on the northern slope was respected and acknowledged by all the
four-footed things that harbored and hunted in the hills. The mountains
far eastward had dwindled away here to a chain of knobs, bisecting the
country from east to west. Miniature mountains they were, indeed;
wooded, rocky, untillable, and lonely. Wild-cats, foxes, and the smaller
gentry of the forest, squirrels, raccoons, and opossums, lived and
throve upon this chain of knobs. But gradually those that had lived on
the northern slope went over the crest to the other side, and left the
field to the undisputed possession of the big cat, who did not care to
have his preserves poached upon by the rag-tags and bob-tails of
creation. Once a year he would go questing for a mate, boldly invading
the southern side of the range, and not coming back until he had found
the lady of his choice. Then after a while a brood of whelps would be
born in the secret lair of the King, and when these were scarcely able
to fall about the floor of their birthplace in play, and bite at each
other’s sawed-off tails, the King would, one fine day, hustle them and
their mother, his erstwhile bride, out of his home and over the crest of
the range, to fare good or ill, as luck would send. At least this was
the story that the human-people told, and this much goes to support the
tale, that, whereas those farmers living beyond the line of knobs to the
southward lost but few hogs from nocturnal depredations, those living to
the north were in nightly fear that morning would show a trail of blood
from barnyard or pen. And the men-people had sat together night after
night in council, with heads bobbing and tongues wagging, trying to
evolve a plan whereby to capture or destroy this scourge of their fields
and pastures. But they had failed. The truest nosed hounds of the
various packs scattered around could not keep his trail, but would lose
the scent and return crest-fallen and shame-faced. He was never seen
within gunshot, and they could not find his lair. But one thing they
knew—that nothing else ran at night on the northern slope.
Picking his way as daintily as a satin-shod miss tips across a dirty
street from carriage door to house door, the King pursued his diagonal
course, which would eventually bring him to a field adjoining the garden
of a farm-house. He had but little more than half completed his journey,
when to his quick ears came a sharp snap, and something struck him
sharply on the back just behind his shoulders. He bared his teeth with a
low growl of wrath, and smote back blindly with one paw, which was
rimmed with five curving claws unsheathed with lightning swiftness. At
the same time there came the sound of huge wings beating the air to bear
a heavy body up, and a hoot owl laboriously made his way through the
trees, his perch, a dead limb, having at last broken beneath his weight.
Low on the ground two fiery eyes glared up in savage hate; then the
long, white claws slowly drew back out of sight and the cushioned feet
moved on again.
It had been a hard and long winter for the King, and the spring had been
slow in coming. There had been days when he could not leave his den;
when the leaden clouds had unburdened themselves for hours at a time,
and the snow had piled up, up, up over the very door of his home, and
all familiar landmarks were obliterated. Then he must needs chafe inside
his hiding-place, and when hunger seized him the cold nipped him the
harder, and it was a bitter battle to keep them both off. But his fur
had grown heavy and thick, and he could curl up and sleep and forget
that hunger was gnawing within him. He had lived through too many
winters and seen too many snows to venture out. For tracks can be seen
by the men-people, and then it would be all over with him, for they
would come and smoke him out. Once before, when he was younger, his life
had been thus jeopardized, and it was only by finding another exit far
off from the one where his enemies sat waiting that he escaped. The
winter just passed had seen his endurance tested to the utmost. Tortured
by starvation, he had at last determined to scout around on the top of
the knob, when the half-covered entrance to his den was darkened and a
striped-tail raccoon came ambling in. One swift blow and then the King
feasted royally, although his victim was old and bony and had but little
blood in his carcass. But this stayed his craving maw for a few days
longer, and then he crunched the dry bones and licked the snow in lieu
of water and waited for a thaw. It came at last, and the prisoned King
sat just within his door and watched the snow disappear with gloating
eyes. But even then there was danger in every step he took, for the
soaked ground caught and held the scent of his tracks, and there were
ever roaming the hills in search of him those lop-eared, thin-flanked,
tireless hounds, the only four-footed things in all his kingdom that he
feared. And they never came alone to do him fair battle, but always in
overpowering numbers with hereditary hate in their hearts. And so it was
incumbent upon him to employ flight and wily woodcraft when dealing with
these arch-enemies, and such had been his cunning that he had always
fooled them and shaken them from his tracks ere he crept tired, yet
victorious, into his hidden chamber to rest.
The phantom-like figure trailing its way down the knob-slope reached the
timberline without let or hindrance save the single exception which we
have seen. His back was still beset by occasional sharp pains where the
limb had struck, and this fact did not heighten the quality of mercy in
his heart, if, indeed, such a thing abode there. He halted for a moment
on the edge of the cleared ground before trusting himself to the open,
and looked and listened with painful intentness; then a slender red
tongue leaped from his mouth and swept his chops hungrily, for a
peculiar odor was wafted to his nostrils across the field—it came from
the backs of a bunch of sleeping shotes in a far-off corner of the
barnyard. Discretion immediately gave place to the unsatisfied hunger of
many days and the insatiable lust for blood. With swift bounds the King
advanced across the field, which had been sown in wheat the fall before,
and was now totally bare of vegetation. He reached the rail fence
enclosing the garden and skirted it warily, every nerve keyed to its
highest tension, for not a hundred feet away were the pack, sleeping the
light dog-sleep under and about the house of their master, and they had
been taught from puppyhood—nay, for generations even—to rouse and give
chase at the wild-cat smell. The King knew this, but he had dared the
same thing before, and carried off a prize while the guardians of the
flock slept. The mottled shape moved on with soundless steps, and in the
shadow of the barn it stopped. But it was only to glance about to see
that everything was still, and that none of his blood-enemies had
scented him in their slumbers. Again he moved forward—to stop rigidly. A
fat fowl was roosting on the top of a stake in the fence-corner three
feet from him. This was more delicate than hog meat, but there was less
of it, and the marauder was half starved—he felt that he could have
eaten a full-grown ox, and then slept peacefully. So the big rooster
dreamed on, not knowing how narrowly he had escaped, and the sly cat
resumed his creeping journey. His trained and faultless nostrils had
already located the exact whereabouts of his prey, and in a few moments
he was as close as he dared to go before the final move.
The fence was high and the rails were placed too closely for even his
sleek body to squeeze through a crack. He could see the half-grown
shotes in the corner, sleeping huddled together. They were very still.
At times one would flick an ear; another would give a spasmodic kick at
some tormenting flea, and a third would “Ugh! Ugh!” drowsily, and
relapse into unconsciousness. It was easy game for an old hunter—and how
juicy their sides looked in the starlight! But the King had hoped for a
crack through which to crawl. True, it would be no effort for him to
scale the highest fence ever built, but top rails have a way of falling
off with a terrible clatter, and sometimes, if the spoil be very heavy,
it is not such an easy matter to get back over the fence to freedom. In
the midst of his cogitations a light wind sprang up, and he noted with
dismay that it blew from him to the house yard—to the keen nostrils of
the dog-pack. Indecision vanished. With eyes glowing like sulphurous
coals he crouched low, and swiftly inched his hind feet and haunches up
under his belly. But the semi-darkness deceived him, and he
miscalculated the distance. The spring was too strong, and he clutched
wildly at the top rail as he passed over, only to drag it crashing from
its place. With a quickness found only in the tribe to which he
belonged, the great cat touched the ground only to rise in another leap
which landed him in the midst of the half-awakened and dazed pigs. The
deadly claws were bare, and they ripped at the throat of a victim as the
wicked teeth closed upon its neck and snapped the _vertebrae_. With the
gush of hot blood in his face and the smell of it deluging his nostrils,
caution and secrecy took wing, and the King stopped long enough to throw
back his head and give one terrifying scream of victory. Then he seized
the limp form before him in his powerful jaws, and with one gigantic
bound cleared the barrier before him and was gone.
[Illustration: “The King stopped long enough to throw back his head
and give one terrifying scream of victory.”]
Almost instantly another sound went up to the listening stars; the
full-throated bay of alarm from the gaunt leader of the dog-pack. Then
over the yard fence brown shadows flitted; singly and in pairs, and a
score of swift feet passed hither and thither, while sniffing noses
searched for the trail. They found the place of the slaughter, and the
tracks of the bold marauder smelled fresh and strong. Then for a time
the circling forms were baffled. But quickly one, leaner and wirier than
the rest, had wriggled through the fence, and his keen-voiced, excited
yelp told that the trail had been found again. Leaping, climbing,
crawling, the whole pack were soon over, and with waving tails and
deep-mouthed cries took up the pursuit. It was not the first time that
they had followed the King of the Northern Slope, but now he was close
at hand, for his tracks were hot in the soft soil of the wheat-field.
The wild-cat had barely reached the timber line when his pursuers took
up his trail in earnest. His progress across the field had been slow,
for the ground was yielding, and the burden which he carried was almost
half as large as himself. For a while he ran parallel to the open,
husbanding his strength for greater need, then took a course up the
knob-side directly opposite the way he had come and away from his lair.
He heard the dog-pack after him; he heard them change their course at
the timber line, and he knew that they were not to be lost by any simple
ruse. The enmity of years was in their hearts and their teeth were
whetted for his death. They were drawing nearer every moment, for they
were fleet of foot and had nothing to hold them back. The dead weight in
his vise-like teeth dragged at his neck, and as he ran the King made up
his mind. He must leave his prize if he would escape, for they were
running two yards to his one. He stopped for the shortest instant by the
side of a fallen tree, thrust his muzzle into the torn neck of his kill
and drank of the blood, then, relieved of his load, he sped up the hill
with long, quick bounds. His enemies were pressing him hard. He could
hear them crashing through the twigs and bushes, and their short, sharp
cries told him that they were straining every muscle to overtake him. No
matter; they had done it before, and he was ahead of them now and still
King of the Northern Slope. Nearer and nearer the top of the knob they
came, and the cat redoubled his efforts, for a cunning scheme had crept
into his subtle brain. He reached the crest twenty yards in advance of
the closest hound, dashed across a small plateau terminating in a cliff,
then swerved to the left, and was lost to sight as the pack came panting
on his heels with their noses close to earth. The lead hound went sheer
over the cliff with a howl of dismay; the one immediately behind him
braced his fore legs and ploughed two furrows in the leafy loam,
stopping with his dripping tongue hanging over the chasm. In the
momentary confusion which followed the hunted gained twenty more yards,
and then the chase swept on again hotter than before. Along the crest of
the range the King led them, his eyes glowing like twin headlights, and
his muscles playing free and strong under his loose skin. But his
strength was leaving him. The long winter fasts, together with the
weight which he had carried that night for the first mile of his flight,
combined to weaken that tenacious strength which was his birthright. His
blood-enemies were fresh from sleep and strong from food, and their
tireless limbs were gradually overtaking him. He did not know how
desperately near they were till the sharp clicking of teeth at his
hind-quarters told him that the chase was nearly done. There was one
alternative now—the last, and he took it. Before him rose a large oak
tree. Gathering his spent energies he leaped upon it, ran half way up
the trunk, then crouched on a limb with the breath rasping in his throat
and a dreadful aching in his strained lungs.
It had been a long, hard race, and he was only half a victor. For
beneath him was the pack, gnawing at the bark in blind frenzy, or
patrolling the tree with lugubrious howls expressive of baffled hate.
Throughout the long hours of the spring night they remained thus—the
King a prisoner in his tower, his captors keeping sleepless guard below.
All knew what the end would be. Especially did the silent figure in the
tree think on what the dawn would bring. There was no escape, but there
were two deaths—the one fighting, the other to be shot down like a
skulking fox or a cringing opossum. But life was sweet to the big
wild-cat, and as the slow dawn broke it seemed that the balsam of the
forest had never come so sweet to his nostrils, and he could feel the
old-time vigor coursing through his rested limbs. He placed his bullet
head on his paws, and looked down. Through the misty vapor of early
morning he could see them, ten in number, keeping wide-eyed watch over
him who had so long eluded their best efforts. They had been quiet
towards morning, but none of them had slept. Now one lifted up his head,
and sent forth his battle-call of victory. Others joined in, and just as
the sun was beginning to peep over the edge of the world the answer
came—a fox-horn sounded not far away. The men-people were coming, and
there were two deaths. There was no need to wait. No two-footed thing
should stand laughing by and see him perish. Let the four-footed kind
wreak his death; but he would not die alone.
Swiftly he raised himself and walked along the limb for a few inches.
Then he lifted his back into an arch, reversed his fur so that he looked
like a great brown ball, and sent forth one last, awful cry, which
echoed far and wide over the knob-range and over the lowlands, causing
the hate-eager hounds to involuntarily draw back in their tracks, and
sending a shiver of fear to the hearts of the denizens of the southern
slope. Then he launched his body in mid-air, straight at the leader of
the dog-pack. The wily hound drew back, and the wild-cat struck the
earth. They were on him before he could lift his paws from the shock of
the fall. Yet he shook them off bravely and gave blow for blow, and in a
second the curving white claws were dripping red drops. The pack leader
held off for a time, for he was old in war. But when the right moment
came he rushed in for the throat-hold—and got it. Then there was a
confused medley of legs, tails, teeth, claws, hair, and blood, all in a
writhing heap. When order was evolved from this chaos, two hounds were
dead, two limped on three legs, another had but one ear, and not one of
the pack had a whole skin. And in their midst was a shapeless, lifeless
ball of mottled brown.
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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
○ Unbalanced quotation marks were left as the author intended.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
End of Project Gutenberg's The Race of the Swift, by Edwin Carlile Litsey