He hid his head between his paws
and yelped. The blows increased. The mother ptarmigan was in a fury.
Then he became angry. He rose up, snarling, striking out with his paws.
He sank his tiny teeth into one of the wings and pulled and tugged
sturdily. The ptarmigan struggled against him, showering blows upon him
with her free wing. It was his first battle. He was elated. He forgot
all about the unknown. He no longer was afraid of anything. He was
fighting, tearing at a live thing that was striking at him. Also, this
live thing was meat. The lust to kill was on him. He had just destroyed
little live things. He would now destroy a big live thing. He was too
busy and happy to know that he was happy. He was thrilling and exulting
in ways new to him and greater to him than any he had known before.
He held on to the wing and growled between his tight-clenched teeth. The
ptarmigan dragged him out of the bush. When she turned and tried to drag
him back into the bush's shelter, he pulled her away from it and on into
the open. And all the time she was making outcry and striking with her
free wing, while feathers were flying like a snow-fall. The pitch to
which he was aroused was tremendous. All the fighting blood of his breed
was up in him and surging through him. This was living, though he did
not know it.
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