For a moment the Boy felt afraid—afraid in his own woods. He felt that he
was being followed, that there were hostile eyes burning into the back of
his jacket. The sensation was novel to him, as well as unpleasant, and he
resented it. He knew it was all nonsense. There was nothing in these
woods bigger than a weasel, he was sure of that. Angry at himself, he
would not look round, but swung along carelessly through the thicket,
being in haste because it was already late and the cows should have been
home and milked before sundown. Suddenly, however, he remembered that it
was going flat against all woodcraft to disregard a warning. And was he
not, indeed, deliberately seeking to cultivate and sharpen his instincts,
in the effort to get closer to the wild woods folk and know them in their
furtive lives? Moreover, he was certainly getting more and more afraid!
He stopped, and peered into the pine glooms which surrounded him.
Standing motionless as a stump, and breathing with perfect soundlessness,
he strained his ears to help his eyes in their questioning of this
obscure menace. He could see nothing. He could hear nothing. Yet he knew
his eyes and ears were cunning to pierce all the wilderness disguises.
But stay—was that a deeper shadow, merely, far among the pine trunks?
And—did it move? He stole forward; but even as he did so, whatever of
unusual he saw or fancied in the object upon which his eyes were fixed,
melted away. It became but a shadow among other shadows, and motionless
as they—all motionless in the calm of the tranquil sunset. He ran forward
now, impatient to satisfy himself beyond suspicion. Yes—of course—it was
just this gray spruce stump! He turned away, a little puzzled and annoyed
in spite of himself. Thrashing noisily hither and thither through the
underbrush,—quite contrary to his wonted quietude while in the domains of
the wood folk,—and calling loudly in his clear young voice, “Co-petty!
Co-petty! Co-petty! Co-o-o-petty!” over and over, he at length found the
wilful young cow which had been eluding him. Then he drove the herd
slowly homeward, with mellow _tink-a-tonk, tank-tonk_ of the cow-bells,
to the farmyard and the milking.
Several evenings later, when his search for the wilful young cow chanced
to lead him again through the corner of this second growth pine wood, the
Boy had a repetition of the disturbing experience. This time his response
was instant and aggressive. As soon as he felt that sensation of
unfriendly eyes pursuing him, he turned, swept the shadows with his
piercing scrutiny, plunged into the thickets with a rush, then stopped
short as if frozen, almost holding his breath in the tensity of his
stillness. By this procedure he hoped to catch the unknown haunter of the
glooms under the disadvantage of motion. But again he was baffled.
Neither eye nor ear revealed him anything. He went home troubled and
wondering.
Some evenings afterward the same thing happened at another corner of the
pasture; and again one morning when he was fishing in the brook a mile
back into the woods, where it ran through a tangled growth of birch and
fir. He began to feel that he was either the object of a malicious
scrutiny, or that he was going back to those baby days when he used to be
afraid of the dark. Being just at the age of ripe boyhood when
childishness in himself would seem least endurable, the latter
supposition was not to be considered. He therefore set himself to
investigate the mystery, and to pit his woodcraft against the evasiveness
of this troubler of his peace.
The Boy’s confidence in his woodcraft was well founded. His natural
aptitude for the study of the wild kindred had been cultivated to the
utmost of his opportunity, in all the time that could be stolen from his
lesson-hours and from his unexacting duties about his father’s place.
Impatient and boyish in other matters, he had trained himself to the
patience of an Indian in regard to all matters appertaining to the wood
folk. He had a pet theory that the human animal was more competent, as a
mere animal, than it gets the credit of being; and it was his particular
pride to outdo the wild creatures at their own games. He could hide,
unstirring as a hidden grouse. He could run down a deer by sheer
endurance—only to spare it at the last and let it go, observed and
mastered, but unhurt. And he could see, as few indeed among the wild
things could. This was his peculiar triumph. His eyes could discriminate
where theirs could not. Perfect movelessness was apt to deceive the
keenest of them; but his sight was not to be so foiled. He could
differentiate gradually the shape of the brown hare crouching motionless
on its brown form; and separate the yellow weasel from the tuft of yellow
weeds; and distinguish the slumbering night-hawk from the knot on the
hemlock limb. He could hear, too, as well as most of the wild kindred,
and better, indeed, than some; but in this he had to acknowledge himself
hopelessly out-classed by not a few. He knew that the wood-mouse and the
hare, for instance, would simply make a mock of him in any test of ears;
and as for the owl—well, that gifted hearer of infinitesimal sounds would
be justified in calling him stone-deaf.
[Illustration: “THE BIG BEAST LITTLE IMAGINED HIMSELF OBSERVED.”]
The Boy was a good shot, but very seldom was it that he cared to display
his skill in that direction. It was his ambition to “name all the birds
without a gun.” He would know the wild folk living, not dead. From the
feebler of the wild folk he wanted trust, not fear; and he himself had no
fear, on the other hand, of the undisputed Master of the Woods, the big
black bear. His faith, justified by experience, was that the bear had
sense, knew how to mind his own business, and was ready to let other
people mind theirs. He knew the bear well, from patient, secret
observation when the big beast little imagined himself observed. From the
neighbourhood of a bull-moose in rutting season he would have taken pains
to absent himself; and if he had ever come across any trace of a panther
in those regions, he would have studied that uncertain beast with his
rifle always at hand in case of need. For the rest, he felt safe in the
woods, as an initiate of their secrets, and it was unusual for him to
carry in his wanderings any weapon but a stout stick and the sheath-knife
in his belt.
Now, however, when he set himself to discover what it was that haunted
his footsteps in the gloom, he took his little rifle—and in this act
betrayed to himself more uneasiness than he had been willing to
acknowledge.
This especial afternoon he got the hired man to look after the cows for
him, and betook himself early, about two hours before sundown, to the
young pine wood where the mystery had begun. In the heart of a little
thicket, where he was partly concealed and where the gray-brown of his
clothes blended with the stems and dead branches, he seated himself
comfortably with his back against a stump. Experience had taught him
that, in order to hold himself long in one position, the position chosen
must be an easy one. Soon his muscles relaxed, and all his senses rested,
watchful but unstrained. He had learned that tensity was a thing to be
held in reserve until occasion should call for it.
[Illustration: “A GREAT LYNX LANDED ON THE LOG.”]
In a little while his presence was ignored or forgotten by the chipmunks,
the chickadees, the white-throats, and other unafraid creatures. Once a
chipmunk, on weighty business bent, ran over his legs rather than go
around so unoffending an obstacle. The chickadees played antics on the
branches, and the air was beaded sweetly everywhere with their familiar
_sic-a-dee, dee-ee_. A white-throat in the tree right over his head
whistled his mellow _dear, dear eedledee—eedledee—eedledee_, over and
over. But there was nothing new in all this: and at length he began to
grow conscious of his position, and desirous of changing it slightly.
Before he had quite made up his mind to this momentous step there came
upon his ear a beating of wings, and a fine cock grouse alighted on a log
some forty paces distant. He stretched himself, strutted, spread his ruff
and wings and tail, and was about to begin drumming. But before the first
sonorous note rolled out there was a rustle and a pounce. The beautiful
bird bounded into the air as if hurled from a spring; and a great lynx
landed on the log, digging his claws fiercely into the spot where the
grouse had stood. As the bird rocketed off through the trees the lynx
glared after him, and emitted a loud, screeching snarl of rage. His
disappointment was so obvious and childish that the Boy almost laughed
out.
“Lucifee,” said he to himself, giving it the name it went by in all the
back settlements. “That’s the fellow that has been haunting me. I didn’t
think there were any lynxes this side of the mountain. He hasn’t seen me,
that’s sure. So now it’s my turn to haunt him a bit.”
The lucifee, indeed, had for the moment thrown off all concealment, in
his fury at the grouse’s escape. His stub of a tail twitched and his pale
bright eyes looked around for something on which to vent his feelings.
Suddenly, however, a wandering puff of air blew the scent of the Boy to
his nostrils. On the instant, like the soundless melting of a shadow, he
was down behind the log, taking observations through the veil of a leafy
branch.
Though the animal was looking straight toward him, the Boy felt sure he
was not seen. The eyes, indeed, were but following the nose. The lynx’s
nose is not so keen and accurate in its information as are the noses of
most of the other wild folk, and the animal was puzzled. The scent was
very familiar to him, for had he not been investigating the owner of it
for over a week, following him at every opportunity with mingled
curiosity and hatred? Now, judging by the scent, the object of his
curiosity was close at hand—yet incomprehensibly invisible. After
sniffing and peering for some minutes he came out from behind the log and
crept forward, moving like a shadow, and following up the scent. From
bush to tree-trunk, from thicket to stump, he glided with incredible
smoothness and rapidity, elusive to the eye, utterly inaudible; and
behind each shelter he crouched to again take observations. The Boy
thought of him, now, as a sort of malevolent ghost in fur, and no longer
wondered that he had failed to catch a glimpse of him before.
The lynx (this was the first of its tribe the Boy had ever seen, but he
knew the kind by reputation) was a somewhat doggish-looking cat, perhaps
four or five times the weight of an ordinary Tom, and with a very
uncatlike length of leg in proportion to its length of body. Its
hindquarters were disproportionately high, its tail ridiculously short.
Spiky tufts to its ears and a peculiar brushing back of the fur beneath
its chin gave its round and fierce-eyed countenance an expression at once
savage and grotesque. Most grotesque of all were the huge, noiseless pads
of its feet, muffled in fur. Its colour was a tawny, weather-beaten
gray-brown; its eyes pale, round, brilliant, and coldly cruel.
At length the animal, on a stronger puff of air, located the scent more
closely. This was obvious from a sudden stiffening of his muscles. His
eyes began to discern a peculiarity in the pine trunk some twenty paces
ahead. Surely that was no ordinary pine trunk, that! No, indeed, that was
where the scent of the Boy came from—and the hair on his back bristled
fiercely. In fact, it _was_ the Boy! The lucifee’s first impulse, on the
discovery, was to shrink off like a mist, and leave further investigation
to a more favourable opportunity. But he thought better of it because the
Boy was so still. Could he be asleep? Or, perhaps, dead? At any rate, it
would seem, he was for the moment harmless. Curiosity overcoming
discretion, and possibly hatred suggesting a chance of advantageous
attack, the animal lay down, his paws folded under him, contemplatively,
and studied with round, fierce eyes the passive figure beneath the tree.
The Boy, meanwhile, returned the stare with like interest, but through
narrowed lids, lest his eyes should betray him; and his heart beat fast
with the excitement of the situation. There was a most thrilling
uncertainty, indeed, as to what the animal would do next. He was glad he
had brought his rifle.
[Illustration: “PRESENTLY THE LUCIFEE AROSE AND BEGAN CREEPING STEALTHILY
CLOSER.”]
Presently the lucifee arose and began creeping stealthily closer, at the
same time swerving off to the right as if to get behind the tree. Whether
his purpose in this was to escape unseen or to attack from the rear, the
Boy could not decide; but what he did decide was that the game was
becoming hazardous and should be brought to immediate close. He did not
want to be compelled to shoot the beast in self-defence, for, this being
the first lynx he had ever seen, he wanted to study him. So, suddenly,
with the least possible movement of his features, he squeaked like a
wood-mouse, then _quit-quit_-ed like a grouse, then gave to a nicety the
sonorous call of the great horned owl.
The astonished lynx seemed to shrink into himself, as he flattened
against the ground, grown moveless as a stone. It was incredible,
appalling indeed, that these familiar and well-understood voices should
all come from that same impassive figure. He crouched unstirring for so
long that at last the shadows began to deepen perceptibly. The Boy
remembered that he had heard, some time ago, the bells of the returning
cows; and he realised that it might not be well to give his adversary the
advantage of the dark. Nevertheless, the experience was one of absorbing
interest and he hated to close it.
At length the lucifee came to the conclusion that the mystery should be
probed more fully. Once more he rose upon his padded, soundless paws, and
edged around stealthily to get behind the tree. This was not to be
permitted. The Boy burst into a peal of laughter and rose slowly to his
feet. On the instant the lucifee gave a bound, like a great rubber ball,
backward into a thicket. It seemed as if his big feet were all feathers,
and as if every tree trunk bent to intervene and screen his going. The
Boy rubbed his eyes, bewildered at so complete and instantaneous an exit.
Grasping his rifle in readiness, he hurried forward, searching every
thicket, looking behind every stump and trunk. The haunter of the gloom
had disappeared.
[Illustration: “A SILENT GRAY THUNDERBOLT FELL UPON HIM.”]
After this, however, the Boy was no more troubled by the mysterious
pursuit. The lynx had evidently found out all he required to know about
him. On the other hand the Boy was balked in his purpose of finding out
all he wanted to know about the lynx. That wary animal eluded all his
most patient and ingenious lyings-in-wait, until the Boy began to feel
that his woodcraft was being turned to a derision. Only once more that
autumn did he catch a glimpse of his shy opponent, and then by chance,
when he was on another trail. Hidden at the top of a thick-wooded bank he
was watching a mink at its fishing in the brook below. But as it turned
out, the dark little fisherman had another watcher as well. The pool in
the brook was full of large suckers. The mink had just brought one to
land in his triangular jaws and was proceeding to devour it, when a
silent gray thunderbolt fell upon him. There was a squeak and a snarl;
and the long, snaky body of the mink lay as still as that of the fish
which had been its prey. Crouching over his double booty, a paw on each,
the lynx glared about him in exultant pride. The scent of the Boy, high
on the bank above, did not come to him. The fish, as the more highly
prized tidbit, he devoured at once. Then, after licking his lips and
polishing his whiskers, he went loping off through the woods with the
limp body of the mink hanging from his jaws, to eat it at leisure in his
lair. The Boy made up his mind to find out where that lair was hidden.
But his searchings were all vain, and he tried to console himself with
the theory that the animal was wont to travel great distances in his
hunting—a theory which he knew in his heart to be contrary to the customs
of the cat-kindred.
During the winter he was continually tantalised by coming across the
lucifee’s tracks—great footprints, big enough to do for the
trail-signature of the panther himself. If he followed these tracks far
he was sure to find interesting records of wilderness adventure—here a
spot where the lynx had sprung upon a grouse, and missed it, or upon a
hare, and caught it; and once he found the place where the big furry paws
had dug down to the secret white retreat where a grouse lay sleeping
under the snow. But by and by the tracks would cross each other, and make
wide circles, or end in a tree where there was no lucifee to be found.
And the Boy was too busy at home to give the time which he saw it would
require to unravel the maze to its end. But he refused to consider
himself defeated. He merely regarded his triumph as postponed.
Early in the spring the triumph came—though not just the triumph he had
expected. Before the snow was quite gone, and when the sap was beginning
to flow from the sugar maples, he went with the hired man to tap a grove
of extra fine trees some five miles east from the settlement. Among the
trees they had a sugar camp; and when not at the sugar-making, the Boy
explored a near-by burnt-land ridge, very rocky and rich in coverts,
where he had often thought the old lynx, his adversary, might have made
his lair. Here, the second day after his arrival, he came upon a lucifee
track. But it was not the track with which he was familiar. It was
smaller, and the print of the right forefoot lacked a toe.
The Boy grinned happily and rubbed his mittened hands. “Aha!” said he to
himself, “better and better! There is a Mrs. Lucifee. Now we’ll see where
she hides her kittens.”
The trail was an easy one this time, for no enemies had been looked for
in that desert neighbourhood. He followed it for about half a mile, and
then caught sight of a hollow under an overhanging rock, to which the
tracks seemed to lead. Working around to get the wind in his face, he
stole cautiously nearer, till he saw that the hollow was indeed the
entrance to a cave, and that the tracks led directly into it. He had no
desire to investigate further, with the risk of finding the lucifee at
home; and it was getting too late for him to undertake his usual watching
tactics. He withdrew stealthily and returned to the camp in exultation.
In the night a thaw set in, so the Boy was spared the necessity of
waiting for the noon sun to soften the snow and make the walking
noiseless. He set out on the very edge of sunrise, and reached his
hiding-place while the mouth of the cave was still in shadow. On the
usual crisp mornings of sugar season the snow at such an hour would have
borne a crust, to crackle sharply under every footstep and proclaim an
intruding presence to all the wood folk for a quarter of a mile about.
After waiting for a good half-hour, his eyes glued to a small black
opening under the rock, his heart gave a leap of strong, joyous
excitement. He saw the lucifee’s head appear in the doorway. She peered
about her cautiously, little dreaming, however, that there was any cause
for caution. Then she came forth into the blue morning light, yawned
hugely, and stretched herself like a cat. She was smaller than the Boy’s
old adversary, somewhat browner in hue, leaner, and of a peculiarly
malignant expression. The Boy had an instant intuition that she would be
the more dangerous antagonist of the two; and a feeling of sharp
hostility toward her, such as he had never felt toward her mate, arose in
his heart.
[Illustration: “YAWNED HUGELY, AND STRETCHED HERSELF LIKE A CAT.”]
When she had stretched to her satisfaction, and washed her face
perfunctorily with two or three sweeps of her big paw, she went back into
the cave. In two or three minutes she reappeared, and this time with a
brisk air of purpose. She turned to the right, along a well-worn trail,
ran up a tree to take a survey of the country, descended hastily, and
glided away among the thickets.
“It’s breakfast she’s after,” said the Boy to himself, “and she’ll take
some time to find it.”
When she had been some ten minutes gone, the Boy went boldly down to the
cave. He had no fear of encountering the male, because he knew from an
old hunter who had taught him his first wood-lore that the male lucifee
is not popular with his mate at whelping time, having a truly Saturnian
fashion of devouring his own offspring. But there was the possibility,
remote, indeed, but disquieting, of the mother turning back to see to
some neglected duty; and with this chance in view he held his rifle
ready.
Inside the cave he stood still and waited for his eyes to get used to the
gloom. Then he discovered, in one corner, on a nest of fur and dry grass,
a litter of five lucifee whelps. They were evidently very young, little
larger than ordinary kittens, and too young to know fear, but their eyes
were wide open, and they stood up on strong legs when he touched them
softly with his palm. Disappointed in their expectation of being nursed,
they mewed, and there was something in their cries that sounded strangely
wild and fierce. To the Boy’s great surprise, they were quite different
in colour from their gray-brown, unmarked parents, being striped vividly
and profusely, like a tabby or tiger. The Boy was delighted with them,
and made up his mind that when they were a few days older he would take
two of them home with him to be brought up in the ways of civilisation.
Three days later he again visited the den, this time with a basket in
which to carry away his prizes. After waiting an hour to see if the
mother were anywhere about, he grew impatient. Stealing as close to the
cave’s mouth as the covert would permit, he squeaked like a wood-mouse
several times. This seductive sound bringing no response, he concluded
that the old lucifee must be absent. He went up to the mouth of the cave
and peered in, holding his rifle in front of his face in readiness for an
instant shot. When his eyes got command of the dusk, he saw to his
surprise that the den was empty. He entered and felt the vacant nest. It
was quite cold, and had a deserted air. Then he realised what had
happened, and cursed his clumsiness. The old lucifee, when she came back
to her den, had learned by means of her nose that her enemy had
discovered her hiding-place and touched her young with his defiling human
hands, thereupon in wrath she had carried them away to some remote and
unviolated lair. Till they were grown to nearly the full stature of
lucifee destructiveness, the Boy saw no more of his wonderful lucifee
kittens.
Toward the latter part of the summer, however, he began to think that
perhaps he had made a mistake in leaving these fierce beasts to multiply.
He no longer succeeded in catching sight of them as they went about their
furtive business, for they had somehow become aware of his woodcraft and
distrustful of their own shifts. But on all sides he found trace of their
depredations among the weaker creatures. He observed that the rabbits
were growing scarce about the settlement; and even the grouse were less
numerous in the upland thickets of young birch. As all the harmless wood
folk were his friends, he began to feel that he had been false to them in
sparing their enemies. Thereupon, he took to carrying his rifle whenever
he went exploring. He had not really declared war upon the haunters of
the glooms, but his relations with them were becoming distinctly
strained.
At length the rupture came; and it was violent. In one of the upland
pastures, far back from the settlement, he came upon the torn carcass of
a half-grown lamb. He knew that this was no work of a bear, for the
berries were abundant that autumn, and the bear prefers berries to
mutton. Moreover, when a bear kills a sheep he skins it deftly and has
the politeness to leave the pelt rolled up in a neat bundle, just to
indicate to the farmer that he has been robbed by a gentleman. But this
carcass was torn and mangled most untidily; and the Boy divined the
culprits.
It was early in the afternoon when he made his find, and he concluded
that the lucifees were likely to return to their prey before evening. He
hid himself, therefore, behind a log thickly fringed with juniper, not
twenty-five paces from the carcass; and waited, rifle in hand.
[Illustration: “MOUNTED THE CARCASS WITH AN AIR OF LORDSHIP.”]
A little before sunset appeared the five young lucifees, now nearly full
grown. They fell at once to tearing at the carcass, with much jealous
snarling and fighting. Soon afterwards came the mother, with a well-fed,
leisurely air; and at her heels, the big male of the Boy’s first
acquaintance. It was evident that, now that the rabbits were getting
scarce, the lucifees were hunting in packs, a custom very unusual with
these unsocial beasts under ordinary circumstances, and only adopted when
seeking big game. The big male cuffed the cubs aside without ceremony,
mounted the carcass with an air of lordship, glared about him, and
suddenly, with a snarl of wrath, fixed his eyes upon the green branches
wherein the Boy lay concealed. At the same time the female, who had
stopped short, sniffing and peering suspiciously, crouched to her belly,
and began to crawl very softly and stealthily, as a cat crawls upon an
unsuspecting bird, toward the innocent-looking juniper thicket.
The Boy realised that he had presumed too far upon the efficacy of
stillness, and that the lynxes, at this close range, had detected him. He
realised, too, that now, jealous in the possession of their prey, they
had somehow laid aside their wonted fear of him; and he congratulated
himself heartily that his little rifle was a repeater. Softly he raised
it to take aim at the nearest, and to him the most dangerous of his foes,
the cruel-eyed female; but in doing so he stirred, ever so little, the
veiling fringe of juniper. At the motion the big male sprang forward,
with two great bounds, and crouched within ten yards of the log. His stub
of a tail twitched savagely. He was plainly nerving himself to the
attack.
There was no time to lose. Taking quick but careful aim, the Boy fired.
The bullet found its mark between the brute’s eyes, and he straightened
out where he lay, without a kick. At the sound and the flash the female
doubled upon herself as quick as light; and before the Boy could get a
shot at her she was behind a stump some rods away, shrinking small, and
fleeing like a gray shred of vapour. The whelps, too, had vanished with
almost equal skill—all but one. He, less alert and intelligent than his
fellows, tried concealment behind a clump of pink fireweed. But the Boy’s
eyes pierced the screen; and the next bullet, cutting the fireweed
stalks, took vengeance for many slaughtered hares and grouse.
After this the Boy saw no more of his enemies for some months, but though
they had grown still more wary their experience had not made them less
audacious. Before the snow fell they had killed another sheep; and the
Boy was sure that they, rather than any skunks or foxes, were to blame
for the disappearance of several geese from his flock. His primeval
hunting instincts were now aroused, and he was no longer merely the
tender-hearted and sympathetic observer. It was only toward the marauding
lucifees, however, that his feelings had changed. The rest of the wild
folk he loved as well as before, but for the time he was too busy to
think of them.
When the snow came, and footsteps left their tell-tale records, the Boy
found to his surprise that he had but one lucifee to deal with. Every
lynx track in the neighbourhood had a toe missing on the right forefoot.
It was clear that the whelps of last spring had shirked the contest and
betaken themselves to other and safer hunting-grounds; but he felt that
between himself and the vindictive old female it was war to the knife.
Her tracks fairly quartered the outlying fields all about his father’s
farm, and were even to be found now and again around the sheep-pen and
the fowl-house. Yet never, devise he ever so cunningly, did he get a
glimpse of so much as her gray stub tail.
At last, through an open window, she invaded the sheep-pen by night and
killed two young ewes. To the Boy this seemed mere wantonness of cruelty,
and he set his mind to a vengeance which he had hitherto been unwilling
to consider. He resolved to trap his enemy, since he could not shoot her.
Now, as a mere matter of woodcraft, he knew all about trapping and
snaring; but ever since the day, now five years gone, when he had been
heart-stricken by his first success in rabbit-snaring, he had hated
everything like a snare or trap. Now, however, in the interests of all
the helpless creatures of the neighbourhood, wild or tame, he made up his
mind to snare the lucifee. He went about it with his utmost skill, in a
fashion taught him by an old Indian trapper.
Close beside one of his foe’s remoter runways, in an upland field where
the hares were still abundant, the Boy set his snare. It was just a
greatly exaggerated rabbit snare, of extra heavy wire and a cord of
triple strength. But instead of being attached to the top of a bent-down
sapling, it was fastened to a billet of wood about four feet long and
nearly two inches in diameter. This substantial stick was supported on
two forked uprights driven into the snow beside the runway. Then young
fir-bushes were stuck about it carefully in a way to conceal evidence of
his handiwork; and an artful arrangement of twigs disguised the ambushed
loop of wire.
Just behind the loop of wire, and some inches below it, the Boy arranged
his bait. This consisted of the head and skin of a hare, stuffed
carefully with straw, and posed in a lifelike attitude. It seemed,
indeed, to be comfortably sleeping on the snow, under the branches of a
young fir-tree; and the Boy felt confident that the tempting sight would
prevent the wily old lucifee from taking any thought to the surroundings
before securing the prize.
Late that afternoon, when rose and gold were in the sky, and the snowy
open spaces were of a fainter rose, and the shadows took on an ashy
purple under the edges of the pines and firs, the old lucifee came
drifting along like a phantom. She peered hungrily under every bush,
hoping to catch some careless hare asleep. On a sudden a greenish fire
flamed into her wide eyes. She crouched, and moved even more stealthily
than was her wont. The snow, the trees, the still, sweet evening light,
seemed to invest her with silence. Very soundly it slept, that doomed
hare, crouching under the fir-bush! And now, she was within reach of her
spring. She shot forward, straight and strong and true.
Her great paws covered the prey, indeed; but at the same instant a sharp,
firm grip clutched her throat with a jerk, and then something hit her a
sharp rap over the shoulders. With a wild leap backward and aside she
sought to evade the mysterious attack. But the noose settled firmly
behind her ears, and the billet of wood, with a nasty tug at her throat,
leapt after her.
So this paltry thing was her assailant! She flew into a wild rage at the
stick, tearing at it with her teeth and claws. But this made no
difference with the grip about her throat, so she backed off again. The
stick followed—and the grip tightened. Bracing her forepaws upon the wood
she pulled fiercely to free herself; and the wire drew taut till her
throat was almost closed. Her rage had hastened her doom, fixing the
noose where there was no such thing as clawing it off. Then fear took the
place of rage in her savage heart. Her lungs seemed bursting. She began
to realise that it was not the stick, but some more potent enemy whom she
must circumvent or overcome. She picked up the billet between her jaws,
climbed a big birch-tree which grew close by, ran out upon a limb some
twenty feet from the ground, and dropped the stick, thinking thus to rid
herself of the throttling burden.
The shock, as the billet reached the end of its drop, jerked her from her
perch; but clutching frantically she gained a foothold on another limb
eight or ten feet lower down. There she clung, her tongue out, her eyes
filming, her breath stopped, strange colours of flame and darkness
rioting in her brain. Bracing herself with all her remaining strength
against the pull of the dangling stick, she got one paw firmly fixed
against a small jutting branch. Thus it happened that when, a minute
later, her life went out and she fell, she fell on the other side of the
limb. The billet of wood flew up, caught in a fork, and held fast; and
the limp, tawny body, twitching for a minute convulsively, hung some six
or seven feet above its own tracks in the snow.
An hour or two later the moon rose, silvering the open spaces. Then, one
by one and two by two, the hares came leaping down the aisles of pine and
fir. Hither and thither around the great birch-tree they played, every
now and then stopping to sit up and thump challenges to their rivals. And
because it was quite still, they never saw the body of their deadliest
foe, hanging stark from the branch above them.
[Illustration: THE WATCHERS OF THE CAMP FIRE]