He never again got a chance to shoot at them, though more than
once he saw the same two tracks, or believed they were the same,
as for some cause never yet explained, Deer were scarcer in that
unbroken forest than they were in later years when clearings
spread around.

He never again saw them; but he saw the mother once--he thought
it was the same--she was searching the woods with her nose,
trying the ground for trails; she was nervous and anxious,
evidently seeking. Thor remembered a trick that Corney had told
him. He gently stooped, took up a broad blade of grass, laid it
between the edges of his thumbs, then blowing through this simple
squeaker he made a short, shrill bleat, a fair imitation of a
Fawn's cry for the mother, and the Deer, though a long way off,
came bounding toward him. He snatched his gun, meaning to kill
her, but the movement caught her eye. She stopped. Her mane
bristled a little; she sniffed and looked inquiringly at him. Her
big soft eyes touched his heart, held back his hand; she took a
cautious step nearer, got a full whiff of her mortal enemy,
bounded behind a big tree and away before his merciful impulse
was gone. "Poor thing," said Thor, "I believe she has lost her
little one."

Yet once more the Boy met a Lynx in the woods. Half an hour after
seeing the lonely Deer he crossed the long ridge that lay some
miles north of the shanty. He had passed the glade where the
great basswood lay when a creature like a big bob-tailed Kitten
appeared and looked innocently at him. His gun went up, as usual,
but the Kitten merely cocked its head on one side and fearlessly
surveyed him. Then a second one that he had not noticed before
began to play with the first, pawing at its tail and inviting its
brother to tussle.

Thor's first thought to shoot was stayed as he watched their
gambols, but the remembrance of his feud with their race came
back. He had almost raised the gun when a fierce rumble close at
hand gave him a start, and there, not ten feet from him, stood
the old one, looking big and fierce as a Tigress. It was surely
folly to shoot at the young ones now. The boy nervously dropped
some buckshot on the charge while the snarling growl rose and
fell, but before he was ready to shoot at her the old one had
picked up something that was by her feet; the boy got a glimpse
of rich brown with white spots--the limp form of a newly killed
Fawn. Then she passed out of sight. The Kittens followed, and he
saw her no more until the time when, life against life, they were
weighed in the balance together.


IV

THE TERROR OF THE WOODS

Six weeks had passed in daily routine when one day the young
giant seemed unusually quiet as he went about. His handsome face
was very sober and he sang not at all that morning.

He and Thor slept on a hay-bunk in one corner of the main room,
and that night the Boy awakened more than once to hear his
companion groaning and tossing in his sleep. Corney arose as
usual in the morning and fed the horses, but lay down again while
the sisters got breakfast. He roused himself by an effort and
went back to work, but came home early. He was trembling from
head to foot. It was hot summer weather, but he could not be kept
warm. After several hours a reaction set in and Corney was in a
high fever. The family knew well now that he had the dreaded
chills and fever of the backwoods. Margat went out and gathered a
lapful of pipsissewa to make tea, of which Corney was encouraged
to drink copiously.

But in spite of all their herbs and nursing the young man got
worse. At the end of ten days he was greatly reduced in flesh and
incapable of work, so on one of the "well days" that are usual in
the course of the disease he said:

"Say, gurruls, I can't stand it no longer. Guess I better go
home. I'm well enough to drive to-day, for a while anyway; if I'm
took down I'll lay in the wagon, and the horses will fetch me
home. Mother'll have me all right in a week or so. If you run out
of grub before I come back take the canoe to Ellerton's."

So the girls harnessed the horses; the wagon was partly filled
with hay, and Corney, weak and white-faced, drove away on the
long rough road, and left them feeling much as though they were
on a desert island and their only boat had been taken from them.

Half a week had scarcely gone before all three of them, Margat,
Loo, and Thor, were taken down with a yet more virulent form of
chills and fever.

Corney had had every other a "well day," but with these three
there were no "well days" and the house became an abode of
misery.

Seven days passed, and now Margat could not leave her bed and Loo
was barely able to walk around the house. She was a brave girl
with a fund of drollery which did much toward keeping up all
their spirits, but her merriest jokes fell ghastly from her wan,
pinched face. Thor, though weak and ill, was the strongest and
did for the others, cooking and serving each day a simple meal,
for they could eat very little, fortunately, perhaps, as there
was very little, and Corney could not return for another week.

Soon Thor was the only one able to rise, and one morning when he
dragged himself to cut the little usual slice of their treasured
bacon he found, to his horror, that the whole piece was gone. It
had been stolen, doubtless by some wild animal, from the little
box on the shady side of the house, where it was kept safe from
flies. Now they were down to flour and tea. He was in despair,
when his eye lighted on the Chickens about the stable; but what's
the use? In his feeble state he might as well try to catch a Deer
or a Hawk. Suddenly he remembered his gun and very soon was
preparing a fat Hen for the pot. He boiled it whole as the
easiest way to cook it, and the broth was the first really
tempting food they had had for some time.

They kept alive for three wretched days on that Chicken, and when
it was finished Thor again took down his gun--it seemed a much
heavier gun now. He crawled to the barn, but he was so weak and
shaky that he missed several times before he brought down a fowl.
Corney had taken the rifle away with him and three charges of gun
ammunition were all that now remained.

Thor was surprised to see how few Hens there were now, only three
or four. There used to be over a dozen. Three days later he made
another raid. He saw but one Hen and he used up his last
ammunition to get that.

His daily routine now was a monotony of horror. In the morning,
which was his "well time," he prepared a little food for the
household and got ready for the night of raging fever by putting
a bucket of water on a block at the head of each bunk. About one
o'clock, with fearful regularity, the chills would come on, with
trembling from head to foot and chattering teeth, and cold, cold,
within and without. Nothing seemed to give any warmth--fire
seemed to have lost its power. There was nothing to do but to lie
and shake and suffer all the slow torture of freezing to death
and shaking to pieces. For six hours it would keep up, and to the
torture, nausea lent its horrid aid throughout; then about seven
or eight o'clock in the evening a change would come; a burning
fever set in; no ice could have seemed cool to him then;
water--water--was all he craved, and drank and drank until three
or four in the morning, when the fever would abate, and a sleep
of total exhaustion followed.

"If you run out of food take the canoe to Ellerton's," was the
brother's last word. Who was to take the canoe?

There was but half a Chicken now between them and starvation, and
no sign of Corney.

For three interminable weeks the deadly program dragged along. It
went on the same yet worse, as the sufferers grew weaker--a few
days more and the Boy also would be unable to leave his couch.
Then what?

Despair was on the house and the silent cry of each was, "Oh,
God! will Corney never come?"


V

THE HOME OF THE BOY

On the day of that last Chicken, Thor was all morning carrying
water enough for the coming three fevers. The chill attacked him
sooner than it was due and his fever was worse than ever before.

He drank deeply and often from the bucket at his head. He had
filled it, and it was nearly emptied when about two in the
morning the fever left him and he fell asleep.

In the gray dawn he was awakened by a curious sound not far
away--a splashing of water. He turned his head to see two glaring
eyes within a foot of his face--a great Beast lapping the water
in the bucket by his bed.

Thor gazed in horror for a moment, then closed his eyes, sure
that he was dreaming, certain that this was a nightmare of India
with a Tiger by his couch; but the lapping continued. He looked
up; yes, it still was there. He tried to find his voice but
uttered only a gurgle. The great furry head quivered, a sniff
came from below the shining eyeballs, and the creature, whatever
it was, dropped to its front feet and went across the hut under
the table. Thor was fully awake now; he rose slowly on his elbow
and feebly shouted "Sssh-hi," at which the shining eyes
reappeared under the table and the gray form came forth. Calmly
it walked across the ground and glided under the lowest log at a
place where an old potato pit left an opening and disappeared.
What was it? The sick boy hardly knew--some savage Beast of prey,
undoubtedly. He was totally unnerved. He shook with fear and a
sense of helplessness, and the night passed in fitful sleep and
sudden starts awake to search the gloom again for those fearful
eyes and the great gray gliding form. In the morning he did not
know whether it were not all a delirium, yet he made a feeble
effort to close the old cellar hole with some firewood.

The three had little appetite, but even that they restrained
since now they were down to part of a Chicken, and Corney,
evidently he supposed they had been to Ellerton's and got all the
food they needed.

Again that night, when the fever left him weak and dozing, Thor
was awakened by a noise in the room, a sound of crunching bones.
He looked around to see dimly outlined against the little window,
the form of a large animal on the table. Thor shouted; he tried
to hurl his boot at the intruder. It leaped lightly to the ground
and passed out of the hole, again wide open.

It was no dream this time, he knew, and the women knew it, too;
not only had they heard the creature, but the Chicken, the last
of their food, was wholly gone.

Poor Thor barely left his couch that day. It needed all the
querulous complaints of the sick women to drive him forth. Down
by the spring he found a few berries and divided them with the
others. He made his usual preparations for the chills and the
thirst, but he added this--by the side of his couch he put an old 
fish-spear--the only weapon he could find, now the gun was
useless--a pine-root candle and some matches. He knew the Beast
was coming back again--was coming hungry. It would find no food;
what more natural, he thought, than take the living prey lying
there so helpless? And a vision came of the limp brown form of
the little Fawn, borne off in those same cruel jaws.

Once again he barricaded the hole with firewood, and the night
passed as usual, but without any fierce visitor. Their food that
day was flour and water, and to cook it Thor was forced to use
some of his barricade. Loo attempted some feeble joke, guessed
she was light enough to fly now and tried to rise, but she got no
farther than the edge of the bunk. The same preparations were
made, and the night wore on, but early in the morning, Thor was
again awakened rudely by the sound of lapping water by his bed,
and there, as before, were the glowing eyeballs, the great head,
the gray form relieved by the dim light from the dawning window.

Thor put all his strength into what was meant for a bold shout,
but it was merely a feeble screech. He rose slowly and called
out: "Loo, Margat! The Lynx--here's the Lynx again!"

"May God help ye, for we can't," was the answer.

"Sssh-hi!" Thor tried again to drive the Beast away. It leaped on
to the table by the window and stood up growling under the
useless gun. Thor thought it was going to leap through the glass
as it faced the window a moment; but it turned and glared toward
the Boy, for he could see both eyes shining. He rose slowly to
the side of his bunk and he prayed for help, for he felt it was
kill or be killed. He struck a match and lighted his pine-root
candle, held that in his left hand and in his right took the old
fish-spear, meaning to fight, but he was so weak he had to use
the fish-spear as a crutch. The great Beast stood on the table
still, but was crouching a little as though for a spring. Its
eyes glowed red in the torchlight. Its short tail was switching
from side to side and its growling took a higher pitch. Thor's
knees were smiting together, but he levelled the spear and made a
feeble lunge toward the brute. It sprang at the same moment, not
at him, as he first thought--the torch and the boy's bold front
had had effect--it went over his head to drop on the ground
beyond and at once to slink under the bunk.

This was only a temporary repulse. Thor set the torch on a ledge
of the logs, then took the spear in both hands. He was fighting
for his life, and he knew it. He heard the voices of the women
feebly praying. He saw only the glowing eyes under the bed and
heard the growling in higher pitch as the Beast was nearing
action. He steadied himself by a great effort and plunged the
spear with all the force he could give it.

It struck something softer than the logs: a hideous snarl came
forth. The boy threw all his weight on the weapon; the Beast was
struggling to get at him; he felt its teeth and claws grating on
the handle, and in spite of himself it was coming on; its
powerful arms and claws were reaching for him now; he could not
hold out long. He put on all his force, just a little more it was
than before; the Beast lurched, there was a growling, a crack,
and a sudden yielding; the rotten old spear-head had broken off,
the Beast sprang out--at him--past him --never touched him, but
across through the hole and away, to be seen no more.

Thor fell on the bed and lost all consciousness.

He lay there he knew not how long, but was awakened in broad
daylight by a loud, cheery voice:

"Hello! Hello!--are ye all dead? Loo! Thor! Margat!"

He had no strength to answer, but there was a trampling of horses
outside, a heavy step, the door was forced open, and in strode
Corney, handsome and hearty as ever. But what a flash of horror
and pain came over his face on entering the silent shanty!

"Dead?" he gasped. "Who's dead--where are you? Thor?" Then, "Who
is it? Loo? Margat?"

"Corney--Corney," came feebly from the bunk. "They're in there.
They're awful sick. We have nothing to eat."

"Oh, what a fool I be!" said Corney again and again. "I made sure
ye'd go to Ellerton's and get all ye wanted."

"We had no chance, Corney; we were all three brought down at
once, right after you left. Then the Lynx came and cleared up the
Hens, and all in the house, too."

"Well, ye got even with her," and Corney pointed to the trail of
blood across the mud floor and out under the logs.

Good food, nursing, and medicine restored them all.

A month or two later, when the women wanted a new
leaching-barrel, Thor said: "I know where there is a hollow
basswood as big as a hogshead."

He and Corney went to the place, and when they cut off what they
needed, they found in the far end of it the dried-up bodies of
two little Lynxes with that of the mother, and in the side of the
old one was the head of a fish-spear broken from the handle.



LITTLE WARHORSE

The History of a Jack-rabbit

The Little Warhorse knew practically all the Dogs in town. First,
there was a very large brown Dog that had pursued him many times,
a Dog that he always got rid of by slipping through a hole in a
board fence. Second, there was a small active Dog that could
follow through that hole, and him he baffled by leaping a
twenty-foot irrigation ditch that had steep sides and a swift
current. The Dog could not make this leap. It was "sure medicine"
for that foe, and the boys still call the place "Old Jacky's
Jump." But there was a Greyhound that could leap better than the
Jack, and when he could not follow through a fence, he jumped
over it. He tried the Warhorse's mettle more than once, and Jacky
only saved himself by his quick dodging, till they got to an
Osage hedge, and here the Greyhound had to give it up. Besides
these, there was in town a rabble of big and little Dogs that
were troublesome, but easily left behind in the open.

In the country there was a Dog at each farm-house, but only one
that the Warhorse really feared; that was a long-legged, fierce,
black Dog, a brute so swift and pertinacious that he had several
times forced the Warhorse almost to the last extremity.

For the town Cats he cared little; only once or twice had he been
threatened by them. A huge Tom-cat flushed with many victories
came crawling up to where he fed one moonlight night. Jack
Warhorse saw the black creature with the glowing eyes, and a
moment before the final rush, he faced it, raised up on his
haunches,--his hind legs,--at full length on his toes,--with his
broad ears towering up yet six inches higher; then letting out a
loud churrr-churrr, his best attempt at a roar, he sprang five
feet forward and landed on the Cat's head, driving in his sharp
hind nails, and the old Tom fled in terror from the weird
two-legged giant. This trick he had tried several times with
success, but twice it turned out a sad failure: once, when the
Cat proved to be a mother whose Kittens were near; then Jack
Warhorse had to flee for his life; and the other time was when he
made the mistake of landing hard on a Skunk.

But the Greyhound was the dangerous enemy, and in him the
Warhorse might have found his fate, but for a curious adventure
with a happy ending for Jack.

He fed by night; there were fewer enemies about then, and it was
easier to hide; but one day at dawn in winter he had lingered
long at an alfalfa stack and was crossing the open snow toward
his favorite form, when, as ill-luck would have it, he met the
Greyhound prowling outside the town. With open snow and growing
daylight there was no chance to hide, nothing but a run in the
open with soft snow that hindered the Jack more than it did the
Hound.

Off they went--superb runners in fine fettle. how they skimmed
across the snow, raising it in little puff-puff-puffs, each time
their nimble feet went down. This way and that, swerving and
dodging, went the chase. Everything favored the Dog,--his empty
stomach, the cold weather, the soft snow,--while the Rabbit was
handicapped by his heavy meal of alfalfa. But his feet went
puff--puff so fast that a dozen of the little snow-jets were in
view at once. The chase continued in the open; no friendly hedge
was near, and every attempt to reach a fence was cleverly stopped
by the Hound. Jack's ears were losing their bold   up-cock, a
sure sign of failing heart or wind, when all at once these flags
went stiffly up, as under sudden renewal of strength. The
Warhorse put forth all his power, not to reach the hedge to the
north, but over the open prairie eastward. The Greyhound
followed, and within fifty yards the Jack dodged to foil his
fierce pursuer; but on the next tack he was on his eastern course
again, and so tacking and dodging, he kept the line direct for
the next farm-house, where was a very high board fence with a
hen-hole, and where also there dwelt his other hated enemy, the
big black Dog. An outer hedge delayed the Greyhound for a moment
and gave Jack time to dash through the hen-hole into the yard,
where he hid to one side. The Greyhound rushed around to the low
gate, leaped over that among the Hens, and as they fled cackling
and fluttering, some Lambs bleated loudly. Their natural
guardian, the big black Dog, ran to the rescue, and Warhorse
slipped out again by the hole at which he had entered. Horrible
sounds of Dog hate and fury were heard behind him in the
hen-yard, and soon the shouts of men were added. How it ended he
did not know or seek to learn, but it was remarkable that he
never afterward was troubled by the swift Greyhound that formerly
lived in Newchusen.

II

Hard times and easy times had long followed in turn and been
taken as matters of course; but recent years in the State of
Kaskado had brought to the Jack-rabbits a succession of
remarkable ups and downs. In the old days they had their endless
fight with Birds and Beasts of Prey, with cold and heat, with
pestilence and with flies whose sting bred a loathsome disease,
and yet had held their own. But the settling of the country by
farmers made many changes.

Dogs and guns arriving in numbers reduced the ranks of Coyotes,
Foxes, Wolves, Badgers, and Hawks that preyed on the Jack, so
that in a few years the Rabbits were multiplied in great swarms;
but now Pestilence broke out and swept them away. Only the
strongest--the double-seasoned--remained. For a while a   
Jack-rabbit was a rarity; but during this time another change
came in. The Osage-orange hedges planted everywhere afforded a
new refuge, and now the safety of a Jack-rabbit was less often
his speed than his wits, and the wise ones, when pursued by a Dog
or Coyote, would rush to the nearest hedge through a small hole
and escape while the enemy sought for a larger one by which to
follow. The Coyotes rose to this and developed the trick of the
relay chase. In this one Coyote takes one field, another the
next, and if the Rabbit attempts the "hedge-ruse" they work from
each side and usually win their prey. The Rabbit remedy for this,
is keen eyes to see the second Coyote, avoidance of that field,
then good legs to distance the first enemy.
 
Thus the Jack-rabbits, after being successively numerous, scarce,
in myriads, and rare, were now again on the increase, and those
which survived, selected by a hundred hard trials, were enabled
to flourish where their ancestors could not have outlived a
single season.

Their favorite grounds were, not the broad open stretches of the
big ranches, but the complicated, much-fenced fields of the
farms, where these were so small and close as to be like a big
straggling village.

One of these vegetable villages had sprung up around the railway
station of Newchusen. The country a mile away was well supplied
with Jack-rabbits of the new and selected stock. Among them was a
little lady Rabbit called "Bright-eyes," from her leading
characteristic as she sat gray in the gray brush.
She was a good runner, but was especially successful with the
fence-play that baffled the Coyotes. She made her nest out in an
open pasture, an untouched tract of the ancient prairie. Here her
brood were born and raised. One like herself was bright-eyed, in
coat of silver-gray, and partly gifted with her ready wits, but
in the other, there appeared a rare combination of his mother's
gifts with the best that was in the best strain of the new
Jack-rabbits of the plains.

This was the one whose adventures we have been following, the one
that later on the turf won the name of Little Warhorse and that
afterward achieved a world-wide fame.

Ancient tricks of his kind he revived and put to new uses, and
ancient enemies he learned to fight with new-found tricks.

When a mere baby he discovered a plan that was worthy of the
wisest Rabbit in Kaskado. He was pursued by a horrible little
Yellow Dog, and he had tried in vain to get rid of him by dodging
among the fields and farms. This is good play against a Coyote,
because the farmers and the Dogs will often help the Jack,
without knowing it, by attacking the Coyote. But now the plan did
not work at all, for the little Dog managed to keep after him
through one fence after another, and Jack Warhorse, not yet
full-grown, much less seasoned, was beginning to feel the strain.
His ears were no longer up straight, but angling back and at
times drooping to a level, as he darted through a very little
hole in an Osage hedge, only to find that his nimble enemy had
done the same without loss of time. In the middle of the field
was a small herd of cattle and with them a calf.

There is in wild animals a curious impulse to trust any stranger
when in desperate straits. The foe behind they know means death.
There is just a chance, and the only one left, that the stranger
may prove friendly; and it was this last desperate chance that
drew Jack Warhorse to the Cows.

It is quite sure that the Cows would have stood by in stolid
indifference so far as the Rabbit was concerned, but they have a
deep-rooted hatred of a dog, and when they saw the Yellow Cur
coming bounding toward them, their tails and noses went up; they
sniffed angrily, then closed up ranks, and led by the Cow that
owned the Calf, they charged at the Dog, while Jack took refuge
under a low thorn-bush. The Dog swerved aside to attack the Calf,
at least the old Cow thought he did, and she followed him so
fiercely that he barely escaped from that field with his life.

It was a good old plan--one that doubtless came from the days
when Buffalo and Coyote played the parts of Cow and Dog. Jack
never forgot it, and more than once it saved his life.

In color as well as in power he was a rarity. 

Animals are colored in one or other of two general plans: one
that matches them with their surroundings and helps them to
hide--this is called "protective"; the other that makes them very
visible for several purposes--this is called "directive."
Jack-rabbits are peculiar in being painted both ways. As they
squat in their form in the gray brush or clods, they are soft
gray on their ears, head, back, and sides; they match the ground
and cannot be seen until close at hand--they are protectively
colored. But the moment it is clear to the Jack that the
approaching foe will find him, he jumps up and dashes away. He
throws off all disguise now, the gray seems to disappear; he
makes a lightning change, and his ears show snowy white with
black tips, the legs are white, his tail is a black spot in a
blaze of white. He is a black-and-white Rabbit now. His coloring
is all directive. How is it done? Very simply. The front side of
the ear is gray, the back, black and white. The black tail with
its white halo, and the legs, are tucked below. He is sitting on
them. The gray mantle is pulled down and enlarged as he sits, but
when he jumps up it shrinks somewhat, all his black-and-white
marks are now shown, and just as his colors formerly whispered,
"I am a clod," they now shout aloud, "I am a Jack-rabbit."

Why should he do this? Why should a timid creature running for
his life thus proclaim to all the world his name instead of
trying to hide? There must be some good reason. It must pay, or
the Rabbit would never have done it.

The answer is, if the creature that scared him up was one of his
own kind--i.e., this was a false alarm--then at once, by showing
his national colors, the mistake is made right. On the other
hand, if it be a Coyote, Fox, or Dog, they see at once, this is a
Jack-rabbit, and know that it would be waste of time for them to
pursue him. They say in effect, "This is a Jack-rabbit, and I
cannot catch a Jack in open race." They give it up, and that, of
course, saves the Jack a great deal of unnecessary running and
worry. The black-and-white spots are the national uniform and
flag of the Jacks. In poor specimens they are apt to be dull, but
in the finest specimens they are not only larger, but brighter
than usual, and the Little Warhorse, gray when he sat in his
form, blazed like charcoal and snow, when he flung his defiance
to the Fox and buff Coyote, and danced with little effort before
them, first a black-and-white Jack, then a little white spot, and
last a speck of thistledown, before the distance swallowed him.

Many of the farmers' Dogs had learned the lesson: "A grayish
Rabbit you may catch, but a very black-and-white one is
hopeless." They might, indeed, follow for a time, but that was
merely for the fun of a chivvy, and his growing power often led
Warhorse to seek the chase for the sake of a little excitement,
and to take hazards that others less gifted were most careful to
avoid.

Jack, like all other wild animals, had a certain range or country
which was home to him, and outside of this he rarely strayed. It
was about three miles across, extending easterly from the centre
of the village. Scattered through this he had a number of
"forms," or "beds" as they are locally called. These were mere
hollows situated under a sheltering bush or bunch of grass,
without lining excepting the accidental grass and in-blown
leaves. But comfort was not forgotten. Some of them were for hot
weather; they faced the north, were scarcely sunk, were little
more than shady places. Some for the cold weather were deep
hollows with southern exposure, and others for the wet were well
roofed with herbage and faced the west. In one or other of these
he spent the day, and at night he went forth to feed with his
kind, sporting and romping on the moonlight nights like a lot of
puppy Dogs, but careful to be gone by sunrise, and safely tucked
in a bed that was suited to the weather.

The safest ground for the Jacks was among the farms, where not
only Osage hedges, but also the newly arrived barb-wire, made
hurdles and hazards in the path of possible enemies. But the
finest of the forage is nearer to the village among the
truck-farms--the finest of forage and the fiercest of dangers.
Some of the dangers of the plains were lacking, but the greater
perils of men, guns, Dogs, and impassable fences are much
increased. Yet those who knew Warhorse best were not at all
surprised to find that he had made a form in the middle of a
market-gardener's melon-patch. A score of dangers beset him here,
but there was also a score of unusual delights and a score of
holes in the fence for times when he had to fly, with at least
twoscore of expedients to help him afterward.


III

Newchusen was a typical Western town. Everywhere in it, were to
be seen strenuous efforts at uglification, crowned with
unmeasured success. The streets were straight level lanes without
curves or beauty-spots. The houses were cheap and mean structures
of flimsy boards and tar paper, and not even honest in their
ugliness, for each of them was pretending to be something better
than itself. One had a false front to make it look like two
stories, another was of imitation brick, a third pretended to be
a marble temple.

But all agreed in being the ugliest things ever used as human
dwellings, and in each could be read the owner's secret
thought--to stand it for a year or so, then move out somewhere
else. The only beauties of the place, and those unintentional,
were the long lines of hand-planted shade-trees, uglified as far
as possible with whitewashed trunks and croppy heads, but still
lovable, growing, living things.

The only building in town with a touch of picturesqueness was the
grain elevator. It was not posing as a Greek temple or a Swiss
chalet, but simply a strong, rough, honest, grain elevator. At
the end of each street was a vista of the prairie, with its
farm-houses, windmill pumps, and long lines of Osage-orange
hedges. Here at least was something of interest--the gray-green
hedges, thick, sturdy, and high, were dotted with their golden
mock-oranges, useless fruit, but more welcome here than rain in a
desert; for these balls were things of beauty, and swung on their
long tough boughs they formed with the soft green leaves a
color-chord that pleased the weary eye.

Such a town is a place to get out of, as soon as possible, so
thought the traveller who found himself laid over here for two
days in late winter. He asked after the sights of the place. A
white Muskrat stuffed in a case "down to the saloon"; old Baccy
Bullin, who had been scalped by the Indians forty years ago; and
a pipe once smoked by Kit Carson, proved unattractive, so he
turned toward the prairie, still white with snow.

A mark among the numerous Dog tracks caught his eye: it was the
track of a large Jack-rabbit. He asked a passer-by if there were
any Rabbits in town.

"No, I reckon not. I never seen none," was the answer. A
mill-hand gave the same reply, but a small boy with a bundle of
newspapers said: "You bet there is; there's lots of them out
there on the prairie, and they come in town a-plenty. Why,
there's a big, big feller lives right round Si Kalb's
melon-patch--oh, an awful big feller, and just as black and as
white as checkers!" and thus he sent the stranger eastward on his
walk.

The "big, big, awful big one" was the Little Warhorse himself. He
didn't live in Kalb's melon-patch; he was there only at odd
times. He was not there now; he was in his west-fronting form or
bed, because a raw east wind was setting in. It was due east of
Madison Avenue, and as the stranger plodded that way the Rabbit
watched him. As long as the man kept the road the Jack was quiet,
but the road turned shortly to the north, and the man by chance
left it and came straight on. Then the Jack saw trouble ahead.
The moment the man left the beaten track, he bounded from his
form, and wheeling, he sailed across the prairie due east.

A Jack-rabbit running from its enemy ordinarily covers eight or
nine feet at a bound, and once in five or six bounds, it makes an
observation hop, leaping not along, but high in the air, so as to
get above all herbage and bushes and take in the situation. A
silly young Jack will make an observation hop as often as one in
four, and so waste a great deal of time. A clever Jack will make
one hop in eight or nine, do for observation. But Jack Warhorse
as he sped, got all the information he needed, in one hop out of
a dozen, while ten to fourteen feet were covered by each of his
flying bounds. Yet another personal peculiarity showed in the
trail he left. When a Cottontail or a Wood-hare runs, his tail is
curled up tight on his back, and does not touch the snow. When a
Jack runs, his tail hangs downward or backward, with the tip
curved or straight, according to the individual; in some, it
points straight down, and so, often leaves a little stroke behind
the foot-marks. The Warhorse's tail of shining black, was of
unusual length, and at every bound, it left in the snow, a long
stroke, so long that that alone was almost enough to tell which
Rabbit had made the track.

Now some Rabbits seeing only a man without any Dog would have
felt little fear, but Warhorse, remembering some former stinging
experiences with a far-killer, fled when the foe was seventy-five
yards away, and skimming low, he ran southeast to a fence that
ran easterly. Behind this he went like a low-flying Hawk, till a
mile away he reached another of his beds; and here, after an
observation taken   as he stood on his heels, he settled again to
rest. 

But not for long. In twenty minutes his great megaphone ears, so
close to the ground, caught a regular sound -crunch, crunch,
crunch--the tramp of a human foot, and he started up to see the
man with the shining stick in his hand, now drawing near.

Warhorse bounded out and away for the fence. Never once did he
rise to a "spy-hop" till the wire and rails were between him and
his foe, an unnecessary precaution as it chanced, for the man was
watching the trail and saw nothing of the Rabbit.

Jack skimmed along, keeping low and looking out for other
enemies. He knew now that the man was on his track, and the old
instinct born of ancestral trouble with Weasels was doubtless
what prompted him to do the double trail. He ran in a long,
straight course to a distant fence, followed its far side for
fifty yards, then doubling back he retraced his trail and ran off
in a new direction till he reached another of his dens or forms.
He had been out all night and was very ready to rest, now that
the sun was ablaze on the snow; but he had hardly got the place a
little warmed when the "tramp, tramp, tramp" announced the enemy,
and he hurried away.

After a half-a-mile run he stopped on a slight rise and marked
the man still following, so he made a series of wonderful quirks
in his trail, a succession of blind zigzags that would have
puzzled most trailers; then running a hundred yards past a
favorite form, he returned to it from the other side, and settled
to rest, sure that now the enemy would be finally thrown off the
scent.

It was slower than before, but still it came--"tramp, tramp,
tramp."

Jack awoke, but sat still. The man tramped by on the trail one
hundred yards in front of him, and as he went on, Jack sprang out
unseen, realizing that this was an unusual occasion needing a
special effort. They had gone in a vast circle around the home
range of the Warhorse and now were less than a mile from the
farm-house of the black Dog. There was that wonderful board fence
with the happily planned hen-hole. It was a place of good
memory--here more than once he had won, here especially he had
baffled the Greyhound.

These doubtless were the motive thoughts rather than any plan of
playing one enemy against another, and Warhorse bounded openly
across the snow to the fence of the big black Dog.

The hen-hole was shut, and Warhorse, not a little puzzled,
sneaked around to find another, without success, until, around
the front, here was the gate wide open, and inside lying on some
boards was the big Dog, fast asleep. The Hens were sitting
hunched up in the warmest corner of the yard. The house Cat was
gingerly picking her way from barn to kitchen, as Warhorse halted
in the gateway.

The black form of his pursuer was crawling down the far white
prairie slope. Jack hopped quietly into the yard. A long-legged
Rooster, that ought to have minded his own business, uttered a
loud cackle as he saw the Rabbit hopping near. The Dog lying in
the sun raised his head and stood up, and Jack's peril was dire.
He squatted low and turned himself into a gray clod. He did it
cleverly, but still might have been lost but for the Cat.
Unwittingly, unwillingly, she saved him. The black Dog had taken
three steps toward the Warhorse, though he did not know the
Rabbit was there, and was now blocking the only way of escape
from the yard, when the Cat came round the corner of the house,
and leaping to a window-ledge brought a flower-pot rolling down.
By that single awkward act she disturbed the armed neutrality
existing between herself and the Dog. She fled to the barn, and
of course a flying foe is all that is needed to send a Dog on the
war-path. They passed within thirty feet of the crouching Rabbit.
As soon as they were well gone, Jack turned, and with-out even a
"Thank you, Pussy," he fled to the open and away on the
hard-beaten road.

The Cat had been rescued by the lady of the house; the Dog was
once more sprawling on the boards when the man on Jack's trail
arrived. He carried, not a gun, but a stout stick, sometimes
called "dog-medicine," and that was all that prevented the Dog
attacking the enemy of his prey.

This seemed to be the end of the trail. The trick, whether
planned or not, was a success, and the Rabbit got rid of his
troublesome follower.

Next day the stranger made another search for the Jack and found,
not himself, but his track. He knew it by its tail-mark, its long
leaps and few spy-hops, but with it and running by it was the
track of a smaller Rabbit. Here is where they met, here they
chased each other in play, for no signs of battle were there to
be seen; here they fed or sat together in the sun, there they
ambled side by side, and here again they sported in the snow,
always together. There was only one conclusion: this was the
mating season. This was a pair of Jack-rabbits--the Little
Warhorse and his mate.


IV

Next summer was a wonderful year for the Jack-rabbits. A foolish
law had set a bounty on Hawks and Owls and had caused a general
massacre of these feathered policemen. Consequently the Rabbits
had multiplied in such numbers that they now were threatening to
devastate the country.

The farmers, who were the sufferers from the bounty law, as well
as the makers of it, decided on a great Rabbit drive. All the
county was invited to come, on a given morning, to the main road
north of the county, with the intention of sweeping the whole
region up-wind and at length driving the Rabbits into a huge
corral of close wire netting. Dogs were barred as unmanageable,
and guns as dangerous in a crowd; but every man and boy carried a
couple of long sticks and a bag full of stones. Women came on
horseback and in buggies; many carried rattles or horns and tins
to make a noise. A number of the buggies trailed a string of old
cans or tied laths to scrape on the wheel-spokes, and thus add no
little to the deafening clatter of the drive. As Rabbits have
marvellously sensitive hearing, a noise that is distracting to
mankind, is likely to prove bewildering to them.

The weather was right, and at eight in the morning the word to
advance was given. The line was about five miles long at first,
and there was a man or a boy every thirty or forty yards. The
buggies and riders kept perforce almost entirely to the roads;
but the beaters were supposed, as a point of honor, to face
everything, and keep the front unbroken. The advance was roughly
in three sides of a square. Each man made as much noise as he
could, and threshed every bush in his path. A number of Rabbits
hopped out. Some made for the lines, to be at once assailed by a
shower of stones that laid many of them low. One or two did get
through and escaped, but the majority were swept before the
drive. At first the number seen was small, but before three miles
were covered the Rabbits were running ahead in every direction.
After five miles--and that took about three hours--the word for
the wings to close in was given. The space between the men was
shortened up till they were less than ten feet apart, and the
whole drive converged on the corral with its two long guide wings
or fences; the end lines joined these wings, and the surround was
complete. The drivers marched rapidly now; scores of the Rabbits
were killed as they ran too near the beaters. Their bodies
strewed the ground, but the swarms seemed to increase; and in the
final move, before the victims were cooped up in the corral, the
two-acre space surrounded was a whirling throng of skurrying,
jumping, bounding Rabbits. Round and round they circled and
leaped, looking for a chance to escape; but the inexorable crowd
grew thicker as the ring grew steadily smaller, and the whole
swarm was forced along the chute into the tight corral, some to
squat stupidly in the middle, some to race round the outer wall,
some to seek hiding in corners or under each other.

And the Little Warhorse--where was he in all this? The drive had
swept him along, and he had been one of the first to enter the
corral. But a curious plan of selection had been established. The
pen was to be a death-trap for the Rabbits, except the best, the
soundest. And many were there that were unsound; those that think
of all wild animals as pure and perfect things, would have been
shocked to see how many halt, maimed, and diseased there were in
that pen of four thousand or five thousand Jack-rabbits.

It was a Roman victory--the rabble of prisoners was to be
butchered. The choicest were to be reserved for the arena. The
arena? Yes, that is the Coursing Park.

In that corral trap, prepared beforehand for the Rabbits, were a
number of small boxes along the wall, a whole series of them,
five hundred at least, each large enough to hold one Jack.

In the last rush of driving, the swiftest Jacks got first to the
pen. Some were swift and silly; when once inside they rushed
wildly round and round. Some were swift and wise; they quickly
sought the hiding afforded by the little boxes; all of these were
now full. Thus five hundred of the swiftest and wisest had been
selected, in, not by any means an infallible way, but the
simplest and readiest. These five hundred were destined to be
coursed by Greyhounds. The surging mass of over four thousand
were ruthlessly given to slaughter.

Five hundred little boxes with five hundred bright-eyed
Jack-rabbits were put on the train that day, and among them was
Little Jack Warhorse.


V

Rabbits take their troubles lightly, and it is not to be supposed
that any great terror was felt by the boxed Jacks, once the
uproar of the massacre was over; and when they reached the
Coursing Park near the great city and were turned out one by one,
very gently,--yes, gently; the Roman guards were careful of their
prisoners, being responsible for them,--the Jacks found little to
complain of, a big inclosure with plenty of good food, and no
enemies to annoy them.

The very next morning their training began. A score of hatchways
were opened into a much larger field--the Park. After a number of
Jacks had wandered out through these doors a rabble of boys
appeared and drove them back, pursuing them noisily until all
were again in the smaller field, called the Haven. A few days of
this taught the Jack-rabbits that when pursued their safety was
to get back by one of the hatches into the Haven.

Now the second lesson began. The whole band were driven out of a
side door into a long lane which led around three sides of the
Park to another inclosure at the far end. This was the Starting
Pen. Its door into the arena--that is, the Park--was opened, the
Rabbits driven forth, and then a mob of boys and Dogs in hiding,
burst forth and pursued them across the open. The whole army went
bobbing and bounding away, some of the younger ones soaring in a
spy-hop, as a matter of habit; but low skimming ahead of them all
was a gorgeous black-and-white one; clean-limbed and bright-eyed,
he had attracted attention in the pen, but now in the field he
led the band with easy lope that put him as far ahead of them all
as they were ahead of the rabble of common Dogs.

"Luk at thot, would ye--but ain't he a Little Warhorse?" shouted
a villainous-looking Irish stable-boy, and thus he was named.
When halfway across the course the Jacks remembered the Haven,
and all swept toward it and in like a snow-cloud over the drifts.

This was the second lesson--to lead straight for the Haven as
soon as driven from the Pen. In a week all had learned it, and
were ready for the great opening meet of the Coursing Club.

The Little Warhorse was now well known to the grooms and
hangers-on; his colors usually marked him clearly, and his
leadership was in a measure recognized by the long-eared herd
that fled with him. He figured more or less with the Dogs in the
talk and betting of the men.

"Wonder if old Dignam is going to enter Minkie this year?"

"Faix, an' if he does I bet the Little Warhorse will take the
gimp out av her an' her runnin' mate."

"I'll bet three to one that my old Jen will pick the Warhorse up
before he passes the grand stand," growled a dog-man.

"An' it's meself will take thot bet in dollars," said Mickey,
"an', moore than thot, Oi'll put up a hull month's stuff thot
there ain't a dog in the mate thot kin turrn the Warrhorrse oncet
on the hull coorse."

So they wrangled and wagered, but each day, as they put the
Rabbits through their paces, there were more of those who
believed that they had found a wonderful runner in the Warhorse,
one that would give the best Greyhounds something that is rarely
seen, a straight stern chase from Start to Grand Stand and Haven.


VI

The first morning of the meet arrived bright and promising. The
Grand Stand was filled with a city crowd. The usual types of a
racecourse appeared in force. Here and there were to be seen the
dog-grooms leading in leash single Greyhounds or couples,
shrouded in blankets, but showing their sinewy legs, their snaky
necks, their shapely heads with long reptilian jaws, and their
quick, nervous yellow eyes--hybrids of natural force and human
ingenuity, the most wonderful running-machines ever made of flesh
and blood. Their keepers guarded them like jewels, tended them
like babies, and were careful to keep them from picking up odd
eatables, as well as prevent them smelling unusual objects or
being approached by strangers. Large sums were wagered on these
Dogs, and a cunningly placed tack, a piece of doctored meat, yes,
an artfully compounded smell, has been known to turn a superb
young runner into a lifeless laggard, and to the owner this might
spell ruin. The Dogs entered in each class are paired off, as
each contest is supposed to be a duel; the winners in the first
series are then paired again. In each trial, a Jack is driven
from the Starting-pen; close by in one leash are the rival Dogs,
held by the slipper. As soon as the Hare is well away, the man
has to get the Dogs evenly started and slip them together. On the
field is the judge, scarlet-coated and well mounted. He follows
the chase. The Hare, mindful of his training, speeds across the
open, toward the Haven, in full view of the Grand Stand. The Dogs
follow the Jack. As the first one comes near enough to be
dangerous, the Hare balks him by dodging. Each time the Hare is
turned, scores for the Dog that did it, and a final point is made
by the kill.

Sometimes the kill takes place within one hundred yards of the
start--that means a poor Jack; mostly it happens in front of the
Grand Stand; but on rare occasions it chances that the Jack goes
sailing across the open Park a good half-mile and, by dodging for
time, runs to safety in the Haven. Four finishes are possible: a
speedy kill; a speedy winning of the Haven; new Dogs to relieve
the first runners, who would suffer heart-collapse in the
terrific strain of their pace, if kept up many minutes in hot
weather; and finally, for Rabbits that by continued dodging defy
and jeopardize the Dogs, and yet do not win the Haven, there is
kept a loaded shotgun.

There is just as much jockeying at a Kaskado coursing as at a
Kaskado  horse-race, just as many attempts at fraud, and it is
just as necessary to have the judge and slipper beyond suspicion.