limply. Its eyes
were closed and it gasped for breath. But Frosty and the other gray
kitten were still strong.
Far across the mountain, his every need and want attended to, Luke Trull
slept soddenly in his comfortable bed.
Frosty strained. Something was walking nearby.
It walked on paws so soft and stealthy that the sound came to Frosty's
ears almost like the ghost of a noise. It was less than half real, but
it was there. Frosty turned to face it, knowing that, as always, he must
be ready for anything. Nearby, there was a short sigh as something
expelled its breath.
The gray kitten laid his ears back and snarled. Frosty caught the scent
of whatever came and at once was aware of two things. The approaching
creature was alien to him but he was immediately hostile to it. Somewhat
like a dog, whatever came was not a dog. But it was wild and big, and it
meant no good. Frosty bristled.
He could have no way of knowing that the creature, now smelling closely
at the sack, was a prowling coyote. A big and crafty old male, the
coyote had acquired his craft the hard way. Four years ago, he had left
his right front paw in a steel trap, and ever since he had avoided
everything which he did not know.
He knew all about helpless kittens and pups in gunny sacks. Over the
years, Luke Trull had carried dozens from the town to a promised "good
home" in the hills. It was one of the more paradoxical aspects of
town-hill relationships that nobody had ever challenged him or stopped
to think about it. The most superficial reasoning would have
demonstrated that, if Luke had really taken home all the kittens and
pups he had promised to take there, he couldn't possibly have room for
anything else.
Luke's method of disposing of surplus kittens and pups was manna to the
coyote. And, in a way, the coyote's very presence was a blessing to the
helpless animals. The coyote killed cleanly, never needing more than one
snap of his jaws, and such a death was much easier than waiting for
thirst and hunger to do their work. Strong pups and kittens often lived
a surprisingly long time.
Having satisfied himself that this was exactly what he had thought it
would be, the coyote pinned the sack down with his front paws and went
to work with his teeth. He had done this so many times that he was a
past master at it and his technique was admirable. Rip a hole in the
sack, pull out the trapped kittens or pups, snap once and enjoy an easy
meal.
The coyote was neither in a hurry nor particularly concerned. This
formula he himself had perfected. Never yet had a sacked kitten or pup
escaped him or hurt him even slightly.
He pulled out the half-dead gray kitten, killed it and laid it aside.
The second gray kitten fought, but not very long or very hard. Then,
suddenly, what the coyote knew as an old story took on a new and
astonishing twist.
Instead of waiting to be pulled out of the sack, Frosty sprang out.
Straight to the coyote's head he went, all four paws raking, while baby
teeth found a mark. He could work no serious damage, but fighting on his
side was a powerful ally whose presence Frosty did not even suspect.
The coyote had opened numerous sacks and each time everything had
happened in exactly the same way. Deciding to his own satisfaction that
they'd always continue to fall into the same pattern, he had prepared
himself for nothing else. Frosty's vicious attack startled him, so that
he leaped suddenly backwards. When he did, Frosty relinquished his hold
and sprang away. But he did not do so aimlessly.
The coyote's backward leap brought him near the end of the rotting log
and Frosty's night-piercing eyes found the hollow there. His feline
brain, able to execute a plan the instant it was conceived, did the
rest. The end of Frosty's tail disappeared into the hollow a half-inch
ahead of the coyote's snapping jaws. Though the hollow was scarcely big
enough to admit his small body, Frosty managed to turn around in it.
Three feet away, the coyote bent his head to peer into the hollow and
his disappointed panting sounded in jerky sequence. Growling a warning,
Frosty took no further action. This was as simple and precise as a
mathematical formula. The coyote could kill him. The coyote wanted to
kill him. But the kitten was in the hollow log and the coyote was not.
If the coyote could get in, he'd be here. All these indisputable
elements added up to the fact that, at least temporarily, Frosty was
safe.
He crouched watchfully, not afraid of the coyote but not foolish enough
to engage in a battle that he did not have to fight. He was no match for
the creature, he knew it, and since there didn't seem to be anything he
could do right now, he did nothing.
After a moment, the coyote went away. No fool, he was perfectly aware of
the fact that he might growl and scratch at the hole all night and still
not reach the black kitten. He paused long enough to eat the two gray
kittens and padded away on silent paws.
Frosty stayed where he was for another twenty minutes. When he finally
moved, he went only to the entrance of the hollow and lingered there for
five minutes more. He thought the coyote had gone but he wanted to be
sure, and only when he was sure did he drop out of the hollow onto the
ground.
He went into a half-crouch, tail curled against his flank and tense
muscles ready to carry him wherever circumstance indicated he should go.
This was a wholly unfamiliar world, one in which he'd have to feel every
inch of his way. The least wrong move could bring disaster. Finally,
eyes and ears alert, he moved softly as a shadow.
Frosty paused beside the limp gunny sack. He touched it with an extended
nose, then glided cautiously around it. There was nothing to indicate
that the sack was dangerous, but it had trapped him once and might
again. Save for scent that still lingered on the sack, there was nothing
whatever to indicate that the two gray kittens had ever been.
Knowing that he must do something, but with no clear idea of what that
might be or where he should go, Frosty started into the night. He halted
suddenly, warned more by deep-seated instinct than anything he could see
or hear, and stood quietly under a bush. A moment later, he saw a big
bird, a cruising great horned owl, pass overhead. Frosty stayed where he
was for ten minutes. He knew only that he must be cautious. He could not
know that the owl was hunting, and that a tender young kitten would be
as acceptable as anything else.
A half-hour later, Frosty came to a streamlet, one of many that pursued
their winding courses across the mountain, tumbled down it and finally
poured their waters into a river. He crouched full-length and lapped
water with a dainty pink tongue. . . . The kitten licked his chops,
waited a bit, then drank again.
His thirst satisfied, he attended to every cat's implicit duty. Sitting
down, he washed himself thoroughly with his tongue and used his front
paws to groom that part of his fur which his tongue would not reach.
He licked his chops once more, smoothed his whiskers and wandered on. He
struck at and missed a mouse that rustled the grass in front of him and
watched, wide-eyed with wonder, when a rabbit bounded away. He missed
another mouse and fluffed his fur and spat when a hunting fox rippled
past.
Dawn found him in a grassy meadow. Little tendrils of moisture curled
upward from dew-wet grass and a thin blanket of mist overhung the
meadow. When something moved sluggishly in front of him, Frosty sprang
to pin it down. His prize was a fat grasshopper, too torpid with morning
cold to move swiftly. The kitten's tail lashed back and forth. He looked
intently at this, the first catch he had ever made. Then he ate it and
found it good.
Casting back and forth across the meadow, Frosty caught and ate
grasshoppers until his stomach would hold no more.
3