# They Who Walk in the Wilds/Mishi of Timberline

The trail was not only steep and rough, but at the same time slippery with the damp of spring; and the traveller, in that uncertain greyness of earliest dawn, had to pick his way with care. He was nearing the "timberline" after a sharp climb of half a mile from the high but sheltered valley wherein he had made camp the night before. The woods, a monstrous jumble of rocks and trunks, matted shrubs and gnarled, sinister roots which clutched like tentacles for a grip to hold them against the tearing mountain wilds, began to open out before him, and he caught glimpses of the naked mountain face, scarred with tremendous ravines and scrawled across with crooked, dizzy ledges. Far and high, the eternal snows had caught the full flood of the sunrise, and every soaring crag and pinnacle stood bathed in a glory of ineffable pink and saffron.
Merivale stopped, and stood watching, with an impulse to uncover his head, while the transfiguring splendour spread slowly down the steeps. ​In his frequent trips from the East he had seen many such miracles of sunrise among the Western mountains, but familiarity had not dulled his senses to them, and he was never able to take the wonder lightly. But as he gazed, the downward wash of that enchanted light suddenly brought into view a shape which set Merivale's pulses leaping and made him straightway forget the sunrise. On the giddy tip of a crag which jutted out from the steep, stood perched a stately mountain ram, his noble head, with its massive, curled horns sweeping backwards over his shoulders, high uplifted as he searched the waste for any sign of danger to his ewes. This was the splendid springtime game in quest of which Merivale had come up from the foothills with his camera. He crept forward again, stealthily and swiftly, keeping well beneath the cover of the branches.
Suddenly there burst upon his ears a sound which brought him to an instant stop. It was not loud, but as it came muffled through the gloom, there was something monstrous and terrifying about it. The sound came from somewhere above Merivale's head and around to the left of where he crouched. It told him of a desperate struggle, of one of those tremendous battles to the death in which the great beasts of the wild so rarely allow themselves to become involved. There was a heavy crashing and trampling of underbrush, a ​clattering of stones displaced by mighty feet, mingled with great, straining grunts and woofs of raging effort.
"Grizzlies, fighting," muttered Merivale with amazement, and stole noiselessly towards the sound, rifle in readiness, eager to catch a glimpse of so titanic a duel. Then the noise was varied by a single harsh and terrible scream, after which the sounds of struggle went on as before. But now Merivale understood. "No, not grizzlies," he said to himself. "A grizzly and a puma." He had heard from the Indians of such tremendous duels, but he had never expected to witness one. His eyes shining with excitement, he hurried forward as quickly as he could without betraying himself. He quite forgot that in such a battle the great antagonists would be much too occupied to give heed to his approach. But it was slow work forcing his way through the rocky tangle, and the scene of the struggle proved to be farther away than he had guessed. Before he could reach the spot, the noise of the battle came abruptly to an end—and there was no sound but a laboured, slobbery panting mixed with a hoarse whining, which gave him an impression of mortal anguish.
The next moment there came into view, lurching and staggering down the slope and blundering into the tree-trunks, a big grizzly, bleeding from head to haunch with ghastly wounds. His ​face was literally clawed to ribbons, and he was completely blinded. Mixed by an impulse of mercy, Merivale lifted his rifle and sent a soft-nosed bullet through the sufferer's spine. Then, very cautiously, he followed on up the grizzly's trail to see how it had fared with his antagonist.
Some thirty or forty yards farther on Merivale came upon the puma, lying dead and mangled in the trail, its ribs crushed in and one great foreleg wrenched from its socket. It was a female—clearly a mother in full milk. Merivale's sympathies were all with her, and as he stood looking down upon her and thought of the great fight she had put up against her huge adversary, he understood the whole situation. Obviously the wild mother had had her lair, and her helpless young, in some cleft of the rocks near by. She had seen the giant bear coming up the trail to the den. She had sprung down to meet him and join battle before he should get too near, and had given up her life for the sake of her little ones.
By this time Merivale had lost interest in the mountain sheep. What he wanted was to find the puma kittens, which he had heard were easily tamed. But first, after studying the dimensions of the dead mother, he went back and carefully considered the proportions of the grizzly, pondering till he had reconstructed the whole terrific combat which he had been so unfortunate as to ​miss the sight of. Then he set forth to seek the orphaned little ones.
The search was difficult in that precipitous jumble of rocks and undergrowth; but presently the trail of the dead mother, which he had lost on a patch of naked rock lately swept by a landslide, revealed itself to him again. Just then, from almost over his head came an outburst of small but angry spittings, followed by a catlike cry of agony. Furious at the thought that some prowler had reached the defenceless nest ahead of him, Merivale sprang forwards and swung himself recklessly up on the ledge where the noises came from.
There, straight before him, in a shallow, sheltered cave with the sunrise just flooding full into it, was the puma's lair. The picture stamped itself in minutest detail on Merivale's memory. One puma kitten, about the size of a common tabby, lay outstretched dead. A big red fox was just worrying a second to death, having seized it too near the shoulders and so failing to break its neck at the first snap. The third and last kitten was spitting and growling, and clawing manfully but futilely at the thick rich fur of the slaughterer. It was evident that the battle between the grizzly and the mother puma had been watched by the fox, who, as soon as he saw the result, had realized that it would now be quite safe for him to visit the undefended den and capture an easy prey.
​Filled with wrath, but afraid to shoot lest he should kill the remaining kitten, Merivale bounded forward with a yell and aimed a vindictive kick at the assassin. Needless to say, he missed his mark. He just saved himself from falling, and staggered heavily against the wall of the den, while the fox, not stopping to argue the matter and present his own point of view, slipped over the ledge and vanished, an indignant red streak, through the bushes.
Merivale eased his feelings with a few vigorous curses, then turned his attention to the valiant little survivor, which had backed away against the rock wall and was spitting and snarling bravely at the new foe. In colour differing greatly from its unmarked grey-tawny mother, it was of a bright yellowish fawn, variegated with dark brown, almost black, spots; and its long tail—just now curled round in front of it and twitching defiantly—was ringed like a raccoon's with the same dark shade. Merivale, full of benevolence, reached out his hand to it gently, with soothing words such as he might have used to an angry but favoured cat. He got a vicious scratch from the furry baby paw.
"Plucky little hellion," he muttered approvingly as he sucked the blood, with scrupulous care, from the wounds, realizing that those baby claws might be far from innocent hygienically. Then, taking off his thick jacket, he dexterously caught ​the battling infant in its folds, rolling it over and over and swaddling down those rebellious claws securely, and leaving only the tiny black and pink muzzle free to spit its owner's indomitable protests. With a bit of twine from his pocket he lashed the squirming bundle safely, but with tender consideration for the comfort of its occupant, tucked it under his arm, and turned to retrace his steps down to his camp in the valley. Then it suddenly occurred to him that by and by the fox would return to the den for his prey. Being absurdly angry with that fox, he took the trouble to carry off—the two dead kittens, tying them together and slinging them to his belt. His purpose was to throw them into the torrent which brawled down the valley, in order to make quite sure the fox should not profit by his kill.
For about a day the spotted youngster was irreconcilable; but hunger and Merivale's tactful handling soon brought it to terms. It took kindly to a diet of condensed milk, well diluted with warm water, and varied by a little raw rabbit or venison. It throve amazingly, and by the time Merivale was ready to break camp and move back to his ranch on the skirt of the foothills, it was as tame as a house-cat and as devoted to its master as a terrier.
Merivale maintained his ranch in the Western foothills—which was run the year round by a ​highly competent foreman—chiefly as an excuse for a long summer's holiday and hunting. It was not till near the end of September that he started back for his home in Nova Scotia, taking his puma cub with him. The cub, now nearly six months old, was approaching his full stature, and was a peculiarly fine specimen of his race. Having by this time lost the dark markings which adorn all puma cubs at their birth, he was of a beautiful golden fawn all over the upper parts, and creamy white beneath, with a line of darker hue along his backbone, and a brown tip to his long and powerful tail. His ears and nose were black, which gave a finish to his distinguished colouring. In length he was close upon seven feet, counting his two-foot-six tail. His height at the shoulder was a little under two feet. In his play, which was always gentle, thanks to Merivale's wise training, he was the embodiment of lithe, swift strength. His savage inherited instincts having been lulled to sleep or else never awakened, he was on the best of terms with all the dwellers upon the ranch, whether human or otherwise, the cattle alone excepted. These latter could never endure the sight or the smell of him. Very early in his career he had learned to regard them as his implacable enemies, and to keep carefully out of their way.
With the children on the ranch—there were ​four of them, belonging to the foreman—he was particularly popular; and to one, a long-legged little girl of about eleven, he was almost as devoted as to Merivale himself. She was alternately his playmate and his tyrant.
The name which Merivale had bestowed upon his pet was "Mishi-Pishoe," the word by which the puma or panther is known among the Ojibway Indians. But he was always called "Mishi" for short, and would answer to this name as promptly as a well-trained dog. He would also come to heel for his master, like a dog. In fact, under Merivale's training he acted much more like a dog than a cat, except that he could purr like an exaggerated cat when pleased, and wag his great tail in nervous jerks when annoyed.
The railway was a good half-day's journey from Merivale's ranch, and Mishi, who had never before seen a train, was terrified beyond measure by the windy snortings of the great transcontinental locomotive. He came near upsetting his master in his efforts to get between his legs for protection.
Merivale would have liked to take his favourite into the Pullman with him, but against any such proposal the conductor, out of consideration for the feelings of nervous passengers, was obliged to set his face. The young puma was therefore locked in an empty box-car, with a bed of clean straw, a ​supply of food and water, and his favourite plaything, a football, to console him.
But in spite of all this comfort the long, long journey across the continent was a horror to the unwilling traveller. The ceaseless jarring, swaying and roaring of the train set all his nerves on edge. He could only sleep when exhausted by hours of prowling up and down his narrow quarters. He would only eat—and then but a few hasty mouthfuls—when Merivale, at long intervals, came to pay him a hurried visit. For the first time since his outburst of baby fury against the fox in his mountain den, he began to show signs of the savage temper inherited from his sires. He was homesick; he was desperately frightened; and he was unspeakably lonely away his master. In revenge at last he fell upon the unoffending football, his old plaything, and with great pains and deliberation tore it to shreds.
But as luck would have it, Mishi's journey was brought to an abrupt and unforeseen end. It was late in the night, and Merivale was sleeping soundly in his berth, when the "mixed" train stopped at a lonely backwoods station in the wild country that lies between the St. Lawrence and the northern boundary of New Brunswick. A ragged tramp, seeking to steal a ride, crept noiselessly along the train beyond the station lights, and found ​the box-car. He was an old hand and knew how to open it.
But as the door slid smoothly back, the tramp got the shock of his life. Something huge and furry struck him with a force that sent him sprawling clean across the farther rails and over into the ditch. At the same insant the engine snorted fiercely (she was on an up-grade) and the wheels began to turn with a groaning growl. Mishi went leaping off at top speed through the woods, doubly driven by the desire to find his master, and by his terror of the panting, glaring locomotive. Deep in the spruce-woods he crouched down at last, with pounding pulses—while the train with Merivale asleep in his berth, thundered on steadily through the wilderness night.
As Mishi lay there in the chill darkness, his nostrils drinking in the earthy scents of the wet moss and the balsamy fragrances of the spruce and pine, faint ancestral memories began to stir in the young puma's brain, and his pupils dilated as he peered with a kind of savage expectancy through the shadows. He had long, long forgotten utterly the den upon the mountainside, the caresses of his savage mother, and that last desperate battle with the marauding fox. But now dim, fleeting pictures of these things, quite uncomprehended, began to haunt and trouble him, and his long claws sheathed and unsheathed themselves in ​the damp moss. Suddenly realizing that he was ravenously hungry, he glanced around on every side, confidently expecting to see his accustomed rations ready to hand. It took him several minutes to convince himself that his expectation was a vain one. Truly, life had changed indeed. He would have to find his food for himself. He rose slowly, stretched himself, opened his jaws in a terrific yawn, and set forth on the novel quest.
And now it was that Mishi's inherited woodlore fully woke up and came effectively to his aid. Instead of crashing his way through the bushes, careless as to who should hear his coming, he crept forwards noiselessly, crouching low and snifing the night air for a scent which should promise good hunting.
Suddenly he stiffened in his tracks and stood rigid, one paw uplifted. A little animal, clearly visible to his eyes in spite of the darkness, was approaching. Resembling one of those big jackrabbits which Mishi had often chased (but never succeeded in catching) on the ranch, only much smaller, it came hopping along its runway, unconscious of danger. With an effort Mishi restrained himself from springing prematurely. Quivering with eagerness, for this was his first experience of real hunting, he waited till the rabbit was passing almost under his nose. Then out shot his great paw through the screening leafage, and the prize ​was his without a struggle, without so much as a squeak. Filled with elation at this easy success, he made the sweetest meal of his life.
As soon as his hunger was satisfied, a great homesickness and longing for his master came over him. But this, of course, could not be allowed to interfere with his toilet. He licked his jaws and his paws scrupulously, washed his face and scratched his ears like a domestic cat, then crept into the heart of the nearest thicket, curled himself up on the dry, aromatic spruce-needles and went to sleep. It was the first real, refreshing sleep he had enjoyed since leaving the ranch.
The sun was high when Mishi awoke, opening puzzled eyes upon a world entirely novel to him. Interspersed among the dark green fir trees stood a few scattered maples glowing crimson and scarlet in their autumn bravery. These patches of radiant color held Mishi's wandering attention for some moments till his thoughts turned to the more important question of breakfast. Instantly his whole manner and expression changed. He crouched with tense muscles; his eyes flamed and narrowed; his long white teeth showed themselves; and he began to creep noiselessly through the undergrowth, fully expecting another rabbit to come hopping into his path without delay. When this did not happen, he grew angry. He had never ​been kept waiting for his breakfast before. There was something very wrong with this new world into which he had been thrust. Lifting up his voice, he gave vent to a harsh and piercing scream, hoping that his master would hear and come to him.
At the sound, with a sudden bewildering whir-r-r of wings, a covey of partridges sprang into the air almost from under his nose, and went rocketing off through the trees. Mishi was so startled that he nearly turned a back somersault. Not lingering to investigate the alarming phenomenon, he went racing off in the opposite direction like a frightened house-cat, till his wind began to fail him. Then he huddled himself down behind a rock, craning his neck to peer around it nervously while he brooded over his wrongs.
These, however, were presently forgotten under the promptings of his appetite, and he set forth again on his hungry prowl. Either by chance, or moved by a deep homing instinct, he turned his steps westward. But suddenly from that direction came the long, strident whistle of a train, wailing strangely over the tree-tops. At the sound, to him so fearful and so hateful, Mishi wheeled in his tracks and made off with more haste than dignity in the opposite direction. That dismal note stood to him for the cause of all his misfortunes.
​At the bottom of his heart, however, the young puma, as he had shown in babyhood, was valiant and high-mettled. It was only the unknown, the uncomprehended, that held terrors for him. And he was not one to dwell upon his fears. In a few moments he had forgotten them all in the excitement of sniffing at an absolutely fresh rabbit-track. The warm scent reminded him of his last meal. He proceeded to follow up the trail with all stealth, little guessing that the rabbit, its eyes bulging with terror, was already hundreds of yards away and still fleeing. It had never dreamed that its familiar woodlands could harbour such an apparition of doom as this great, tawny, leaping monster with the eyes of pale flame.
It was not in Mishi's instinct to follow a trail long by the scent alone. Speedily growing discouraged, he hid himself beside the runway, hoping that another rabbit would come along. When he had lain there motionless for perhaps ten minutes, his tawny colour blending perfectly with his surroundings, a couple of brown wood mice emerged from their burrows and began to scurry playfully hither and thither among the fir-needles. Mishi never so much as twitched a whisker while he watched them from the corner of his narrowed eyes. At last they came within reach. Out flashed his swift paw, and crushed them both together. They made hardly a mouthful, but it was a tasty ​one, and Mishi settled down again to wach hopefully for more.
A few minutes later a red squirrel, one of the most quick-witted and inquisitive of all the creatures of the wild, peering down through the branches, thought that he detected something strange in the shadowy, motionless figure far below. Nearer and nearer he crept, circling noiselessly down the trunk, his big bright eyes ablaze with curiosity, till he was within a couple of yards of Mishi's tail. Then, and not till then, did he catch the glint of Mishi's narrowed eyes fixed upon him, and realize that the shadowy shape was something alive, a new and terrible monster. With a chattering shriek of wrath and fear, he raced up the trunk again, and dancing as if on wires in his excitement, began to shrill out his warning to all the forest dwellers.
In two seconds Mishi was up the tree, gaining the lower branches in one tremendous spring, and scrambling onward like a cat, with a loud rattling of claws. But already the squirrel was several trees away, leaping from bough to bough and shrieking the alarm as he fled. It was taken up by every other squirrel within hearing, and by a couple of impudent blue jays who came fluttering over Mishi's head with screams of insult and defiance. Promptly realizing that there could be no more secrecy for him in this neighbourhood, Mishi ​dropped to the ground, and made off at a leisurely lope, pretending to ignore his tormentors. The latter followed him for nearly half a mile, till at last, satisfied with their triumph, they returned to their autumn business of gathering beechnuts for the winter store.
The wanderer was by this time much too ravenous to brood over his discomfiture. He must find something to eat. Resuming his stealthy prowl, he presently came to the edge of a little river, its golden-brown current gleaming and flashing in the sun. He was just about to creep down to it and quench his thirst when he saw a small blackish-brown creature, about the length of a rabbit but shorter in the legs and very slim, emerge from the water and crawl forth upon the bank, dragging after it a glistening trout almost as big as itself.
Mishi had never seen a mink before, but he felt sure the little black animal would serve very well for his breakfast. In this, however, he was mistaken. He little knew the mink's elusiveness. The mighty spring with which he launched himself through the screen of leafage was lightning-swift, but when he landed, the mink had vanished as completely as a burst bubble. The fish, however, was there; and wasting no time in vain surmise, Mishi bolted it, head and tail. It was hardly a full meal for a beast of his inches, but it was ​enough to put him in a better humour with his fate. He followed on up the shore for perhaps a quarter of a mile, half expecting to find another fish. Then, coming to a spot where the stream threaded, with musical clamour, through a line of boulders which afforded him a bridge, he crossed and crept again into the woods.
Almost immediately he came upon a well-beaten trail—a path which, as his nose promptly informed him, had been made by the feet of man. Mishi's heart rose at the sight. Men, to him, meant friends and food and caresses and, above all, Merivale. With high hopes he trotted on up the path till he emerged from the woods upon the edge of a wide, sunny clearing.
Near the centre of the clearing stood a log cabin flanked by a barn and a long, low shed. At one end of the cabin a clump of tall sunflowers flamed golden in the radiant air. From the cabin chimney smoke was rising, and a most hospitable smell of pork and beans greeted Mishi's nostrils. He bounded forward joyously, thinking all his troubles at an end.
But at this very instant a big red rooster, scratching beside the barn, caught sight of the strange, tawny shape emerging from the woods. "Krree-ee-ee!" he shrilled at the top of his piercing voice, and "Kwit-kwit-kwit-eree-ee-ee!" his signal of most urgent warning and alarm. With ​squawks of fright, all his hens scurried to cover—though the rooster himself, consumed with curiosity, valiantly stood his ground. A black-and-white cur popped round the corner of the barn, stared for a couple of seconds as if unable to believe his eyes, then raced, "kiyi-ing" with horror, towards the cabin door, his tail between his legs.
This was by no means the kind of welcome which Mishi had been expecting, and he paused for a moment, bewildered and rebuffed.
Fortunately for him, he was still at some distance from the cabin when the small window beside the door was thrown open and the stout woman appeared at it with her husband's shotgun. She lifted the butt of the gun to her shoulder as she had seen her husband do, and pulled the trigger.
By some miracle—for the stout woman had made little attempt to aim—a couple of flying pellets grazed one of Mishi's forepaws as it waved conciliatorily in the air. At the crashing report, the clatter, the shriek, and the burning sting of the wound in his paw, Mishi bounced to his feet and went bounding away into the kindly shelter of the forest, his heart bursting with injury.
The sting in Mishi's wounded foot, as well as in his wounded feelings, now kept him going, not fast but steadily, till he had put many miles between himself and the scene of his rebuff. He ​crossed several rippling amber streams overhung with golden birches and the waxy vermilion clusters of rowan berries. Not till just before sunset did he think about hunting again, and settle down to a stealthy prowl; and in the meantime sharp eyes, wary and hostile or shy and horrified, all unknown to him had marked his progress. Fox and weasel, mink and woodchuck and tuft-eared lynx, all had seen him, and recognized a new and terrible master in the wilderness; and even the indifferent porcupine, secure in his armor of deadly quills, had paused in his gnawing at the hemlock bark and quivered with apprehension as the tawny shape went by. Some ancient instinct warned him that there was a foe who might be clever enough to undo him.
Suddenly Mishi's attention was caught by a noise which curiously excited him, though he knew not why. It was a confused sound of tramplings and stampings and snortings, with now and then a flat clatter as of sticks beaten against each other. With a strange thrill in his nerves he crept forwards, and presently found himself staring out, through fringing bushes, upon a duel between two red bucks in the centre of a little forest glade.
For perhaps a minute Mishi watched the fight with a wondering interest. Then his hunger overcame all other emotions. With a mighty leap he ​landed upon the shoulder of the nearest buck, bearing him to the ground. At the same time, taught by generations of deer-killing ancestors, he clutched the victim's head with one great paw and twisted it back so violently as to dislocate the neck. With eyes bulging from their heads in horror, the remaining buck and the does crashed off through the woods, leaving the dreadful stranger to his meal.
For several days Mishi remained near his kill, which he had instinctively dragged into a hiding-place behind a fallen tree. He feasted his fill, slept a good deal, explored the neighbourhood of his lair, and began to feel more or less at ease in his new surroundings. Natural instincts rapidly sprang to life in him as he sniffed at strange trails, and he came to realize that the apparently empty forest was full of good hunting if only he should go about the right way to find it. At last, growing tired of the remains of the buck, and the homesickness for his master being again strong upon him, he set forth once more on his quest, working steadily southwards and westwards, and hunting, with daily increasing skill as he went.
It was not until one night well on in October that Mishi made the acquaintance of the real monarch of the northern wilds, the great bull moose. The moon was at the full, a great, honey-coloured globe hanging low over the black, jagged line of ​the farther shore and flooding the unruffled surface of the lake with a long wash of glassy radiance. About a hundred yards ahead a tall beast, looking to Mishi's eyes like an enormous deer with overgrown head and shoulders, came suddenly forth from the woods, strode slowly down the wide beach, and stood close to the water's edge, black against the moon. Stretching out her heavy muzzle over the water, she gave utterance to a strange call—long, hoarse, sonorous—which went echoing uncouthly over the solitude. She repeated the call several times, and then stood motionless, as if waiting for an answer.
The tall beast did not look to Mishi like easy game, by any means; but being both hungry and self-confident, he crept forwards, seeking a closer inspection before making up his mind whether or not to risk the attack. Suddenly a dry twig snapped close behind him. He wheeled like a flash, saw a monstrous black wide-antlered form towering above him—and leaped aside like a loosed spring, just as a huge knife-edged hoof came smashing down upon the spot where he had stood. That stroke would have shattered his backbone like an eggshell.
The blow was followed by an instant, crashing charge, resistless as an avalanche. But Mishi had not waited for it. He was up a tree in one desperate bound. Badly shaken, he crouched upon ​a branch at a safe height, spitting and growling harshly, the hair on his long, lashing tail standing out like a bottle-brush. For perhaps five minutes the giant bull raged below; then again from the edge of the shining water came that long call, hoarse but desirous. The furious bull forgot his rage; the stiff mane standing up along his neck relaxed; and he went crashing off through the undergrowth, ardent to respond to that alluring summons.
About a week later—and Mishi had travelled far since his interview with the moose—on a golden afternoon of Indian summer, he came out upon a rough country road, rutted with wheel-marks and pitted with the prints of horses' hoofs. He ached for companionship. He wanted to be made much of. He lay down at full length in the middle of the road, and sniffed at the tracks, and dreamed.
A sound of light footfalls, accompanied by a tiny rattling noise, aroused him. Two children—a long-legged, sandy-haired little girl in a short red frock, white apron and pink sunbonnet, and a stumpy little boy in blue-grey homespun and an old yellow straw hat—came loitering down the road, swinging a tin dinner-pail between them. Mishi was overjoyed. His dreaming had come true. That little girl looked very like his chief playmate on the ranch. He bounced to his feet ​and ran to meet them, prancing like a gigantic kitten in his delight.
At this appalling apparition the two children dropped the dinner-pail with a loud clatter, stood for one second with eyes starting from their heads, then turned and fled for their lives.
To Mishi the children's flight was all in the game. On the ranch he had been accustomed to chase the children, till they grew tired of running away, when they would turn and chase him, after which he would throw himself down on his back and they would all fall over him. He had been severely taught by Merivale never to be rough in his play. Now he overtook the children, brushed past them, and careered on ahead. The little boy stumbled and fell down, his knees giving way beneath him in his terror, as in a nightmare. The little girl stopped short with a dry sob of anguish, and stood over him, confronting, as she thought, instant death. She shook her apron at Mishi and cried tremulously: "Go way! Scat!"
To her amazement the great tawny beast, instead of pouncing upon her, at the sound of her voice immediately sat up like a pussy-cat and began to purr—a mighty sound, but even to her horrified ears, an unmistakable purr. She stared with all her eyes. Again she cried "Scat"—but with a little more confidence. It was an unfamiliar word to Mishi, and he could not make out what ​was expected of him. In his uncertainty he played his trump card. He lay down in the road and began to roll, with all four great furry paws waving childishly in the air.
The long-legged little girl was not only heroic at heart; she was also clear-headed and of a quick understanding. She dragged her brother to his feet.
"Why, Freddy, see!" she exclaimed, steadying her voice. "He ain't goin' to hurt us. He likes us. He wants us to play with him." She suddenly recalled the story of Androcles and the lion, which she had read in one of her schoolbooks. "Don't you remember that man in the story, that the big lion loved so?"
Terror slipped away from her.
"Puss! Puss!" she cried. "Nice Pussy!" And she stretched out her free hand, while with the other she thrust Freddy a little behind her. Even to Freddy the great beast began to look less formidable. He stopped crying, to stare with wondering interest. As soon as Mishi got near enough, the little girl, with inward trepidation but outward firmness, patted him on the head, and as if by a flash of insight, pulled his ears, gently but authoritatively.
In an ecstasy, Mishi rubbed his head against her scratched and sunburned legs, purring louder than ever. He felt that all his woes were at an ​end and that without doubt the children would lead him home to Merivale. The little boy, in violent revulsion from his terrors, began to laugh wildly, and flung his arms round Mishi's neck, rubbing his face into the warm, tawny fur.
"P'haps we kin coax him home with us, an' keep him," suggested Freddy.
The little girl pursed up her mouth doubtfully. "Wish to goodness we could," she answered, embracing the happy Mishi with ardour. "But you know we dassent. Mother would raise an awful row!"
But on this point she had no choice. Mishi absolutely refused to leave them. He stuck to them like a burr, rubbing himself lovingly against them and from time to time eying them with anxious appeal. He was desperately afraid they might vanish and leave him again to his hateful solitude.
The little grey backwoods farmhouse, with its wide farm-yard inclosed by two big barns and a long woodshed, looked very comforting to Mishi as it lay basking in the afternoon sunshine. He felt that he had come home. The kitchen door was flung open, and a woman appeared—a gaunt, lean-featured woman, soured by household cares. At the sight of Mishi her sallow face went white, and her mouth opened for a shriek. But seeing that the children were evidently on the best of ​terms with the formidable-looking beast, her terror gave way to shrill wrath. She hated household pets of every kind, though the children, like their father, were somewhat recklessly addicted to them.
"What d'you mean," she demanded, "bringing a great big dirty brute like that home with you, to mess up the house and jest make more work for me? Jest like yer father! No more consideration!"
But Mishi already had his head inside the kitchen door, sniffing at the savory smells.
"Git out, you brute!" screamed Mrs. Atkinson, retreating behind the door and making a pass at the purring intruder with her broom.
The children dragged the happy and unresisting animal away from the door. "All right, Mother. We'll tie him up in the cow-shed till Daddy comes home. Don't be frightened."
They got a piece of clothesline, of which there is apt to be plenty on a backwoods farm, and they tied up the puzzled Mishi—as they thought securely—in a corner of the warm, shadowy barn, with plenty of sweet-smelling hay to lie on. Then, having fondled him, and tried to assure him that they would be back "right away" with food, they ran off, leaving the barn door open lest he should feel lonely.
For a minute or two Mishi lay quite still, lis​tening to the rustle of mice in the hay, and watching the long bright streak of dusty sunlight that came through the cracks in the warped board of the barn. Presently he heard the sound of wheels, of trotting hoofs. He pricked up his ears eagerly. How often, on the ranch, had such sounds meant the return of Merivale from a trip to the station! He heard the wagon stop—his ears told him exactly where—outside the other barn. He heard a man jump out. He heard the hollow noises of horse and wagon being led in onto the barn floor. A few moments later a man came into view, striding towards the kitchen door—a tall man, like Merivale, wearing an old brown slouch hat much like Merivale's, and carrying a gun and a brace of partridges. Mishi wrenched his head from its too-loose collar of rope, and went bounding hopefully forth to greet the new arrival.
At sight of the huge tawny beast leaping towards him so swiftly, an anguish of hideous question flashed through the man's mind in the fraction of a second, and turned his blood to ice. Where were the children? Where was his wife? Why was the house so deathly quiet? He whipped the gun to his shoulder. The great beast was within a dozen feet of him. But even as his finger pressed the trigger, the little girl, with a wild scream of, "Don't, Daddy, it's our good lion," sprang upon his arm from behind—and the ​charge, flying wild, buried itself harmlessly in the side of the barn.
In the next instant, even as he clubbed his gun to meet the expected assault, he was astounded to see his supposed adversary rolling coaxingly at his feet, uttering sounds which were an unmistakable purr. His tense grip on the gun relaxed; and his amazement hitched itself up a few more holes as he saw the children fling themselves joyously upon the monster, pulling its ears and fondling its formidable jaws—while the monster, obviously delighted with their attentions, purred louder and louder.
Jim Atkinson stepped back and scratched his chin thoughtfully as understanding dawned upon him. That very day, at the post office in Bird's Corners, he had read a placard signed by one Merivale, offering a reward of three hundred dollars for the capture, alive and unharmed, of his escaped puma. The placard went on to say that the animal was harmless and affectionate, and answered to the name of Mishi.
"I'll be damned if 'tain't the very one," he muttered. "An' if it hadn't been for Sadie bein' that quick, I'd have shot him!" This was an unpleasant thought, and he dismissed it.
"Mishi," said he authoritatively, "come here!" And the monster, gently disengaging himself from the children, came fawning to his knees, overjoyed ​to be called by the familiar name again. Taking him lightly by the scruff of the neck, Atkinson led him towards the kitchen door, where his wife stood noncommittally eying the scene.
"Mother," said he, "this here's a tame mountain lion, what the man that owns him sets great store by. I've just seen a notice at the post office, offering three hundred dollars' reward fer gettin' him back."
"Yes, Jim A'kinson, an' you come nigh shootin' the poor beast, if it hadn't 'a' been for Sadie." And Mrs. Atkinson sniffed as if to imply that men had no sense at all. Before her husband could think of any suitable retort, Sadie headed off the argument by crying joyously: "Then we can keep him here, can't we, Daddy?"
"Sure an' sartain," answered Atkinson, "till this here Mr. Merivale comes fer him. An' we'll take right good keer o' him, too. Gosh, Mother, but that three hundred dollars is goin' to come in handy, with the mortgage money due nex' month, and you wantin' a new coat."
Her objection to having animals in her spotless kitchen quite forgotten, Mrs. Atkinson led the way indoors, and herself offered Mishi a tin plateful of buttered pancakes. Mishi devoured them politely, though he would have preferred a chicken. Then, seating himself on his haunches before the kitchen fire, he began to wash his face ​with his paw like a gigantic tabby. At last he had escaped from the great loneliness. He had come home. And he felt certain that Merivale himself would presently come in by the kitchen door, and stroke his neck and pull his ears with loving roughness as of old.