“I don’t think it would be quite fair either—although, of course, he might ask for things that she couldn’t grant. And that, perhaps, will be the way it is with me.”
She looked up, a strange mist and glory in her eyes. “What do you mean, Hugh?”
He heard the crackle of the fire, the stir of the wind behind her, the soft complaint of the sheep, stirring in their sleep, but most of all he discerned the music, the unutterable loveliness in her tones. “I mean that when this fight is won—I’m going to put my petitions to the queen.”
XXIII
In the still midday, desperate and half-mad with hunger, Broken Fang, the cougar, came stealing along a narrow pass in the high ranges of Smoky Land. He hadn’t had a great deal of success with the mountain creatures. The previous day he had caught a little pika on the slide-rock; once a mountain grouse had failed to detect him lying like a tawny piece of crag beside a pass, but the great bighorn themselves had mostly been able to keep out of his way.
In the first place he was under the great disadvantage of fighting in the enemy’s country. The cougars are never quite at home in the high mountains. They are essentially a lowland people, and they have no love for the fields of glittering snow. They need trees in which to hide, brush thickets to wait in till the deer graze near by. The narrow passes, the rugged precipices, and the high knife-edge trails were the natural habitats of the wild sheep, but Broken Fang liked better walking. Besides, he didn’t know the country.
If anyone supposes that animals do not have to learn the geographical nature of a hunting ground before they are really adept in it, it is wholly plain that he has never followed the tracks of a pack of strange wolves in a new land. By knowing all the trails, the bighorn were able to avoid the traps that Broken Fang so laboriously set. More than once, after a weary half-day’s wait, he would find to his chagrin that the surefooted sheep had been watching him—chuckling no doubt among themselves—from a nearby promontory. They knew how to see him before he saw them, and in a fair chase he was simply out of the running. If his luck didn’t change soon, it seemed very likely that the buzzards would have a large heap of poorly upholstered bones to pick clean.
But tonight—as September days rolled to their mellow end—he had fresh hopes. For the wind had come and brought him good news. The flock was feeding on a little grass slope just in front.
Broken Fang felt that it was almost his last chance, and he intended to make the most of it. But desperate as he was, he kept his hunting cunning. This would indicate that certain of the beasts have even better nerve control than their superiors, human beings—for a starving man would have been unlikely to go about his hunting with the same stealth and caution. He crept slowly forward, his nerves singing wild melodies within him. And stealing from above, he soon caught sight of the flock.
Some of them were feeding; Argali, Spot, and one or two of the other young rams were lying down. Broken Fang’s glaring eyes encompassed the whole scene, and with the swiftness and accuracy of a general, he mapped out his plan of attack. No naturalist explains by what swift avenues of intelligence he made his plans. Animals cannot reason. Instinct alone is severely taxed to account for all the wiles and astuteness of the wild creatures. But if this were instinct, it served him even better than intelligence.
It was true that his prey was out of leaping range of his trail. Yet for all that his heart throbbed with rapture. A jagged cliff approached within a few feet of them from the opposite side, and one détour would bring him close enough to strike. Best of all, he could leap at them from above.
The wind was right, the animals were not suspecting danger. He crept slowly about to the shelter of the opposite pass, then began to creep stealthily toward the sheep.
He didn’t see how he could miss, particularly the yearling ram that lay nearest the cliff. He was a newcomer in the band, and he wouldn’t be so wary as the others. It was a simple matter of stealing quietly over a ledge of rock, where there were no dry twigs to break beneath his feet, then to spring down with outstretched talons and open jaws. Already he was within a hundred feet. Their pungent smell was a madness in his nerves. Nearer—ever nearer—and now they were just below him. He had sunk so low against the crag that he looked more like a great tawny serpent than a feline. His tail twitched at its very tip as he crept on—a few feet more. The whole realm was hung with that tense silence of the high mountains, a stillness wherein not even a wind whispers and the heart pounds like a drum in the breast.
This was not a coyote to be frightened away by an attitude of defense. If once the great puma launched forth in his spring, no power on earth could save the young ram. It seemed as if Spot were to lose his heritage already.
Broken Fang knew this crag. He had made a kill of one of its little people a day or two before. He had always had only scorn for these lesser folk—the scurrying gophers, the timid rabbits, and the furry pikas in the rocks. Yet at that instant he was to receive a taste of their might. A shrill shriek suddenly split open the silence—just in front of his head.
After all it was only a miniature sound, really little more than a high-pitched squeak. Yet in that unfathomable
