He knew what to expect now.
And Howland knew what to expect.
It was the science of one world pitted against that of another--the
science of civilization against that of the wilderness. Howland was
trained in his art. For sport Jean had played with wounded lynx; his was
the quickness of sight, of instinct--the quickness of the great north
loon that had often played this same game with his rifle-fire, of the
sledge-dog whose ripping fangs carried death so quickly that eyes could
not follow. A third and a fourth time he came within distance and
Howland struck and missed.
"I am going to kill you," he said again.
To this point Howland had remained cool. Self-possession in his science
he knew to be half the battle. But he felt in him now a slow, swelling
anger. The smiling flash in Jean's eyes began to irritate him; the
fearless, taunting gleam of his teeth, his audacious confidence, put him
on edge. Twice again he struck out swiftly, but Jean had come and gone
like a dart. His lithe body, fifty pounds lighter than Howland's, seemed
to be that of a boy dodging him in some tantalizing sport. The Frenchman
made no effort at attack; his were the tactics of the wolf at the heels
of the bull moose, of the lynx before the prongs of a cornered
buck--tiring, worrying, ceaseless.
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