I could see the big cat clinging high in the top boughs of a birch and looking calmly down at us.  The tree-top swayed, quivering, as it held the great dun beast.  My heart was like to smother me when D’ri raised his rifle and took aim.  The dog broke away at the crack of it.  The painter reeled and spat; then he came crashing through the branches, striking right and left with his fore paws to save himself.  He hit the ground heavily, and the dog was on him.  The painter lay as if dead.  Before I could get near, Rover began shaking him by the neck.  He came to suddenly, and struck the dog with a front claw, dragging him down.  A loud yelp followed the blow.  Quick as a flash D’ri had caught the painter by the tail and one hind leg.  With a quick surge of his great, slouching shoulders, he flung him at arm’s-length.  The lithe body doubled on a tree trunk, quivered, and sank down, as the dog came free.  In a jiffy I had run my sword through the cat’s belly and made an end of him.

“Knew ’f he got them hind hooks on thet air dog he ’d rake his ribs right off,” said D’ri, as he lifted his hat to scratch his head.  “Would n’t ‘a’ left nothin’ but the backbone,—­nut a thing,—­an’ thet would n’t ‘a’ been a real fust-class one, nuther.”

When D’ri was very positive, his words were well braced with negatives.

We took the painter by the hind legs and dragged him through the bushes to our camp.  The dog had a great rip across his shoulder, where the claws had struck and made furrows; but he felt a mighty pride in our capture, and never had a better appetite for a meal.

There were six more days of travel in that journey—­travel so fraught with hardships, I wonder that some days we had the heart to press on.  More than all, I wonder that the frail body of my mother was equal to it.  But I am writing no vain record of endurance.  I have written enough to suggest what moving meant in the wilderness.  There is but one more color in the scenes of that journey.  The fourth day after we left Chateaugay my grandmother fell ill and died suddenly there in the deep woods.  We were far from any village, and sorrow slowed our steps.  We pushed on, coming soon to a sawmill and a small settlement.  They told us there was neither minister nor undertaker within forty miles.  My father and D’ri made the coffin of planed lumber, and lined it with deerskin, and dug the grave on top of a high hill.  When all was ready, my father, who had always been much given to profanity, albeit I know he was a kindly and honest man with no irreverence in his heart, called D’ri aside.

“D’ri,” said he, “ye ’ve alwus been more proper-spoken than I hev.  Say a word o’ prayer?”

“Don’t much b’lieve I could,” said he, thoughtfully.  “I hev been t’ meeting but I hain’t never been no great hand fer prayin’.”

“‘T wouldn’t sound right nohow, fer me t’ pray,” said my father, “I got s’ kind o’ rough when I was in the army.”