FullReads

“It was good sport?” asked Lawless, feeling a new interest in him.

“The grandest sport–but it is not so easy,” answered the old man. “The grizzly comes on you bold and strong; you know your danger right away, and have it out. So. But the puma comes–God, how the puma comes!” He broke off, his eyes burning bright under his bushy brows and his body arranging itself into an attitude of expectation and alertness.

“You have travelled far. The sun goes down. You build a fire and cook your meat, and then good tea and the tabac. It is ver’ fine. You hear the loon crying on the water, or the last whistle of the heron up the pass. The lights in the sky come out and shine through a thin mist–there is nothing like that mist, it is so fine and soft. Allons. You are sleepy. You bless the good God. You stretch pine branches, wrap in your blanket, and lie down to sleep. If it is winter and you have a friend, you lie close. It is all quiet. As you sleep, something comes. It slides along the ground on its belly, like a snake. It is a pity if you have not ears that feel–the whole body as ears. For there is a swift lunge, a snarl–ah, you should hear it! the thing has you by the throat, and there is an end!”

The old man had acted all the scenes: a sidelong glance, a little gesture, a movement of the body, a quick, harsh breath–without emphatic excitement, yet with a reality and force that fascinated his two listeners. When he paused, Shon let go a long breath, and Lawless looked with keen inquiry at their entertainer. This almost unnatural, yet quiet, intensity had behind it something besides the mere spirit of the sportsman. Such exhibitions of feeling generally have an unusual personal interest to give them point and meaning.

“Yes, that’s wonderful, Pourcette,” he said; “but that’s when the puma has things its own way. How is it when these come off?” He stroked the soft furs under his hand.

The man laughed, yet without a sound–the inward, stealthy laugh, as from a knowledge wicked in its very suggestiveness. His eyes ran from Lawless to Shon, and back again. He put his hand on his mouth, as though for silence, stole noiselessly over to the wall, took down his gun quietly, and turned round. Then he spoke softly:

“To kill the puma, you must watch–always watch. You will see his yellow eyes sometimes in a tree: you must be ready before he springs. You will hear his breath at night as you pretend to sleep, and you wait till you see his foot steal out of the shadow–then you have him. From a mountain wall you watch in the morning, and, when you see him, you follow, and follow, and do not rest till you have found him. You must never miss fire, for he has great strength and a mad tooth. But when you have got him, he is worth all. You cannot eat the grizzly–he is too thick and coarse; but the puma–well, you had him from the pot to-night. Was he not good?”

Lawless’s brows ran up in surprise. Shon spoke quickly:

“Heaven above!” he burst out. “Was it puma we had betune the teeth? And what’s puma but an almighty cat? Sure, though, it wint as tinder as pullets, for all that–but I wish you hadn’t tould us.”

The old man stood leaning on his gun, his chin on his hands, as they covered the muzzle, his eyes fixed on something in his memory, the vision of incidents he had lived or seen.

Lawless went over to the fire and relit his pipe. Shon followed him. They both watched Pourcette. “D’ye think he’s mad?” asked Shon in a whisper. Lawless shook his head: “Mad? No. But there’s more in this puma-hunting than appears. How long has he lived here, did he say?”