Jack Carlton did not hold the brute in special fear, though he knew
that when wounded or impelled by hunger he was a dangerous foe.
During an unusually cold day, only a few months before, one of them
had made an open attack on him, inflicting some severe scratches and
tearing most of his clothes to shreds.

It would have been one of the easiest things in the world for the
young Kentuckian to settle the whole question by leaving the trail
and making a detour that would take him safely by the treacherous
beast, which, as a rule, is afraid to assault a person. The lad was
certain that at that season of the year it would not leave the tree
to attack him.

But if he took such a course, it would be a confession of timidity
on his part against which, his nature and training rebelled.

"No," Said he, after brief hesitation, "I won't leave the path for
all the painters this side of the Mississippi. It may not be wise
for me to fire my gun just now and I won't do it, if he behaves
himself, but I don't mean to put up with any nonsense."

He brought his weapon in front, raised the hammer and closely
watched the animal above, while the quadruped was equally intent in
observing him. It was a curious sight--the two scrutinizing each
other with such defiant distrust.

The cougar was crouching on a broad limb, just far enough from the
trunk of the oak to be directly over the trail. He was extended
full length, and, as partly seen through the leaves, offered the