Kitty walked all around it. She knew by the bearings and by the
local color of the pavement that she was in her home, that there
had lived the bird-man, and there was the old junk-yard; but all
were gone, completely gone, taking their familiar odors with
them, and Pussy turned sick at heart in the utter hopelessness of
the case. Her place-love was her master-mood. She had given up
all to come to a home that no longer existed, and for once her
sturdy little heart was cast down. She wandered over the silent
heaps of rubbish and found neither consolation nor eatables. The
ruin had taken in several of the blocks and reached back from the
water. It was not a fire; Kitty had seen one of those things.
This looked more like the work of a flock of the Red-eyed
Monsters. Pussy knew nothing of the great bridge that was to rise
from this very spot.

When the sun came up she sought for cover. An adjoining block
still stood with little change, and the Royal Analostan retired
to that. She knew some of its trails; but once there, was
unpleasantly surprised to find the place swarming with Cats that,
like herself, were driven from their old grounds, and when the
garbage-cans came out there were several Slummers at each. It
meant a famine in the land, and Pussy, after standing it a few
days, was reduced to seeking her other home on Fifth Avenue. She
got there to find it shut up and deserted. She waited about for a
day; had an unpleasant experience with a big man in a blue coat,
and next night returned to the crowded slum.

September and October wore away. Many of the Cats died of
starvation or were too weak to escape their natural enemies. But
Kitty, young and strong, still lived.

Great changes had come over the ruined blocks. Though silent on
the night when she first saw them, they were crowded with noisy
workmen all day. A tall building, well advanced on her arrival,
was completed at the end of October, and Slum Kitty, driven by
hunger, went sneaking up to a pail that a negro had set outside.
The pail, unfortunately, was not for garbage; it was a new thing
in that region: a scrubbing-pail. A sad disappointment, but it
had a sense of comfort--there were traces of a familiar touch on
the handle. While she was studying it, the negro elevator-boy
came out again. In spite of his blue clothes, his odorous person
confirmed the good impression of the handle. Kitty had retreated
across the street. He gazed at her.

"Sho ef dat don't look like de Royal Ankalostan! Hyar, Pussy,
Pussy,    Pu-s-s-s-s-y! Co-o-o-o-m-e, Pu-u-s-s-sy, hyar! I'spec's
she's sho hungry."

Hungry! She hadn't  had a real meal for months. The negro went
into the building and reappeared with a portion of his own lunch.

"Hyar, Pussy, Puss, Puss, Puss!" It seemed very good, but Pussy
had her doubts of the man. At length he laid the meat on the
pavement, and went back to the door. Slum Kitty came forward very
warily; sniffed at the meat, seized it, and fled like a little
Tigress to eat her prize in peace.


LIFE IV

XI

This was the beginning of a new era. Pussy came to the door of
the building now whenever pinched by hunger, and the good feeling
for the negro grew. She had never understood that man before. He
had always seemed hostile. Now he was her friend, the only one
she had.

One week she had a streak of luck. Seven good meals on seven
successive days; and right on the top of the last meal she found
a juicy dead Rat, the genuine thing, a perfect windfall. She had
never killed a full-grown Rat in all her lives, but seized the
prize and ran off to hide it for future use. She was crossing the
street in front of the new building when an old enemy appeared,  
--the Wharf Dog,--and Kitty retreated, naturally enough, to the
door where she had a friend. Just as she neared it, he opened the
door for a well-dressed man to come out, and both saw the Cat
with her prize.

"Hello! Look at that for a Cat!"
 
"Yes, sah," answered the negro. "Dat's ma Cat, sah; she's a
terror on Rats, sah! hez 'em about cleaned up, sah; dat's why
she's so thin."

"Well, don't let her starve," said the man with the air of the
landlord. "Can't you feed her?

"De liver meat-man comes reg'lar, sah; quatah dollar a week,
sah," said the negro, fully realizing that he was entitled to the
extra fifteen cents for "the idea."

"That's all right. I'll stand it."


XII

"M-e-a-t! M-e-a-t!" is heard the magnetic, cat-conjuring cry of
the old liver-man, as his barrow is pushed up the glorified
Scrimper's Alley, and Cats come crowding, as of yore, to receive
their due.

There are Cats black, white, yellow, and gray to be remembered,
and, above all, there are owners to be remembered. As the barrow
rounds the corner near the new building it makes a newly
scheduled stop.

"Hyar, you, get out o' the road, you common trash," cries the
liver-man, and he waves his wand to make way for the little gray
Cat with blue eyes and white nose. She receives an unusually
large portion, for Sam is wisely dividing the returns evenly; and
Slum Kitty retreats with her 'daily' into shelter of the great
building, to which she is regularly attached. She has entered
into her fourth life with prospects of happiness never before
dreamed of. Everything was against her at first; now everything
seems to be coming her way. It is very doubtful that her mind was
broadened by travel, but she knew what she wanted and she got it.
She has achieved her long-time great ambition by catching, not a
Sparrow, but two of them, while they were clinched in mortal
combat in the gutter.

There is no reason to suppose that she ever caught another Rat;
but the negro secures a dead one when he can, for purposes of
exhibition, lest her pension be imperilled. The dead one is left
in the hall till the proprietor comes; then it is apologetically
swept away. "Well, drat dat Cat, sah; dat Royal Ankalostan blood,
sah, is terrors on Rats."

She has had several broods since. The negro thinks the Yellow Tom
is the father of some of them, and no doubt the negro is right.

He has sold her a number of times with a perfectly clear
conscience, knowing quite well that it is only a question of a
few days before the Royal Analostan comes back again. Doubtless
he is saving the money for some honorable ambition. She has
learned to tolerate the elevator, and even to ride up and down on
it. The negro stoutly maintains that once, when she heard the
meat-man, while she was on the top floor, she managed to press
the button that called the elevator to take her down.

She is sleek and beautiful again. She is not only one of the four
hundred that form the inner circle about the liver-barrow, but
she is recognized as the star pensioner among them. The liver-man
is positively respectful. Not even the cream-and-chicken fed Cat
of the pawn-broker's wife has such a position as the Royal
Analostan. But in spite of her prosperity, her social position,
her royal name and fake pedigree, the greatest pleasure of her
life is to slip out and go a-slumming in the gloaming, for now,
as in her previous lives, she is at heart, and likely to be,
nothing but a dirty little Slum Cat.



ARNAUX


THE CHRONICLE OF A HOMING PIGEON

We passed through the side door of a big stable on West
Nineteenth Street. The mild smell of the well-kept stalls was
lost in the sweet odor of hay, as we mounted a ladder and entered
the long garret. The south end was walled off, and the familiar
"Coo-oo, cooooo-oo, ruk-at-a-coo," varied with the "whirr, whirr,
whirr" of wings, informed us that we were at the  pigeon-loft.

This was the home of a famous lot of birds, and to-day there was
to be a race among fifty of the youngsters. The owner of the loft
had asked me, as an unprejudiced outsider, to be judge in the
contest.

It was a training race of the young birds. They had been taken
out for short distances with their parents once or twice, then
set free to return to the loft. Now for the first time they were
to be flown without the old ones. The point of start, Elizabeth,
N. J., was a long journey for their first unaided attempt. "But
then," the trainer remarked, "that's how we weed out the fools;
only the best birds make it, and that's all we want back."

There was another side to the flight. It was to be a race among
those that did return. Each of the men about the loft as well as
several neighboring fanciers were interested in one or other of
the Homers. They made up a purse for the winner, and on me was to
devolve the important duty of deciding which should take the
stakes. Not the first bird back, but the first bird into the
loft, was to win, for one that returns to his neighborhood
merely, without immediately reporting at home, is of little use
as a letter-carrier.

The Homing Pigeon used to be called the Carrier because it
carried messages, but here I found that name restricted to the
show bird, the creature with absurdly developed wattles; the one
that carries the messages is now called the Homer, or Homing
Pigeon--the bird that always comes home. These Pigeons are not of
any special color, nor have they any of the fancy adornments of
the kind that figure in Bird shows. They are not bred for style,
but for speed and for their mental gifts. They must be true to
their home, able to return to it without fail. The sense of
direction is now believed to be located in the bony labyrinth of
the ear. There is no creature with finer sense of locality and
direction than a good Homer, and the only visible proofs of it
are the great bulge on each side of the head over the ears, and
the superb wings that complete his equipment to obey the noble
impulse of home-love. Now the mental and physical equipments of
the last lot of young birds were to be put to test.

Although there were plenty of witnesses, I thought it best to
close all but one of the pigeon-doors and stand ready to shut
that behind the first arrival.

I shall never forget the sensations of that day. I had been
warned: "They start at 12; they should be here at 12:30; but look
out, they come like a whirlwind. You hardly see them till they're
in."

We were ranged along the inside of the loft, each with an eye to
a crack or a partly closed pigeon-door, anxiously scanning the
southwestern horizon, when one shouted: "Look out--here they
come!" Like a white cloud they burst into view, low skimming over
the city roofs, around a great chimney pile, and in two seconds
after first being seen they were back. The flash of white, the
rush of pinions, were all so sudden, so short, that, though
preparing, I was unprepared. I was at the only open door. A
whistling arrow of blue shot in, lashed my face with its pinions,
and passed. I had hardly time to drop the little door, as a yell
burst from the men, "Arnaux! Arnaux! I told you he would. Oh,
he's a darling; only three months old and a winner--he's a little
darling!" and Arnaux's owner danced, more for joy in his bird
than in the purse he had won.

The men sat or kneeled and watched him in positive reverence as
he gulped a quantity of water, then turned to the food-trough.

"Look at that eye, those wings, and did you ever see such a
breast? Oh, but    he's the real grit!" so his owner prattled to
the silent ones whose birds had been defeated.

That was the first of Arnaux's exploits. Best of fifty birds from
a good loft, his future was bright with promise.

He was invested with the silver anklet of the Sacred Order of the
High Homer. It bore his number, 2590 C, a number which to-day
means much to all men in the world of the Homing Pigeon.

In that trial flight from Elizabeth only forty birds had
returned. It is usually so. Some were weak and got left behind,
some were foolish and strayed. By this simple process of flight
selection the pigeon-owners keep improving their stock. Of the
ten, five were seen no more, but five returned later that day,
not all at once, but straggling in; the last of the loiterers was
a big, lubberly Blue Pigeon. The man in the loft at the time
called: "Here comes that old sap-headed Blue that Jakey was
betting on. I didn't suppose he would come back, and I    didn't
care, neither, for it's my belief he has a streak of Pouter."

The Big Blue, also called "Corner-box" from the nest where he was
hatched, had shown remarkable vigor from the first. Though all
were about the same age, he had grown faster, was bigger, and
incidentally handsomer, though the fanciers cared little for
that. He seemed fully aware of his importance, and early showed a
disposition to bully his smaller cousins. His owner prophesied
great things of him, but Billy, the stable-man, had grave doubts
over the length of his neck, the bigness of his crop, his
carriage, and his over-size. "A bird can't make time pushing a
bag of wind ahead of him. Them long legs is dead weight, an' a
neck like that ain't got no gimp in it," Billy would grunt
disparagingly as he cleaned out the loft of a morning.


II

The training of the birds went on after this at regular times.
The distance from home, of the start, was "jumped" twenty-five or
thirty miles farther each day, and its direction changed till the
Homers knew the country for one hundred and fifty miles around
New York. The original fifty birds dwindled to twenty, for the
rigid process weeds out not only the weak and ill-equipped, but
those also who may have temporary ailments or accidents, or who
may make the mistake of over-eating at the start. There were many
fine birds in that flight, broad-breasted, bright-eyed,
long-winged creatures, formed for swiftest flight, for high
unconscious emprise, for these were destined to be messengers in
the service of man in times of serious need. Their colors were
mostly white, blue, or brown. They wore no uniform, but each and
all of the chosen remnant had the brilliant eye and the bulging
ears of the finest Homer blood; and, best and choicest of all,
nearly always first among them was little Arnaux. He had not much
to distinguish him when at rest, for now all of the band had the
silver anklet, but in the air it was that Arnaux showed his make,
and when the opening of the hamper gave the order "Start," it was
Arnaux that first got under way, soared to the height deemed
needful to exclude all local influence, divined the road to home,
and took it, pausing not for food, drink, or company.

Notwithstanding Billy's evil forecasts, the Big Blue of the
Corner-box was one of the chosen twenty. Often he was late in
returning; he never was first, and sometimes when he came back
hours behind the rest, it was plain that he was neither hungry
nor thirsty, sure signs that he was a loiterer by the way. Still
he had come back; and now he wore on his ankle, like the rest,
the sacred badge and a number from the roll of possible fame.
Billy despised him, set him in poor contrast with Arnaux, but his
owner would reply: "Give him a chance;'soon ripe, soon rotten,'
an' I always notice the best bird is the slowest to show up at
first."

Before a year little Arnaux had made a record. The hardest of all
work is over the sea, for there is no chance of aid from
landmarks; and the hardest of all times at sea is in fog, for
then even the sun is blotted out and there is nothing whatever
for guidance. With memory, sight, and hearing unavailable, the
Homer has one thing left, and herein is his great strength, the
inborn sense of direction. There is only one thing that can
destroy this, and that is fear, hence the necessity of a stout
little heart between those noble wings.

Arnaux, with two of his order, in course of training, had been
shipped on an ocean steamer bound for Europe. They were to be
released out of sight of land, but a heavy fog set in and forbade
the start. The steamer took them onward, the intention being to
send them back with the next vessel. When ten hours out the
engine broke down, the fog settled dense over the sea, and the
vessel was adrift and helpless as a log. She could only whistle
for assistance, and so far as results were concerned, the captain
might as well have wigwagged. Then the Pigeons were thought of.
Starback, 2592 C, was first selected. A message for help was
written on waterproof paper, rolled up, and lashed to his
tail-feathers on the under side. He was thrown into the air and
disappeared. Half an hour later, a second, the Big Blue
Corner-box, 2600 C, was freighted with a letter. He flew up, but
almost immediately returned and alighted on the rigging. He was a
picture of pigeon fear; nothing could induce him to leave the
ship. He was so terrorized that he was easily caught and
ignominiously thrust back into the coop.

Now the third was brought out, a small, chunky bird. The shipmen
did not know him, but they noted down from his anklet his name
and number, Arnaux, 2590 C. It meant nothing to them. But the
officer who held him noted that his heart did not beat so wildly
as that of the last bird. The message was taken from the Big
Blue. It ran:

10 A.M., Tuesday.
We broke our shaft two hundred and ten miles out from New York;
we are drifting helplessly in the fog. Send out a tug as soon as
possible. We are whistling one long, followed at once by one
short, every sixty seconds.

(Signed)  THE CAPTAIN.

This was rolled up, wrapped in waterproof film, addressed to the
Steamship Company, and lashed to the under side of Arnaux's
middle tail-feather.

When thrown into the air, he circled round the ship, then round
again higher, then again higher in a wider circle, and he was
lost to view; and still higher till quite out of sight and
feeling of the ship. Shut out from the use of all his senses now
but one, he gave himself up to that. Strong in him it was, and
untrammelled of that murderous despot Fear. True as a needle to
the Pole went Arnaux now, no hesitation, no doubts; within one
minute of leaving the coop he was speeding straight as a ray of
light for the loft where he was born, the only place on earth
where he could be made content.

That afternoon Billy was on duty when the whistle of fast wings
was heard; a blue Flyer flashed into the loft and made for the
water-trough. He was gulping down mouthful after mouthful, when
Billy gasped: "Why, Arnaux, it's you, you beauty." Then, with the
quick habit of the pigeon-man, he pulled out his watch and marked
the time, 2:40 P.M, A glance showed the tie string on the tail.
He shut the door and dropped the catching-net quickly over
Arnaux's head. A moment later he had the roll in his hand; in two
minutes he was speeding to the office of the Company, for there
was a fat tip in view. There he learned that Arnaux had made the
two hundred and ten miles in fog, over sea, in four hours and
forty minutes, and within one hour the needful help had set out
for the unfortunate steamer.

Two hundred and ten miles in fog over sea in four hours and forty
minutes! This was a noble record. It was duly inscribed in the
rolls of the Homing Club. Arnaux was held while the secretary,
with rubber stamp and indelible ink, printed on a snowy primary
of his right wing the record of the feat, with the date and
reference number.

Starback, the second bird, never was heard of again. No doubt he
perished at sea.

Blue Corner-box came back on the tug.


III

That was Arnaux's first public record; but others came fast, and
several curious scenes were enacted in that old pigeon-loft with
Arnaux as the central figure. One day a carriage drove up to the
stable; a white-haired gentleman got out, climbed the dusty
stairs, and sat all morning in the loft with Billy. Peering from
his gold-rimmed glasses, first at a lot of papers, next across
the roofs of the city, waiting, watching, for what? News from a
little place not forty miles away--news of greatest weight to
him, tidings that would make or break him, tidings that must
reach him before it could be telegraphed: a telegram meant at
least an hour's delay at each end. What was faster than that for
forty miles? In those days there was but one thing--a high-class
Homer. Money would count for nothing if he could win. The best,
the very best at any price he must have, and Arnaux, with seven
indelible records on his pinions, was the chosen messenger. An
hour went by, another, and a third was begun, when with whistle
of wings, the blue meteor flashed into the loft. Billy slammed
the door and caught him. Deftly he snipped the threads and handed
the roll to the banker. The old man turned deathly pale, fumbled
it open, then his color came back. "Thank God!" he gasped, and
then went speeding to his Board meeting, master of the situation.
Little Arnaux had saved him.

The banker wanted to buy the Homer, feeling in a vague way that
he ought to honor and cherish him; but Billy was very clear about
it. "What's the good? You can't buy a Homer's heart. You could
keep him a prisoner, that's all; but nothing on earth could make
him forsake the old loft where he was hatched." So Arnaux stayed
at 2ll West Nineteenth Street. But the banker did not forget.

There is in our country a class of miscreants who think a flying
Pigeon is fair game, because it is probably far from home, or
they shoot him because it is hard to fix the crime. Many a noble
Homer, speeding with a life or death message, has been shot down
by one of these wretches and remorselessly made into a pot-pie.
Arnaux's brother Arnolf, with three fine records on his wings,
was thus murdered in the act of bearing a hasty summons for the
doctor. As he fell dying at the gunner's feet, his superb wings
spread out displayed his list of victories. The silver badge on
his leg was there, and the gunner was smitten with remorse. He
had the message sent on; he returned the dead bird to the Homing
Club, saying that he "found it." The owner came to see him; the
gunner broke down under cross-examination, and was forced to
admit that he himself had shot the Homer, but did so in behalf of
a poor sick neighbor who craved a pigeon-pie.

There were tears in the wrath of the pigeon-man. "My bird, my
beautiful Arnolf, twenty times has he brought vital messages,
three times has he made records, twice has he saved human lives,
and you'd shoot him for a pot-pie. I could punish you under the
law, but I have no heart for such a poor revenge. I only ask you
this, if ever again you have a sick neighbor who wants a
pigeon-pie, come, we'll freely supply him with pie-breed squabs;
but if you have a trace of manhood about you, you will never,
never again shoot, or allow others to shoot, our noble and
priceless messengers."

This took place while the banker was in touch with the loft,
while his heart was warm for the Pigeons. He was a man of
influence, and the Pigeon Protective legislation at Albany was
the immediate fruit of Arnaux's exploit.


IV

Billy had never liked the Corner-box Blue (2600 C);
notwithstanding the fact that he still continued in the ranks of
the Silver Badge, Billy believed he was poor stuff. The steamer
incident seemed to prove him coward; he certainly was a bully.

One morning when Billy went in there was a row, two Pigeons, a
large and a small, alternately clinching and sparring all over
the floor, feathers flying, dust and commotion everywhere. As
soon as they were separated Billy found that the little one was
Arnaux and the big one was the Corner-box Blue. Arnaux had made a
good fight, but was overmatched, for the Big Blue was half as
heavy again.

Soon it was very clear what they had fought over--a pretty little
lady Pigeon of the bluest Homing blood. The Big Blue cock had
kept up a state of bad feeling by his bullying, but it was the
Little Lady that had made them close in mortal combat. Billy had
no authority to wring the Big Blue's neck, but he interfered as
far as he could in behalf of his favorite Arnaux.

Pigeon marriages are arranged somewhat like those of mankind.
Propinquity is the first thing: force the pair together for a
time and let nature take its course. So Billy locked Arnaux and
the Little Lady up together in a separate apartment for two
weeks, and to make doubly sure he locked Big Blue up with an
Available Lady in another apartment for two weeks.

Things turned out just as was expected. The Little Lady
surrendered to Arnaux and the Available Lady to the Big Blue. Two
nests were begun and everything shaped for a "lived happily ever
after." But the Big Blue was very big and handsome. He could blow
out his crop and strut in the sun and make rainbows
all round his neck in a way that might turn the heart of the
staidest Homerine.

Arnaux, though sturdily built, was small and except for his
brilliant eyes, not especially good-looking. Moreover, he was
often away on important business, and the Big Blue had nothing to
do but stay around the loft and display his unlettered wings.

It is the custom of moralists to point to the lower animals, and
especially to the Pigeon, for examples of love and constancy, and
properly so, but, alas there are exceptions. Vice is not by any
means limited to the human race.

Arnaux's wife had been deeply impressed with the Big Blue, at the
outset, and at length while her spouse was absent the dreadful
thing took place.

Arnaux returned from Boston one day to find that the Big Blue,
while he retained his own Available Lady in the corner-box, had
also annexed the box and wife that belonged to himself, and a
desperate battle followed. The only spectators were the two
wives, but they maintained an indifferent aloofness. Arnaux
fought with his famous wings, but they were none the better
weapons because they now bore twenty records. His beak and feet
were small, as became his blood, and his stout little heart could
not make up for his lack of weight. The battle went against him.
His wife sat unconcernedly in the nest, as though it were not her
affair, and Arnaux might have been killed but for the timely
arrival of Billy. He was angry enough to wring the Blue bird's
neck, but the bully escaped from the loft in time. Billy took
tender care of Arnaux for a few days. At the end of a week he was
well again, and in ten days he was once more on the road.
Meanwhile he had evidently forgiven his faithless wife, for,
without any apparent feeling, he took up his nesting as before.
That month he made two new records. He brought a message ten
miles in eight minutes, and he came from Boston in four hours.
Every moment of the way he had been impelled by the
master-passion of home-love. But it was a poor home-coming if his
wife figured at all in his thoughts, for he found her again
flirting with the Big Blue cock. Tired as he was, the duel was
renewed, and again would have been to a finish but for Billy's
interference. He separated the fighters, then shut the Blue cock
up in a coop, determined to get rid of him in some way. Meanwhile
the "Any Age Sweepstakes" handicap from Chicago to New York was
on, a race of nine hundred miles. Arnaux had been entered six
months before. His forfeit-money was up, and notwithstanding his
domestic complications, his friends felt that he must not fail to
appear.

The birds were sent by train to Chicago, to be liberated at
intervals there according to their handicap, and last of the
start was Arnaux. They lost no time, and outside of Chicago
several of these prime Flyers joined by common impulse into a
racing flock that went through air on the same invisible track. A
Homer may make a straight line when following his general sense
of direction, but when following a familiar back track he sticks
to the well-remembered landmarks. Most of the birds had been
trained by way of Columbus and Buffalo. Arnaux knew the Columbus
route, but also he knew that by Detroit, and after leaving Lake
Michigan, he took the straight line for Detroit. Thus he caught
up on his handicap and had the advantage of many miles. Detroit,
Buffalo, Rochester, with their familiar towers and chimneys,
faded behind him, and Syracuse was near at hand. It was now late
afternoon; six hundred miles in twelve hours he had flown and was
undoubtedly leading the race; but the usual thirst of the Flyer
had attacked him. Skimming over the city roofs, he saw a loft of
Pigeons, and descending from his high course in two or three
great circles, he followed the ingoing Birds to the loft and
drank greedily at the water-trough, as he had often done before,
and as every pigeon-lover hospitably expects the messengers to
do. The owner of the loft was there and noted the strange Bird.
He stepped quietly to where he could inspect him. One of his own
Pigeons made momentary opposition to the stranger, and Arnaux,
sparring sidewise with an open wing in Pigeon style, displayed
the long array of printed records. The man was a fancier. His
interest was aroused; he pulled the string that shut the flying
door, and in a few minutes Arnaux was his prisoner.

The robber spread the much-inscribed wings, read record after
record, and glancing at the silver badge--it should have been
gold--he read his name--Arnaux; then exclaimed: "Arnaux! Arnaux!
Oh, I've heard of you, you little beauty, and it's glad I am to
trap you." He snipped the message from his tail, unrolled it, and
read: "Arnaux left Chicago this morning at 4 A.M., scratched in
the Any Age Sweepstakes for New York."

"Six hundred miles in twelve hours! By the powers, that's a
record-breaker." And the pigeon-stealer gently, almost
reverently, put the fluttering Bird safely into a padded cage.
"Well," he added, "I know it's no use trying to make you stay,
but I can breed from you and have some of your strain."

So Arnaux was shut up in a large and comfortable loft with
several other prisoners. The man, though a thief, was a lover of
Homers; he gave his captive everything that could insure his
comfort and safety. For three months he left him in that loft. At
first Arnaux did nothing all day but walk up and down the wire
screen, looking high and low for means of escape; but in the
fourth month he seemed to have abandoned the attempt, and the
watchful jailer began the second part of his scheme. He
introduced a coy young lady Pigeon. But it did not seem to
answer; Arnaux was not even civil to her. After a time the jailer
removed the female, and Arnaux was left in solitary confinement
for a month. Now a different female was brought in, but with no
better luck; and thus it went on--for a year different charmers
were introduced. Arnaux either violently repelled them or was
scornfully indifferent, and at times the old longing to get away,
came back with twofold power, so that he darted up and down the
wire front or dashed with all his force against it.

When the storied feathers of his wings began their annual moult,
his jailer saved them as precious things, and as each new feather
came he reproduced on it the record of its owner's fame.

Two years went slowly by, and the jailer had put Arnaux in a new
loft and brought in another lady Pigeon. By chance she closely
resembled the faithless one at home. Arnaux actually heeded the
newcomer. Once the jailer thought he saw his famous prisoner
paying some slight attention to the charmer, and, yes, he surely
saw her preparing a nest. Then assuming that they had reached a
full understanding, the jailer, for the first time, opened the
outlet, and Arnaux was free. Did he hang around in doubt? Did he
hesitate? No, not for one moment. As soon as the drop of the door
left open the way, he shot through, he spread those wonderful
blazoned wings, and, with no second thought for the latest Circe,
sprang from the hated prison loft--away and away.


V

We have no means of looking into the Pigeon's mind; we may go
wrong in conjuring up for it deep thoughts of love and welcome
home; but we are safe in this, we cannot too strongly paint, we
cannot too highly praise and glorify that wonderful
God-implanted, mankind-fostered home-love that glows unquenchably
in this noble bird. Call it what you like, a mere instinct
deliberately constructed by man for his selfish ends, explain it
away if you will, dissect it, misname it, and it still is there,
in overwhelming, imperishable master-power, as long as the brave
little heart and wings can beat.

Home, home, sweet home! Never had mankind a stronger love of home
than Arnaux. The trials and sorrows of the old pigeon-loft were
forgotten in that   all-dominating force of his nature. Not years
of prison bars, not later loves, nor fear of death, could down
its power; and Arnaux, had the gift of song been his, must surely
have sung as sings a hero in his highest joy, when sprang he from
the 'lighting board, up-circling free, soaring, drawn by the only
impulse that those glorious wings would honor,--up, up, in
widening, heightening circles of ashy blue in the blue, flashing
those many-lettered wings of white, till they seemed like jets of
fire--up and on, driven by that home-love, faithful to his only
home and to his faithless mate; closing his eyes, they say;
closing his ears, they tell; shutting his mind,--we all
believe,--to nearer things, to two years of his life, to one half
of his prime, but soaring in the blue, retiring, as a saint might
do, into his inner self, giving himself up to that inmost guide.
He was the captain of the ship, but the pilot, the chart and
compass, all, were that deep-implanted instinct. One thousand
feet above the trees the inscrutable whisper came, and Arnaux in
arrowy swiftness now was pointing for the south-southeast. The
little flashes of white fire on each side were lost in the low
sky, and the reverent robber of Syracuse saw Arnaux nevermore.

The fast express was steaming down the valley. It was far ahead,
but Arnaux overtook and passed it, as the flying wild Duck passes
the swimming Muskrat. High in the valleys he went, low over the
hills of Chenango, where the pines were combing the breezes.

Out from his oak-tree eyrie a Hawk came wheeling and sailing,
silent, for he had marked the Flyer, and meant him for his prey.
Arnaux turned neither right nor left, nor raised nor lowered his
flight, nor lost a wing-beat. The Hawk was in waiting in the gap
ahead, and Arnaux passed him, even as a Deer in his prime may
pass by a Bear in his pathway. Home! home! was the only burning
thought, the blinding impulse.

Beat, beat, beat, those flashing pinions went with speed
unslacked on the now familiar road. In an hour the Catskills were
at hand. In two hours he was passing over them. Old friendly
places, swiftly coming now, lent more force to his wings. Home!
home! was the silent song that his heart was singing. Like the
traveller dying of thirst, that sees the palm-trees far ahead,
his brilliant eyes took in the distant smoke of Manhattan.

Out from the crest of the Catskills there launched a Falcon.
Swiftest of the race of rapine, proud of his strength, proud of
his wings, he rejoiced in a worthy prey. Many and many a Pigeon
had been borne to his nest, and riding the wind he came,
swooping, reserving his strength, awaiting the proper time. Oh,
how well he knew the very moment! Down, down like a flashing
javelin; no wild Duck, no Hawk could elude him, for this was a
Falcon. Turn back now, O Homer, and save yourself; go round the
dangerous hills. Did he turn? Not a whit! for this was Arnaux.
Home! home! home! was his only thought. To meet the danger, he
merely added to his speed; and the Peregrine stooped; stooped at
what?--a flashing of color, a twinkling of whiteness--and went
back empty. While Arnaux cleft the air of the valley as a stone
from a sling, to be lost--a white-winged bird--a spot with
flashing halo--and, quickly, a speck in the offing. On down the
dear valley of Hudson, the well-known highway; for two years he
had not seen it! Now he dropped low as the noon breeze came north
and ruffled the river below him. Home! home! home! and the towers
of a city are coming in view! Home! home! past the great
spider-bridge of Poughkeepsie, skimming, skirting the
river-banks. Low now by the bank as the wind arose. Low, alas!
too low!

What fiend was it tempted a gunner in June to lurk on that hill
by the margin? what devil directed his gaze to the twinkling of
white that came from the blue to the northward? Oh, Arnaux,
Arnaux, skimming low, forget not the gunner of old! Too low, too
low you are clearing that hill. Too low--too late!  Flash--bang!
and the death-hail has reached him; reached, maimed, but not
downed him. Out of the flashing pinions broken feathers printed
with records went fluttering earthward. The "naught" of his sea
record was gone. Not two hundred and ten, but twenty-one miles it
now read. Oh, shameful pillage! A dark stain appeared on his
bosom, but Arnaux kept on. Home, home, homeward bound. The danger
was past in an instant. Home, homeward he steered straight as
before, but the wonderful speed was diminished; not a mile a
minute now; and the wind made undue sounds in his tattered
pinions. The stain in his breast told of broken force; but on,
straight on, he flew. Home, home was in sight, and the pain in
his breast was forgotten. The tall towers of the city were in
clear view of his far-seeing eye as he skimmed by the high cliffs
of Jersey. On, on--the pinion might flag, the eye might darken,
but the home-love was stronger and stronger.

Under the tall Palisades, to be screened from the wind, he
passed, over the sparkling water, over the trees, under the
Peregrines' eyrie, under the pirates' castle where the great grim
Peregrines sat; peering like black-masked highwaymen they marked
the on-coming Pigeon. Arnaux knew them of old. Many a message was
lying undelivered in that nest, many a record-bearing plume had
fluttered away from its fastness. But Arnaux had faced them
before, and now he came as before--on, onward, swift, but not as
he had been; the deadly gun had sapped his force, had lowered his
speed. On, on; and the Peregrines, biding their time, went forth
like two bow-bolts; strong and lightning-swift they went against
one weak and wearied.

Why tell of the race that followed? Why paint the despair of a
brave little heart in sight of the home he had craved in vain? in
a minute all was over. The Peregrines screeched in their triumph.
Screeching and sailing, they swung to their eyrie, and the prey
in their claws was the body, the last of the bright little
Arnaux. There on the rocks the beaks and claws of the bandits
were red with the life of the hero. Torn asunder were those
matchless wings, and their records were scattered unnoticed. In
sun and in storm they lay till the killers themselves were killed
and their stronghold rifled. And none knew the fate of the
peerless Bird till deep in the dust and rubbish of that
pirate-nest the avenger found, among others of its kind, a silver
ring, the sacred badge of the High Homer, and read upon it the
pregnant inscription: "ARNAUX, 2590 C."



BADLANDS BILLY
The Wolf that Won

I

THE HOWL BY NIGHT

Do you know the three calls of the hunting Wolf:--the long-drawn
deep howl, the muster, that tells of game discovered but too
strong for the finder to manage alone; and the higher ululation
that ringing and swelling is the cry of the pack on a hot scent;
and the sharp bark coupled with a short howl that, seeming least
of all, is yet a gong of doom, for this is the cry "Close
in"--this is the finish?

We were riding the Badland Buttes, King and I, with a pack of
various hunting Dogs stringing behind or trotting alongside. The
sun had gone from the sky, and a blood-streak marked the spot
where he died, away over Sentinel Butte. The hills were dim, the
valleys dark, when from the nearest gloom there rolled a
long-drawn cry that all men recognize instinctively--melodious,
yet with a tone in it that sends a shudder up the spine, though
now it has lost all menace for mankind. We listened for a moment.
It was the Wolf-hunter who broke silence: "That's Badlands Billy;
ain't it a voice? He's out for his beef to-night."


II

ANCIENT DAYS

In pristine days the Buffalo herds were followed by bands of
Wolves that preyed on the sick, the weak, and the wounded. When
the Buffalo were exterminated the Wolves were hard put for
support, but the Cattle came and solved the question for them by
taking the Buffaloes' place. This caused the wolf-war. The
ranchmen offered a bounty for each Wolf killed, and every cowboy
out of work, was supplied with traps and poison for wolf-killing.
The very expert made this their sole business and became known as
wolvers. King Ryder was one of these. He was a quiet,
gentlespoken fellow, with a keen eye and an insight into animal
life that gave him especial power over Broncos and Dogs, as well
as Wolves and Bears, though in the last two cases it was power
merely to surmise where they were and how best to get at them. He
had been a wolver for years, and greatly surprised me by saying
that "never in all his experience had he known a Gray-wolf to
attack a human being."

We had many camp-fire talks while the other men were sleeping,
and then it was I learned the little that he knew about Badlands
Billy. "Six times have I seen him and the seventh will be Sunday,
you bet. He takes his long rest then." And thus on the very
ground where it all fell out, to the noise of the night wind and
the yapping of the Coyote, interrupted sometimes by the
deep-drawn howl of the hero
himself, I heard chapters of this history which, with others
gleaned in many fields, gave me the story of the Big Dark Wolf of
Sentinel Butte.


III

IN THE CANON

Away back in the spring of '92 a wolver was "wolving" on the east
side of the Sentinel Mountain that so long was a principal
landmark of the old Plainsmen. Pelts were not good in May, but
the bounties were high, five dollars a head, and double for
She-wolves. As he went down to the creek one morning he saw a
Wolf coming to drink on the other side. He had an easy shot, and
on killing it found it was a nursing She-wolf. Evidently her
family were somewhere near, so he spent two or three days
searching in all the likely places, but found no clue to the den.

Two weeks afterward, as the wolver rode down an adjoining caГ±on,
he saw a Wolf come out of a hole. The ever-ready rifle flew up,
and another ten-dollar scalp was added to his string. Now he dug
into the den and found the litter, a most surprising one indeed,
for it consisted not of the usual five or six Wolf-pups, but of
eleven, and these, strange to say, were of two sizes, five of
them larger and older than the other six. Here were two distinct
families with one mother, and as he added their scalps to his
string of trophies the truth dawned on the hunter. One lot was
surely the family of the She-wolf he had killed two weeks before.
The case was clear: the little ones awaiting the mother that was
never to come, had whined piteously and more loudly as their
hunger-pangs increased; the other mother passing had heard the
Cubs; her heart was tender now, her own little ones had so
recently come, and she cared for the orphans, carried them to her
own den, and was providing for the double family when the
rifleman had cut the gentle chapter short.

Many a wolver has dug into a wolf-den to find nothing. The old
Wolves or possibly the Cubs themselves often dig little side
pockets and off galleries, and when an enemy is breaking in they
hide in these. The loose earth conceals the small pocket and thus
the Cubs escape. When the wolver retired with his scalps he did
not know that the biggest of all the Cubs, was still in the den,
and even had he waited about for two hours, he might have been no
wiser. Three hours later the sun went down and there was a slight
scratching afar in the hole; first two little gray paws, then a
small black nose appeared in a soft sand-pile to one side of the
den. At length the Cub came forth from his hiding. He had been
frightened by the attack on the den; now he was perplexed by its
condition.

It was thrice as large as it had been and open at the top now.
Lying near were things that smelled like his brothers and
sisters, but they were repellent to him. He was filled with fear
as he sniffed at them, and sneaked aside into a thicket of grass,
as a Night-hawk boomed over his head. He crouched all night in
that thicket. He did not dare to go near the den, and knew not
where else he could go. The next morning when two Vultures came
swooping down on the bodies, the Wolf-cub ran off in the thicket,
and seeking its deepest cover, was led down a ravine to a wide
valley. Suddenly there arose from the grass a big She-wolf, like
his mother, yet different, a stranger, and instinctively the
stray Cub sank to the earth, as the old Wolf bounded on him. No
doubt the Cub had been taken for some lawful prey, but a whiff
set that right. She stood over him for an instant. He grovelled
at her feet. The impulse to kill him or at least give him a shake
died away. He had the smell of a young Cub. Her own were about
his age, her heart was touched, and when he found courage enough
to put his nose up and smell her nose, she made no angry
demonstration except a short half-hearted growl. Now, however, he
had smelled something that he sorely needed. He had not fed since
the day before, and when the old Wolf turned to leave him, he
tumbled after her on clumsy puppy legs. Had the Mother-wolf been
far from home he must soon have been left behind, but the nearest
hollow was the chosen place, and the Cub arrived at the den's
mouth soon after the Mother-wolf.

A stranger is an enemy, and the old one rushing forth to the
defense, met the Cub again, and again was restrained by something
that rose in her responsive to the smell. The Cub had thrown
himself on his back in utter submission, but that did not prevent
his nose reporting to him the good thing almost within reach. The
She-wolf went into the den and curled herself about her brood;
the Cub persisted in following. She snarled as he approached her
own little ones, but disarming wrath each time by submission and
his very cubhood, he was presently among her brood, helping
himself to what he wanted so greatly, and thus he adopted himself
into her family. In a few days he was so much one of them that
the mother forgot about his being a stranger. Yet he was
different from them in several ways--older by two weeks,
stronger, and marked on the neck and shoulders with what
afterward grew to be a dark mane. 

Little Duskymane could not have been happier in his choice of a
foster-mother, for the Yellow Wolf was not only a good hunter
with a fund of cunning, but she was a Wolf of modern ideas as
well. The old tricks of tolling a Prairie Dog, relaying for
Antelope, houghing a Bronco or flanking a Steer she had learned
partly from instinct and partly from the example of her more
experienced relatives, when they joined to form the winter bands.
But, just as necessary nowadays, she had learned that all men
carry guns, that guns are irresistible, that the only way to
avoid them is by keeping out of sight while the sun is up, and
yet that at night they are harmless. She had a fair comprehension
of traps, indeed she had been in one once, and though she left a
toe behind in pulling free, it was a toe most advantageously
disposed of; thenceforth, though not comprehending the nature of
the trap, she was thoroughly imbued with the horror of it, with
the idea indeed that iron is dangerous, and at any price it
should be avoided.

On one occasion, when she and five others were planning to raid a
Sheep yard, she held back at the last minute because some
newstrung wires appeared. The others rushed in to find the Sheep
beyond their reach, themselves in a death-trap.

Thus she had learned the newer dangers, and while it is unlikely
that she had any clear mental conception of them she had acquired
a wholesome distrust of all things strange, and a horror of one
or two in particular that proved her lasting safeguard. Each year
she raised her brood successfully and the number of Yellow Wolves
increased in the country. Guns, traps, men and the new animals
they brought had been learned, but there was yet another lesson
before her--a terrible one indeed.

About the time Duskymane's brothers were a month old his
foster-mother returned in a strange condition. She was frothing
at the mouth, her legs trembled, and she fell in a convulsion
near the doorway of the den, but recovering, she came in. Her
jaws quivered, her teeth rattled a little as she tried to lick
the little ones; she seized her own front leg and bit it so as
not to bite them, but at length she grew quieter and calmer. The
Cubs had retreated in fear to a far pocket, but now they returned
and crowded about her to seek their usual food. The mother
recovered, but was very ill for two or three days, and those days
with the poison in her system worked disaster for the brood. They
were terribly sick; only the strongest could survive, and when
the trial of strength was over, the den contained only the old
one and the Black-maned Cub, the one she had adopted. Thus little
Duskymane became her sole charge; all her strength was devoted to
feeding him, and he thrived apace.

Wolves are quick to learn certain things. The reactions of smell
are the greatest that a Wolf can feel, and thenceforth both Cub
and foster-mother experienced a quick, unreasoning sense of fear
and hate the moment the smell of strychnine reached them.


IV

THE RUDIMENTS OF WOLF TRAINING

With the sustenance of seven at his service the little Wolf had
every reason to grow, and when in the autumn he began to follow
his mother on her hunting trips he was as tall as she was. Now a
change of region was forced on them, for numbers of little Wolves
were growing up. Sentinel Butte, the rocky fastness of the
plains, was claimed by many that were big and strong; the weaker
must move out, and with them Yellow Wolf and the Dusky Cub.

Wolves have no language in the sense that man has; their
vocabulary is probably limited to a dozen howls, barks, and
grunts expressing the simplest emotions; but they have several
other modes of conveying ideas, and one very special method of
spreading information--the Wolf-telephone. Scattered over their
range are a number of recognized "centrals." Sometimes these are
stones, sometimes the angle of cross-trails, sometimes a
Buffalo-skull--indeed, any conspicuous object near a main trail
is used. A Wolf calling here, as a Dog does at a telegraph post,
or a Muskrat at a certain mud-pie point, leaves his body-scent
and learns what other visitors have been there recently to do the
same. He learns also whence they came and where they went, as
well as something about their condition, whether hunted, hungry,
gorged, or sick. By this system of registration a Wolf knows
where his friends, as well as his foes, are to be found. And
Duskymane, following after the Yellow Wolf, was taught the places
and uses of the many signal-stations without any conscious
attempt at teaching on the part of his foster-mother. Example
backed by his native instincts was indeed the chief teacher, but
on one occasion at least there was something very like the effort
of a human parent to guard her child in danger.