CHAPTER V

WHERE THE BATTLE IS TO THE STRONG

In March the nights are long and winds are cold; food is scarce, yet hunters must live.

Grimalkin passed down the palings at the woodside, and stole on noiseless feet among the grass-tufts under the stormy dawn.

Four summers have passed over Grimalkin's head since we saw him last; four years of uninterrupted supremacy in the woods. His own kind feared him; the lesser Fur Folk fled from him; the gamekeeper hated him. He was the patriarch of his race, a Prince among his people. But these four years, while raising Grimalkin to the height of his fame, had taken their toll. His coat already showed a suspicion of grey along the spine and jowl; his eyes were keen as ever, but many kills had blunted the mighty claws and teeth; and his whiskers had fallen in. Nevertheless the Spring Longing danced as gladsomely in his blood as when he had been a kitten.

March mornings are stormy. The wind woke at daybreak and sighed up the valley. The trees of Knockdane swept a stately arpeggio in answer as the steely south-easter roared louder through the organ pipe of the woods, and bent the tasselled larch on which the storm-cock chanted to the celandines.

The sunrise was pale and watery, fitful gusts shook the bushes. Grimalkin's thoughts ran on rabbits--the rabbits always come out on the Long Bank first of all. He squatted under a briar brake, tucked his paws away cosily before him, and watched.

* * * * *

A rustle among the brambles, a stir on the dead leaves. Grimalkin's muscles stiffened, and his whiskers twitched. He crouched flat, then slid forward sinuously, paw after paw. Never yet had he failed in his spring on a March rabbit. His eye dilated and his muscles swelled with the thought of victory. Then came the rub. The quarry, nervously nibbling at the open grass, was outside striking distance. A young cat might have risked a spring and failure. Grimalkin was too old a hunter, and sat down to wait.

* * * * *

Again the grasses stirred, and green eyes, keen and deadly, were framed in the waving stems. The hunter knew them well. A reproduction of his own, they belonged to his great-grandson, a worthy whose well-groomed face betrayed all feline vices.

The newcomer licked his lips, his face took a smug complacent expression. He also scrutinised the rabbit--he also would wait. If there should be a battle, well and good--let the strongest win. Grimalkin made no sign save that he bared his teeth in a silent snarl of concentrated hate; but hot anger boiled within him, for it is one of the laws of the Fur Folk, that if one beast hunts the quarry of another of the same kind, the latter may kill him if he will. But never before had another cat dared to stalk Grimalkin's game, or beard him to his face. It was intolerable, and he half turned, and in so doing betrayed himself. The rabbit is the wariest of Wood Folk. If he were not so he would have died out centuries ago. He sat up with alert ears, and lilted suspiciously to a distance. The hunters saw that their game had disappointed them, but they scarcely heeded it. They watched one another for a minute with slowly undulating tail-tips. Then very evenly and softly from the patriarch's throat rose the challenge of Clan Cattus: 'mi-ee-awl.' His grandson answered, flinging back the cry loudly and defiantly, interlarding it with those insults of which a tom-cat is such an unrivalled master.

The heroes circled round one another, and then closed, striking out tufts of fur until the ground was sprinkled with them. They buffeted one another until they were utterly exhausted, and then drew back to recover before renewing the attack. Grimalkin strained every sinew to teach this upstart the respect due to his position and years, but--try as he would--not a blow went home. Feint, counterfeint, undercut and smashing downward stroke, all were parried, and Grimalkin sank down breathless after every round with blood trickling from his ears. A new sensation assailed him--his limbs seemed numb and feeble. He was weary. It was not now revenge for which he sought--he was struggling despairingly for the right to live. His blows grew more feeble, and foam hung on his jaws. Now was the time for the superiority of young blood to tell. Down came the iron paw, armed with the strong curved claws, upon the veteran's skull. Grimalkin yelled and leaped back as a hot red curtain fell before his sight. Baffled and half stunned, he crept away, cowed, into the bramble covert.

The victor sat up and licked his wounds. Henceforth there was a new king for the cat-folk in Knockdane.

* * * * *

The day was well begun. Why did the throstle pipe overhead? Why did the daffodils dance in the breeze? Why was the Spring Longing so insolently apparent in every bud and bough, and why did they flaunt it so heartlessly in his face? Could they restore a darkened eye, or rejuvenate weakened limbs? Thus might have mused Grimalkin of Knockdane, who was king there no more. It had come at last, a cold hand which grips man and beast alike, certain and irremediable. _Old Age_ was stealing fast behind him. And old age means more to the Fur Folk than to human beings. When their strength once declines ever so slightly, they must go to the wall to make room for stronger hunters. They are the lawful prey of any who can take them. If by any chance they escape death by their fellows, nothing remains but Starvation--a slower agony.

Grimalkin could not look into the future and see what Fate had in store for him, but perhaps he was all the happier for it. Mortified and baffled as he was at his defeat, he did not realise that a day would come when he must pass by the full-grown buck rabbit for the young and sickly, or later on prey on grass-mice which he now disdained. But this day was still far off. Loud called the March wind overhead. Grimalkin rose, and ceased to try and tear the darkness from his blinded eye. He was hungry, and his hunter's skill still remained to him. What he lacked in strength and endurance must be compensated for by cunning. He crept from his hiding-place, and stole silently down the path to his hunting grounds.

So passes Grimalkin from this tale, through the grey trees, into the depths of the mysterious woods, where the race is only to the swift and the battle to the strong, and about which man can know nothing certainly.

THE BIOGRAPHY OF STUBBS THE BADGER