Adventure Magazine Cover — page 143: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Hunger Mad appeared either not to see them, or to care not if he did. He aped the appearance of a full-fed fox; and rarely do the wild hunters slay if full- fed. The swans would know the fact. Upon that he based his strategy. Anon he stopped to roll. Once he sat down to scratch. It was a white light upon the intelligence of the animal. ‘The mink, long, lithe, low and wet, got in on his fine work last. His medium was the water. He took careful bearings and slipped into the depths. If he appeared again at all, like an attacking submarine, it was but to correct his location, showing only eyes and nose. Misty did not see any of these competitors stalking his dinner exactly, except the fox, but he saw their ears. At least, he saw the ears of his two confréres, and knew in some unaccountable way that one pair belonged to a wildcat male, and, which was more im- portant, that the other pair was a wildcat female’s. With a voiceless snarl Misty’s head seemed to twist all up like a shriveled apple. He appeared to have lost his ears. He seemed to convulse slowly. Then— then he let himself go. It was an extraordinary move; and it showed fine, bold daring, as well as intelli- gence equal, after all, to that of the fox. The heads of the swans were up from time to time, watching the fox. He seemed harmless enough, full-fed, doubtless coming for a drink. Still they watched, yet were letting him get within range for a rush. The other wildcats they failed to detect. The mink also. And Misty was almost upon them before anybody realized that he existed at all, even. He had relied upon that and his noiseless speed; had risked all upon their concentra- tion elsewhere. Instantly the fox dashed in; the other male wildcat followed; the mink fairly swirled through the water. And the swans lost their heads—all save one. The old male swan, leader of the flock, rushed straight out at Misty. Swans, by reason of their great weight, can rise only very slowly and gradually. Perhaps it was this fact that made that grand old bird decide in a flash to fight; or perhaps his temper prevailed. Anyhow all Misty knew as he rushed in was that he could hear the fox just behind 135 him; could glimpse the other male wildcat on his right; sense the water and the mink on his left, and see—very much see—the magnificent old cock swan in front. He could almost feel their hate, and was sud- denly and verv painfully aware that he had not the least desire to come into contact with any of them at all. Surprize, after all, was his game, not being surprized. Yet what he did was rather fine. Just when there seemed no way out, he discov- ered one—upward. It was a grand leap—clean, straight, and high into the air; a remarkable bound. The fox unwillingly shot straight beneath into the swan, received the full force of that swan’s terrific wing-stroke on the side of his head, and knew no more. The other wildcat got the back swing of that wing, and was lifted clean off his feet. THE mink—the mink saw some- thing, some huge bronze barb fall from the sky, and—dived back to the depths for his life. The female wildcat, who had left cover only a httle way, watching her lover, ex- ploded with great suddenness, and leaped back. She had seen two bronze barbs shoot- ing down through the falling snow with a velocity that left a hissing sound upon the air louder than her own. ‘Truly it is the looker-on that sees most of the game. Landed in safety, she blinked, spun about, and looked. Then she looked some more—her eves very wide. And this is what she saw. Misty, grappling like a tortured fiend, was rising slowly to heaven, close trussed in the appalling talons of an enormous gold- en eagle,* the other wildcat was fighting his last fight in the grip of another golden eagle’s talons on the ground; the fox was lying all anyhow in the snow, with a broken neck; the mink was nowhere to be seen; and far across the lake, threshing foam like paddle-wheel steamers, the swans were slowly rising, and gaining speed as they rose, on a long, long slant into the sky. Then the she wildcat turned back slowly into the forest, and yawned superciliously as she went. She cared nothing for lovers at that season, but everything for life. There had been too many hunters, and too few hunted, in that place for some time. * Wildcats are the favorite food of the golden eagle. C@ Clooolkks C@ iin