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Sixteen  The BRONZEMAN

most beside themselves with rage. Never before had Will known them to be in such a frenzy.

When he came at last upon a little ravine, Will could see all four of his dogs chewing savagely at the bark of one of a thick cluster of red oaks that stood on the rise beyond. There was no underbrush as he anticipated. There was even a little clearing around to the right, where some logging crew had cut away several large trees. Realizing a coon always climbs to the highest limb, Will began to circle around to that clearing so as to be able to see the topmost branches of the tallest of that cluster of oaks. He was very close to his objective now, his eagle eyes already searching the tops of the tree mentioned, when it suddenly occurred to him that his gun was still loaded with squirrel shots. Smiling at the thought of an old grizzly coon having his back scratched with those tiny shots, Will stopped and removed them. It was then he discovered that he had not come really prepared for coons. There was not one number three shell in his hunting-bag; but agter fishing around in it for a few seconds, he came up with two shells of number one buckshots which he had bought a couple years ago during the epidemic of hydrophobia among dogs in the community. They were so worn that he wondered if they would shoot. These would mutilate the pelt of a coon so that it would not sell, but he would have the satisfaction of proving to his dogs that he stood back of them at all times and besides, he could eat the meat; so dropping them into the chambers of his gun and snapping the breech into place, he was about to resume is walk towards the clearing, when much to his surprise, Tiny deliberately ran between his legs and took a position at his right side, a bit in front. The man was on the verge of showering a few choice epithets upon him when he became aware that the pup was acting unlike he had ever seen him act before. The hairs along his spine were standing on ends like bristles, his bony tail pointed straight behind him, and he began to make a noise that was the combination of a whine and a growl; meanwhile, he continued to cast furtive glances to the left of Will.

Sending that something was in the air, and that the dog was trying to convey some kind of message or warning, Will gripped his gun tightly and stood perfectly still, watching the pup for some sign that would explain such strange actions. He had stood in this tense position for perhaps a minute when from over his left shoulder came a low, gurgling growl! Cold chills began to race up and down his spine; great beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead, but he remained still for about thirty seconds more, after which he turned his head ever so slowly, and looked behind him. 

There crouched in the fork of a half-grown red oak, not fifteen feet away, and about twelve feet up, he saw a great beast of a brownish color, that resembled a giant cat. Its baleful eyes were riveted upon him, and he readily understood by the manner in which its tail was roving, and by the way it pranced upon fire one haunch and then the other, that is was waiting for just one more move on his part as a signal to spring upon him. In that fleeting moment Will realized that he was looking upon the killer of Cy Hampson's hogs that the dogs had surprised the culprit while it lay in wait for an opportunity to attack his hogs; that if had climbed the tree under which the dogs were still barking, leaped from limb to limb, and from tree to tree, until it had reached this one, which was a convenient one to descend and thus make an escape; that having been forced to run from the hounds for more than half a day, it had become angry, and was ready to attack anything that stood in its way.

Suddenly with machine - like precision, Will whirled, opened fire with both barrels, and fell forward. Nor was he a bit too soon, for as he scrambled away on hands and knees, a hurtling mass of enraged flesh shot over him and landed headlong upon the ground with a heavy thud. For a brief moment there was a wild flurry; a veritable whirlwind of dead leaves, twigs, and flying dirt, accompanied by a blood curdling scream that set the woods to ringing so that it might have been heard miles away. Then silence reigned once more. 

Hearing the commotion the dogs came on the run, but by the time they arrived, the peril was past, and a great panther, measuring a fraction less then eight feet from tip to tip, lay quite harmless, both eyes having been punctured with the buckshot.

When the photographer took Will's picture for the County Gazette, that individual insisted upon posing with a shy, bewildered pup under his left arm, and his trusty shot gun under his right.

When the county awarded Will fifty dollars for slaying the only panther seen within its bounds in twenty years, Cy Hampson said it was downright foolish of him to have a special collar made for Tiny, that cost exactly half the reward. But Will vowed that nothing was too good for the pup whose devotion had undoubtedly saved his life.

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FATHER or HUSBAND
Which Would You Choose? 
It came to this wife in a Western metropolis for decision. Her father, old, decrepit, his fortune lost, had come to live with her. Daily, he brooded over his losses. Morose, discouraged he talked only of depression - times getting worse. He radiated gloom throughout the household. 

Her husband, making a fairly successful fight to keep the wolf away, said he could not work all day and then come home to hear the old man sing the blues. It was not fair to him - to his children. He demanded to come home to a fireside of cheer and radiance. The OLD MAN MUST GO!

She must decide between him and her children or her father.

What Would You Have Done?

THE BRONZEMAN WILL PAY TWO DOLLARS FOR THE BEST LETTER, ONE DOLLAR FOR THE NEXT BEST. 

Address to Contest Editor, THE BRONZEMAN, 418 East 47th Street, Chicago. 

Letters cannot be returned. They must not exceed one hundred fifty words. Only typed letters will be considered. Letters much reach this office by noon, Thursday, June 8th. 
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