THE LONE TRAIL 211 



Lynxes, like our domestic fireside cats, are 

 tremendous sticklers for the science of a fight, for 

 a set system of tactics. Fools rush in and win, 

 too, sometimes, but never lynxes. There are the 

 feints and crouches, the pretended indifferences, 

 the " I don't want to fight, but by Jingo if I do I" 

 observances to be played out, and it is lengthy 

 work. Very often, by the time one or other of the 

 combatants is ready to deal the first stroke, he finds 

 no enemy left to fight. Disappointing, of course, 

 but at least the science of cat-fights had been 

 regarded. 



A strangled cry, sharp and sudden, told the 

 smaller forest people that the affray had commenced. 



From somewhere in the alder thicket near the 

 water came a soft purring drone, rising and falling, 

 now loud, now soft, but always with a strange 

 incentive in its luring hum. It turned the cats 

 Berserk. Their lithe bodies whipped the ground 

 as their hold of one another tightened, and their 

 razor talons tore and slashed wildly. 



Once the lesser lynx got in a telling stroke, 

 which practically forced out his enemy's eye — a 

 great moment. Pride in himself put him moment- 

 arily off his guard. He forgot everything but the 



