ALONG a path which a man’s eye could not have seen, but which, even at night, was visible to the kind that dwell in the hills, a long, lithe object passed swiftly and without noise. It was down a knob-slope, in a diagonal course, the object came, and the night was only star-bright, for the moon was late in coming. This quiet figure, which glided serpent-like on its way, was about three feet in length; its slender, round body was covered with short, thick hair, drab and mottled brown in color, and had only a stump of a tail about three inches long. The head was bullet-round, the short, stubby ears pricked and alert, and the nose muscles distended and twitched with every cautious step. The padded feet of this night rambler were almost as noiseless as the star rays’ fall. Scarcely a leaf was overturned, scarcely a dead twig snapped. His body, curving sinuously, would not have brushed an ant from the stem of a sapling. The King of the Northern Slope was hungry, and his present errand was to the sheepfold or pigsty of the nearest farmer.

He was the biggest wild-cat in that part of the country, and his reign 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.

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.