“Why, it’s only a wildcat, after all, Dick!” exclaimed Roger, a note of disappointment in his tones, as he came upon the abbreviated tail. “I was so sure it was the painter we heard crying earlier in the night.”
“I thought the same way, Roger,” confessed the other, “until I came to feel the fur, when something told me it was different. But we never yet killed such a wildcat as this, in all our tramping.”
“It does seem to be a monster,” admitted the other.
“It is not only the size I meant, Roger, but feel of the ears.”
“Why, how very strange, Dick; for all the world like a tassel at the end! What kind of a beast have we run across? We never saw wildcats like this along the Missouri, you know.”
“I have heard old voyageurs tell about a species they meet with further north in the cold country of the Chippewas and the Crees. They call it a lynx in Canada. It is a very fierce beast, all accounts agree.”
“But, Dick, think of his coming right into our camp, and trying to carry me off! I never would have believed it if any one had told the story. He tugged at my leg again and again. It was that woke me up, I expect. If that’s the kind of wildcats they have in this country, I am not surprised at the Indians keeping away from this region.”
“There must be some reason for the beast acting as it did. I think we will find that in rolling about you must have managed to get over the spot where Benjamin laid our stock of pemmican, and that was what the beast was after.”
“Oh! do you think so?” remarked Roger, heaving a sigh of relief. “Well, I shall be glad to believe he was not trying to carry me off. But all the same, Dick, you never before heard of a wildcat being so bold.”