“Wild animals!” cried Dave. “Don’t you think so, Sam?” “I do,” was the short answer. “Come on an’ see wot they be.” The old frontiersman led the way, and soon the party of three came upon a scene that thrilled them with interest. In a little glade in the forest lay a dead deer, the blood still pouring from a big bite in the throat. Close at hand were a small panther and a full-grown wildcat, tightly locked together, and biting and snapping in the most vicious manner possible. At one moment the wildcat would be on top, then the panther, and then they would roll over and over, the snow and fur flying in all directions. The blood was flowing from a gash in the panther’s side and the wildcat’s left ear was slitted into shreds. “Here is a fight surely!” whispered Barringford. “They mean business, they do!” “What shall we do?” whispered Dave. The sight thrilled him to the core. “Let ’em have it out, lad—ain’t no ust to interfere in sech a muss as thet.” The two animals were certainly “having it out.” Over and over they went and the fur continued to fly. The wildcat now had the panther by the neck, while the latter was twisted half around and was clawing frantically, trying to reach its enemy’s vitals. “Looks as if the wildcat would get the best of it,” observed Henry. But at that moment the larger beast shook the hold of the other, and swinging around caught the wildcat in the stomach with its claws. Then the wildcat closed in with another snarl, catching the panther in the lower jaw. It was a death-like grip that could not be shaken, and the animals fell over on their sides. The fur and snow continued to fly, but both animals soon grew weaker. There was a last struggle, a gasp from the wildcat, and then that animal stretched out dead. The hold on the panther’s jaw relaxed and slowly the panther staggered up. It went but a few steps, then fell down, gave a grunt or two, and began to kick feebly. “Both on ’em done fer!” said Sam Barringford. “It war certainly a great fight.” “The painter ain’t dead yet!” cried Henry. “Look out!” They turned and saw that the panther was trying to get up. It had discovered the intruders and wanted to fight. It gave a feeble leap, but failed to reach them. “I’ll fix thet painter,” murmured Barringford, and drew his hunting knife. “Don’t touch him—let him go,” pleaded Dave. “He made such a good fight against the wildcat.” The panther had turned towards the bushes. Now it slunk out of sight, so weak that it could scarcely drag one foot after another. Before they left the spot they saw the animal breathe its last. They examined the deer and found it had suffered nothing but the gaping wound in the throat, made evidently by the wildcat. “This is a prize,” said Henry. “It saves us the trouble of shooting one.” “I suppose the wildcat brought the deer down and the painter wanted to steal it,” said Dave. “It’s a pretty good-sized deer for a wildcat to tackle.”