One day in winter, when after caribou, I came upon a very large lynx track, the largest I have ever seen.  It was two days old; but it led in my direction, toward the caribou barrens, and I followed it to see what I should see.

Presently it joined four other lynx trails, and a mile farther on all five trails went forward in great flying leaps, each lynx leaving a hole in the snow as big as a bucket at every jump.  A hundred yards of this kind of traveling and the trails joined another trail,—­that of a wounded caribou from the barrens.  His tracks showed that he had been traveling with difficulty on three legs.  Here was a place where he had stood to listen; and there was another place where even untrained eyes might see that he had plunged forward with a start of fear.  It was a silent story, but full of eager interest in every detail.

The lucivee tracks now showed different tactics.  They crossed and crisscrossed the trail, appearing now in front, now behind, now on either side the wounded bull, evidently closing in upon him warily.  Here and there was a depression in the snow where one had crouched, growling, as the game passed.  Then the struggle began.  First, there was a trampled place in the snow where the bull had taken a stand and the big cats went creeping about him, waiting for a chance to spring all together.  He broke away from that, but the three-legged gallop speedily exhausted him.  Only when he trots is a caribou tireless.  The lynxes followed the deadly cat-play began again.  First one, then another leaped, only to be shaken off; then two, then all five were upon the poor brute, which still struggled forward.  The record was written red all over the snow.

[Illustration:  The lynxes and caribou]

As I followed it cautiously, a snarl sounded just ahead.  I kicked off my snowshoes and circled noiselessly to the left, so as to look out over a little opening.  There lay the stripped carcass of the caribou with two lynxes still upon it, growling fearfully at each other as they pulled at the bones.  Another lynx crouched in the snow, under a bush, watching the scene.  Two others circled about each other snarling, looking for an opening, but too well fed to care for a fight just then.  Two or three foxes, a pine marten, and a fisher moved ceaselessly in and out, sniffing hungrily, and waiting for a chance to seize every scrap of bone or skin that was left unguarded for an instant.  Above them a dozen moose birds kept the same watch vigilantly.  As I stole nearer, hoping to get behind an old log where I could lie and watch the spectacle, some creature scurried out of the underbrush at one side.  I was watching the movement, when a loud kee-yaaah! startled me; I whirled towards the opening.  From behind the old log a fierce round head with tasseled ears rose up, and the big lynx, whose trail I had first followed, sprang into sight snarling and spitting viciously.

The feast stopped at the first alarm.  The marten disappeared instantly.  The foxes and the fisher and one lynx slunk away.  Another, which I had not seen, stalked up to the carcass and put his fore paws upon it, and turned his savage head in my direction.  Evidently other lynxes had come in to the kill beside the five I had followed.  Then all the big cats crouched in the snow and stared at me steadily out of their wild yellow eyes.