his head, which he ducked, and, landing
squarely upon it, had steadied herself there for a moment with
sharp, protruding claws; thence she had jumped to a feed-box, thence
to a beam, thence to the mow, from the dusky recesses of which she
had glared at him with big, green, menacing eyes. Not since that
experience, which, in spite of his soft hat, had left certain marks
upon his scalp, had he ever attempted to catch her. Instead, he had
borrowed a gun, and a dozen times had fired at her; but although he
counted himself a fair shot, he had never made even a scant bit of
fur fly from her disreputable back.

And now he knew she laughed at him. Yes, laughed at him, for she had
more than human intelligence. There was something demoniac in her
cleverness, her immunity from harm, her prodigious energy, her
malevolent mischief, her raillery. Actually, he had grown morbid
about the beast; he had a superstitious feeling that in the end she
would bring him bad luck. How he hated her!

There she lay, with eyes shut, unsuspecting, comfortable, and
basked in the warm September sunshine. Here at his hand was a
double-barreled shotgun. The chance was too good. This vagrant,
this outlaw, this trespasser, this thief--he catalogued her
misdeeds in his mind as he clanged the ramrod down the barrels
to see if the piece was loaded.

It was not. But ammunition was at hand. He put in a generous charge
from Jim's powder-flask and rammed it home with a paper wad. He
grabbed up the shot-pouch and released the proper charge into his
hand. He was disappointed; it was bird shot. Scattering as it would
scatter, it could do _that_ cat no harm. Nevertheless, he poured the
pellets into the barrel. As he rammed home the paper wad on top of
these, his eye caught the marbles lying on the table. He took one
that fitted, and rammed that home also--for luck. He placed a cap,
lifted the gun to his shoulder, and fired.

With a leap which sent her six feet into the air the Calico Cat
landed four-square in Mr. Peaslee's chicken-yard, almost on the back
of the dignified rooster, which fled with a startled squawk. She
dodged like lightning across the chicken-yard, between cackling and
clattering hens, went up the wire-netting walls, leaped to the roof,
paused, considered, began to reflect that she had been shot at
before and to wonder at her own fright, stopped, and, sitting down
on the ridgepole, looked inquiringly in Mr. Peaslee's direction. She
was, of cour