“Never mind that. I’ve come to stay,” bellowed the new-comer. “If either of us has got to go, it will be yourself, because I’m the strongest.”
“Not if I know myself!”
“Look out! The strongest wins!”
“Yes, the strongest wins. So look out for your own self!” and the first buck gave a shrill snort of defiance.
Straightway the pair began dancing a sort of war-dance around each other. Slim and supple, they looked about equally fit.
Fleet Foot stepped gracefully a little nearer, and stood looking on, with her back to the fawns,—who thought best to keep their distance. They noticed that another little audience had gathered on the opposite side of the lake,—a couple of yearling bucks with proud spikes of horns and three with two-pronged antlers.
Around and around the two combatants tip-toed, heads flung back, chins in air. Then they lowered their antlers like shields, and Fleet Foot’s champion got in a good dig at the other’s ribs. With a bellow of rage, the second buck came plunging, and the two crashed together, antlers against antlers. Their sharp hoofs fairly ploughed the ground as they strove and struggled and pushed each other about, the very whites of their eyes showing in their rage.
“There’s ginger for you!” thought the fawns.
Now the fighting pair were shouldering each other about roughly with their horns, lips foaming, gasping for breath,—almost locking horns in a butting match. At last the first buck lifted his knife-edged forelegs and struck at the intruder. The next moment he was belling in triumph, for he had cut a great gash in the other’s shoulder, and the latter had had enough.
The victor now turned for the look of admiration he felt he ought to find in Fleet Foot’s eyes. But instead, he barely caught a glimpse of her dancing away through the thicket, with just one merry backward glance to see if he would race her.