the sleeping soldiers who would be killed while asleep. He must act quickly. A shot from his rifle would awaken the sergeant of the guard. As he tried to throw the bolt on the gun it was knocked out of his hands by the trench knife of the first German who blocked the passage. Watson came to grips with the man; he was a strong fellow, what a tackle he would have made on some university team! As the trench was narrow the other two Huns could not get into the fray. The three Germans had been sent out in advance of the raiding party, to cut the wires and get rid of the opposing sentry. The husky German was wearing on the young American's strength; it couldn't last much longer; he was nearly spent. Watson shot a short jab to the ribs of the enemy, who momentarily loosened his grasp. This was enough for Watson, who brought his trench knife upward and dealt the death blow; but not before he received a severe cut on his right side. For an instant he was nauseated, he almost fainted. He must go on! Ten yards to go! He must score, where was his inter-ference? They had left him; he must fight it out alone. Desperately he stiff-armed the next man; it really wasn't a stiff-arm, but a sudden thrust with his knife. Now he was through the line; only one man left. He charged straight for the opposing man. He gained several feet, but received in exchange two short jabs in the back. He was blinded now. He couldn't go on, but he must. His team, his college, he must score. One last effort! He must hit this man low-down, greater push. He swung his arm; he was through! He rang the gong! He had scored; again he was the hero! When they found his body, it was filled just full of holes. They wrapped him in a blanket, and buried him where he fell, in a shallow German shell hole. A Hunter of the Night BY OSCAR DEMING THE last lingering rays of the late summer sun touched the crown of Old Baldy with caressing fingertips, then quietly slid to rest beneath the distant hills. In a shallow cave, one of the many that studded the fare of that time worn peak, lay a puma. In the valley below he was hated and feared by the sheep and cattlemen alike because of the deathly toll he took from their stock when the deep snows of the high Sierras drove him from his usual haunts in search of food. Three winters before he had lost all but two toes on his left hind foot in a trap that had either been forgotten, or else cunningly left alone until all man smell had vanished. Hence, "Old Two Toes," was the name bestowed on him by the ranchers, from the tell-tale foot marks left around his kills. Old Two Toes, after the last bit of sleep had ceased to fog his brain, lay still, snifing inquiringly into the dusk. Seemingly satisfied with what his nose sensed, he pro- ceeded with his evening toilet, which consisted of carefully licking his paws and the part of his massive chest that he could reach with his red, rough tongue. This completed, he rose and stretched. Huge, supple, muscles rippled and rolled beneath the tawny fur, only to bunch and harden as he reached the full length of his stretch. He yawned, a long, lazy cat yawn, displaying teeth that were yellow stained and cruelly sharp. Moving with the unwasted motion of the cat family to the mouth of the cave, he surveyed the vast domain that comprised his hunting grounds. A thousand feet below lay the whispering pines that covered the lower breast of Old Baldy like a verdant blanket. Still farther below lay the grassy upland meadows, natural feeding grounds of those graceful spirits of motion, the black tail deer. Then far below the meadows lay the tiny dots that denoted the dwellings of man, the ranches. Old Two Toes left the cave and picked his way amid the slide of rocks that marked the bottom of the cliff. In the semi-darkness he was inconspicuous amid the rocks. He paused, sniffed the faint breeze that had sprung from nowhere, then carefully de-toured to avoid contact with a family of skunks that were meandering through the rocks. Experience years before had taught Old Two Toes how futile it was to try to best them in combat; true, with one rake of his long, curved claws he had wiped life from one of them, but at what cost! House he had screamed in pain and clawed madly at the thousand blinding devils that seared his eyes; the suffocating odor had filled his lungs to the breaking point. It had been a lesson well earned. A grey rock rabbit had scudded to safety as the strong cat odor drifted to him. Old Two Toes was after far larger game, but the tiny bundle of fur shivered in the dark burrow as though the wings of death had flicked it in passing. The big cat entered the inky blackness of the timber. His huge padded feet on the sponge-like cushion of pine needles and decayed vegetation made no sound to mark his passing. A large horned owl, the grey ghost of the night, flew silently through the haze of trees on his way to the meadows below, where fat, juicy mice, or perhaps an unwary rabbit would fall prey to his ravenous appetite. A wandering mink, far off his beaten path, after a quick survey of the big cat, darted back into the silence of the night. Old Two Toes paid no heed. Through the underbrush glared two baleful yellow eyes. The puma snarled defiance, and his distant cousin, the bob cat, melted into the darkness. Changing his course, the big cat made for a high ridge that swung down the north slope of Old Baldy. It was on these barren ridges that the deer bedded for the night. Free of trees or lesser vegetation, it was an ideal spot to watch or sleep in comparative safety. Shifting around to a point where the breeze would send no warning odor he stealthily made his way up the ridge. The yellow harvest moon was banked deeply behind dark clouds that cluttered the sky like a herd of black, wooly sheep. The breeze blowing off the ridge carried to his nostrils odors of the deer bedded above him. Warm, meaty odors, that caused the big cat's tail to switch in delightful anticipation. Crouching low, the dirty white of his belly barely clearing the ground, the puma worked his way upward. The scent was strong in his nostrils now. One false move would send his anticipated meal scattering to the four winds. He edged his way around a large boulder, and in a slight depression he could see the misty grey shapes that denoted the location of the deer. A few more steps and he would be near enough to spring. But Mother Nature has many queer quirks in her make up. Perhaps she did not deem it the proper time for the big cat to feast. Perhaps she cast more kindly eyes on her unsuspecting children bedded there on the bare ridge top. The breeze shifted for but a moment, carrying to the deer a warning as clear as any noise. Rising to their feet with snorts of fear, they bounded away, eyes bulging with terror, as the big cat, snarling with rage, flung themselves at their flying feet. Baffled and enraged at this unexpected turn o events, Old Two Toes vent his rage in a high, shrill scream that echoed over the ridge like the weird cry of a lost soul. Below, in the willows, a flock of grouse twittered uneasily in their broken sleep, while a ludicrous brown bear stopped his feast of early ripe service berries to cast reflective eyes towards that cry of rage and disappointment. A scant hour before dawn found the big cat miles from the scene of his earlier adventure. By a round about trail he had made his way to a spring at the head of a little meadow. It was here the deer came in the early dawn to drink before feeding. Their trails were in abundance. The spring itself, seeped out from under a mossy ledge, and a small pool had formed. Below this point the scant flow of water silently slipped away into the ground.