On some moist ground, under a hemlock, he came upon the fresh trail of a wandering hare—­no simple, unsuspecting mother, coming back to her babies, but a big, strong, suspicious fellow, who knew how to make a run for his life.  Kagax was still fresh and eager; here was game that would stretch his muscles.  The red lust of killing flamed into his eyes as he jumped away on the trail.

Soon, by the long distances between tracks, he knew that the hare was startled.  The scent was fresher now, so fresh that he could follow it in the air, without putting his nose to the ground.

Suddenly a great commotion sounded among the bushes just ahead, where a moment before all was still.  The hare had been lying there, watching his back track to see what was following.  When he saw the red eyes of Kagax, he darted away wildly.  A few hundred yards, and the foolish hare, who could run far faster than his pursuer, dropped in the bushes again to watch and see if the weasel was still after him.

Kagax was following, swiftly, silently.  Again the hare bounded away, only to stop and scare himself into fits by watching his own trail till the red eyes of the weasel blazed into view.  So it went on for a half hour, through brush and brake and swamp, till the hare had lost all his wits and began to run wildly in small circles.  Then Kagax turned, ran the back track a little way, and crouched flat on the ground.

In a moment the hare came tearing along on his own trail—­straight towards the yellow-brown ball under a fern tip.  Kagax waited till he was almost run over; then he sprang up and screeched.  That ended the chase.  The hare just dropped on his fore paws.  Kagax jumped for his head; his teeth met; the hunger began to gnaw, and he drank his fill greedily.

For a time the madness of the chase seemed to be in the blood he drank.  Keener than ever to kill, he darted away on a fresh trail.  But soon his feast began to tell; his feet grew heavy.  Angry at himself, he lay down to sleep their weight away.

Far behind him, under the pine by the partridge’s nest, a long dark shadow seemed to glide over the ground.  A pointed nose touched the leaves here and there; over, the nose a pair of fierce little eyes glowed deep red as Kagax’s own.  So the shadow came to the partridge’s nest, passed over it, minding not the scent of broken eggs nor of the dead bird, but only the scent of the weasel, and vanished into the underbrush on the trail.

Kagax woke with a start and ran on.  A big bullfrog croaked down on the shore.  Kagax stalked and killed him, leaving his carcass untouched among the lily pads.  A dead pine in a thicket attracted his suspicion.  He climbed it swiftly, found a fresh round hole, and tumbled in upon a mother bird and a family of young woodpeckers.  He killed them all, tasting the brains again, and hunted the tree over for the father bird, the great black logcock that makes the wilderness ring with his tattoo.  But the logcock heard claws on the bark and flew to another tree, making a great commotion in the darkness as he blundered along, but not knowing what it was that had startled him.