Far behind him came Kagax, grim, relentless, silent as death.  He paid no attention to scratching claws nor swaying branches, never looking for the jerking red tip of Meeko’s tail, nor listening for the loud thump of his feet when he struck the ground.  A pair of brave little flycatchers saw the chase and rushed at the common enemy, striking him with their beaks, and raising an outcry that brought a score of frightened, clamoring birds to the scene.  But Kagax never heeded.  His whole being seemed to be concentrated in the point of his nose.  He followed like a bloodhound to the top of the second spruce, sniffed here and there till he caught the scent of Meeko’s passage through the air, ran to the end of a branch in the same direction and leaped to the ground, landing not ten feet from the spot where the squirrel had struck a moment before.  There he picked up the trail, followed over logs and rocks to the maple, up to the third branch, and across fifty yards of intervening branches to the giant spruce where his victim sat half paralyzed, watching from his crevice.

Here Kagax was more deliberate.  Left and right, up and down he went with deadly patience, from the lowest branch to the top, a hundred feet above, following every cross and winding of the trail.  A dozen times he stopped, went back, picked up the fresher trail, and went on again.  A dozen times he passed within a few feet of his victim, smelling him strongly, but scorning to use his eyes till his nose had done its perfect work.  So he came to the last turn, followed the last branch, his nose to the bark, straight to the crevice under the broken branch, where Meeko crouched shivering, knowing it was all over.

There was a cry, that no one heeded in the woods; there was a flash of sharp teeth, and the squirrel fell, striking the ground with a heavy thump.  Kagax ran down the trunk, sniffed an instant at the body without touching it, and darted away to the form among the ferns.  He had passed it at daylight when he was too heavy for killing.

Halfway to the lake, he stopped; a thrilling song from a dead spruce top bubbled out over the darkening woods.  When a hermit thrush sings like that, his nest is somewhere just below.  Kagax began twisting in and out like a snake among the bushes, till a stir in a tangle of raspberry vines, which no ears but his or an owl’s would ever notice, made him shrink close to the ground and look up.  The red fire blazed in his eyes again; for there was Mother Thrush just settling onto her nest, not five feet from his head.

To climb the raspberry vines without shaking them, and so alarming the bird, was out of the question; but there was a fire-blasted tree just behind.  Kagax climbed it stealthily on the side away from the bird, crept to a branch over the nest, and leaped down.  Mother Thrush was preening herself sleepily, feeling the grateful warmth of her eggs and listening to the wonderful song overhead, when the blow came.  Before she knew what it was, the sharp teeth had met in her brain.  The pretty nest would never again wait for a brooding mother in the twilight.