Jack awoke, but sat still. The man tramped by on the trail one hundred
yards 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 Warhorse
and 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, here
especially he had baffled the Greyhound.
These doubtless were the motive thoughts rather than any plan of
playing one enemy against another, and Warhorse bounded openly across
the snow to the fence of the big black Dog.
The hen-hole was shut, and Warhorse, not a little puzzled, sneaked
around to find another, without success, until, around the front, here
was the gate wide open, and inside lying on some boards was the big
Dog, fast asleep. The Hens were sitting hunched up in the warmest
corner of the yard. The house Cat was gingerly picking her way from
barn to kitchen, as Warhorse halted in the gateway.
The black form of his pursuer was crawling down the far white prairie
slope. Jack hopped quietly into the yard. A long-legged Rooster, that
ought to have minded his own business, uttered a loud cackle as he saw
the Rabbit hopping near. The Dog lying in the sun raised his head and
stood up, and Jack's peril was dire. He squatted low and turned himself
into a gray clod. He did it cleverly, but still might have been lost
but for the Cat. Unwittingly, unwillingly, she saved him. The black Dog
had taken three steps toward the Warhorse, though he did not know the
Rabbit was there, and was now blocking the only way of escape from the
yard, when the Cat came round the corner of the house, and leaping to a
window-ledge brought a flower-pot rolling down. By that single awkward
act she disturbed the armed neutrality existing between herself and the
Dog. She fled to the barn, and of course a flying foe is all that is
needed to send a Dog on the war-path. They passed within thirty feet of
the crouching Rabbit. As soon as they were well gone, Jack turned, and
with-out even a "Thank you, Pussy," he fled to the open and away on the
hard-beaten road.
The Cat had been rescued by the lady of the house; the Dog was once
more sprawling on the boards when the man on Jack's trail arrived. He
carried, 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 or
not, was a success, and the Rabbit got rid of his troublesome follower.
Next day the stranger made another search for the Jack and found, not
himself, but his track. He knew it by its tail-mark, its long leaps and
few spy-hops, but with it and running by it was the track of a smaller
Rabbit. 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 sat
together in the sun, there they ambled side by side, and here again
they sported in the snow, always together. There was only one
conclusion: this was the mating season. This was a pair of
Jack-rabbits--the Little Warhorse and his mate.