The little man pushed the log on the fireplace with his moccasined foot before he replied: “Of a puma, m’sieu’.”
Sir Duke smoothed it with his hand. “I didn’t know there were pumas here.”
“Faith, Sir Duke—”
Sir Duke Lawless turned on Shon quickly. “You’re forgetting again, Shon. There’s no ‘Sir Dukes’ between us. What you were to me years ago on the wally-by-track and the buffalo-trail, you are now, and I’m the same also: M’Gann and Lawless, and no other.”
“Well, then, Lawless, it’s true enough as he says it, for I’ve seen more than wan skin brought in, though I niver clapped eye on the beast alive. There’s few men go huntin’ them av their own free will, not more than they do grizzlies; but, bedad, this French gintleman has either the luck o’ the world, or the gift o’ that man ye tould me of, that slew the wild boars in anciency. Look at that, now: there’s thirty or forty puma-skins, and I’d take my oath there isn’t another man in the country that’s shot half that in his lifetime.”
Pourcette’s eyes were on the skins, not on the men, and he did not appear to listen. He sat leaning forward, with a strange look on his face. Presently he got up, came over, and stroked the skins softly. A queer chuckling noise came from his throat.
“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.