three years, had dared to hunt upon his
range. But this newcomer, with the wildcat smell, seemed about as big
as three wildcats. The impression of its foot on a patch of moist
mould was almost as large as that of the lynx himself--and the lynx
well knew that the wildcats were a small-footed tribe. Like most of
the hunting beasts, he was well-schooled in the lore of the trails,
and all the signs were to him a clear speech. From the depth and
definiteness of that footprint, he felt that both weight and strength
had stamped it. His long claws protruded from their hidden sheaths, as
he pondered the significance of this message from the unknown. Was the
stranger a deliberate invader of his range, or a mere ignorant
trespasser? And would he fight, or would he run? The angry lynx was
determined to put these questions to the test with the least possible
delay.

The trail was comparatively fresh, and the lynx began to follow it,
forgetful of his hunger and of the hunt on which he had set out. He
moved now more warily than ever, crouching flat, gliding smoothly as a
snake, and hoping to score the first point against his rival by
catching him unawares. So noiselessly did he go, indeed, that a
weasel, running hard upon the trail of a rabbit, actually brushed
against him, to bound away in a paroxysm of fear and rush off in
another direction, wondering how he had escaped those lightning claws.
In fact the lynx, intent only upon the hunting of his unknown foe, was
almost as astonished as the weasel, and quite unprepared to seize the
sudden opportunity for a meal. He eyed the vanishing weasel malignly
for a moment, then resumed his stealthy advance. A white-footed mouse,
sitting up daintily at the door of her burrow, fell over backwards,
and nearly died of fright, as the ghost-gray shape of doom sped up and
passed. But the lynx had just then no mind for mice, and never saw
her.

The strange trail, for some hundreds of yards, kept carefully to the
thickets and the shadows. In one place the marks of a scuffle, with a
heap of speckled feathers and a pair of slim claws, showed that the
intruder had captured and devoured an unwary partridge mothering her
brood. At this evidence of poaching on his preserves, the big lynx's
anger swelled hotly. He paused to sniff at the remnants, and then
stole on with added caution. The blood of the victim was not yet dry,
or even clotted, on the leaves.

A little further on, the trail touched the foot o