KING AGAINST KING.

Lyttelton Times, Volume LXI, Issue 7221, 22 April 1884, Page 3

KING AGAINST KING.

From this grove of cottonwoods sheltering the spring across to that peninsula erf thicket running out from the forest is a clear space of ten miles. Call it a ralley and you will not be far wrong. Write that it is almost as level as a floor, and covered with rich green grass, and you will give the reader a true picture. The grove contains not over a dozen trees, and in the centre a spring bubbles up and throws off a stream which steals away through grass and weeds and is Anally soaked up by the parched soil. In the spring-time the stream becomes a rivulet and runs its course for fifty miles. In the hot summer the thirsty wolf must cool his tongue at the spring or cross to the forest and lap at the creek.

Skeletons ? Y es. Two three five. Not of men, but of large animals. Three of them rest on the ground almost within shade of the trees ; the other two are out in the sunshine, and the grass is shooting up between the bleaching ribs and fast concealing the hideous skulls. You look about expecting to see the rusting ironwork of ah emigrant’s waggon, and there is a sudden fear that the grass may he hiding the story of a terrible butchery. Look out! There is a gurgle—a growl —a warning of danger which sends the chills creeping over you, and from the high grass springing up around the skeleton furthest away a head is lifted into view. It is the head of the American lion —the puma of the plains! Its glassy eyes are watching you—its yellow fangs work as if they were tearing your flesh! Is he crouching for a spring? Has he been waiting and watching for this last half hour ?

Now there is a whine of hunger and pain, and as you watch for that horrible head to be raised again a tawny form creeps out of its hiding-place and pulls itself out upon the short grass and into the full glare of the sunshine. So-ho! The king is a cripple! He is dragging a shoulder and leg after him as he moves, and he is willing to vacate without a, fight. Now you have the mystery. The key is five miles up the valley, where you see that band of wild horses coming down at a. round trot. The king has had a fat thing of it. The grove was his palace. That big cotton-wood with his claw marks by the hundred was his throne. The wild horses came here to drink, and his royal highness has feasted a» becomes a king. A fat horse on the grass—a spring at his heels—no one to molest him at his meals or during his slumbers—who wouldn’t be a nabob ?

These skeletons are clean-picked. That proves much. It was -weeks ago that the last horse was home to the ground in a terrific struggle for life. He did not save himself, but he inflicted such damage that his royal highness has been a plebeian cripple ever since. Pain and hunger have made him whine and beg, and the coyotes have dared to invade his realm and gnaw at the bones within a hundred feet of his bed. In his strength they feared and respected him; in his distress they mock hum and exhibit contempt. The palace of his Eoyal Higness has been invaded, and he must go. He who has never shown mercy can expect none. The forest will give him a hiding-place, if not food and drink, and he will drag himself across that weary stretch of grass to secure a cover.. He moves slowly. Every foot of progress gives him pain, and at every 10ft he pauses and looks hack and seems to wonder if it would not be more in keeping with his record to limp back and have it out with the invader. Let him alone and watch the horses. The whole band have halted. Every head is up, every nostril is sniffing the air, and every eye is, watching the crippled king as be slowly increases his distance from shelter. He is growling and complaining, and has eyes only for you. Now he hobbles on three legs, uttering short barks—now he draws himself along on his belly and growls as if he had a victim within reach of his fangs. Watch the horses! They stand stock still, every head thrust out and every eye marking off the distance between the crippled king and the grove. In a quarter of an hour there is half a mile of open ground between the first cottonwood and the spot where the fugitive has halted for a long look backwards. He has turned bis face towards the forest, when there is a sudden movement among the h«rses. The band divides. A portion rush to the right to cut off retreat to the grove—the rest bear straight down upon the king. He hears the rush of feet —be raises his bead for one swift glance, and then there is a roar of mingled defiance and despair. His royal highness is cornered, his escape cut off. He makes a dozen bounds forward, forgetting for the instant his broken shoulder, and then he halts and faces the rush, whining, begging, growling —a coward in the face of danger. A coward ? No ! He weakened in the first moment of despair, but now bis courage returns and he roars defiance. If he must die it shall be the death of a king. Watch the horses! They have formed a circle about him and are closing in—not with » rush, but slowly and coquettishly — pawing at the earth —snorting in alarm—tossing their heads to distract his attention. But for his hurt the king would ride away upon one of their backs. He settles down in the grass—his eyes glare—his tail moves nervously—his claws dig into the sod —look out for him! The circle is not fifty feet from him when the advance suddenly ceases, and a stout, rangy stallion, whose muscles stand out in ridges and whose eyes are brighter than stars, steps out alone. He is the king of the wild horse band. It is king against king. He looks straight into the eyes of the crouching beast as he advances, and every nerve and muscle is playing with excitement. Stop! step! step I Look out! That growl means blood! The eyes of the crippled king take on a greener glare—the claws dig deeper—there he springs! Pity him a little. Ho was game, but he was crippled. His bound brought a shriek of pain to mingle with his roar for vengeance, and ere he could recover from the false spring there was a whirl—a flash, and the heels of the wild horse king sent him rolling over and over the grass. There was a rush—wild neighs—howls of despair—and as the grand old king of the prairie gallops away at the head of his band, the king of the grove lies trampled and bruised and dead on the grass.