would be the first to die.

Frosty unsheathed and sheathed his claws. He looked meaningfully at the second gray kitten, which flattened its ears and spat at him. Frosty turned around to face his brother.

The sun went down and when it did a chill fell on the mountain. But it brought no relief from raging thirst, though hunger was forgotten. The weakest kitten, past caring what happened, stretched limply. Its eyes were closed and it gasped for breath. But Frosty and the other gray kitten were still strong.

Far across the mountain, his every need and want attended to, Luke Trull slept soddenly in his comfortable bed.

Frosty strained. Something was walking nearby.

It walked on paws so soft and stealthy that the sound came to Frosty's ears almost like the ghost of a noise. It was less than half real, but it was there. Frosty turned to face it, knowing that, as always, he must be ready for anything. Nearby, there was a short sigh as something expelled its breath.

The gray kitten laid his ears back and snarled. Frosty caught the scent of whatever came and at once was aware of two things. The approaching creature was alien to him but he was immediately hostile to it. Somewhat like a dog, whatever came was not a dog. But it was wild and big, and it meant no good. Frosty bristled.

He could have no way of knowing that the creature, now smelling closely at the sack, was a prowling coyote. A big and crafty old male, the coyote had acquired his craft the hard way. Four years ago, he had left his right front paw in a steel trap, and ever since he had avoided everything which he did not know.

He knew all about helpless kittens and pups in gunny sacks. Over the years, Luke Trull had carried dozens from the town to a promised "good home" in the hills. It was one of the more paradoxical aspects of town-hill relationships that nobody had ever challenged him or stopped to think about it. The most superficial reasoning would have demonstrated that, if Luke had really taken home all the kittens and pups he had promised to take there, he couldn't possibly have room for anything else.

Luke's method of disposing of surplus kittens and pups was manna to the coyote. And, in a way, the coyote's very presence was a blessing to the helpless animals. The coyote killed cleanly, never needing more than one snap of his jaws, and such a death was much easier than waiting for thirst and hunger to do their work. Strong pups and kittens often lived a surprisingly long time.

Having satisfied himself that this was exactly what he had thought it would be, the coyote pinned the sack down with his front paws and went to work with his teeth. He had done this so many times that he was a past master at it and his technique was admirable. Rip a hole in the sack, pull out the trapped kittens or pups, snap once and enjoy an easy meal.

The coyote was neither in a hurry nor particularly concerned. This formula he himself had perfected. Never yet had a sacked kitten or pup escaped him or hurt him even slightly.

He pulled out the half-dead gray kitten, killed it and laid it aside. The second gray kitten fought, but not very long or very hard. Then, suddenly, what the coyote knew as an old story took on a new and astonishing twist.

Instead of waiting to be pulled out of the sack, Frosty sprang out. Straight to the coyote's head he went, all four paws raking, while baby teeth found a mark. He could work no serious damage, but fighting on his side was a powerful ally whose presence Frosty did not even suspect.

The coyote had opened numerous sacks and each time everything had happened in exactly the same way. Deciding to his own satisfaction that they'd always continue to fall into the same pattern, he had prepared himself for nothing else. Frosty's vicious attack startled him, so that he leaped suddenly backwards. When he did, Frosty relinquished his hold and sprang away. But he did not do so aimlessly.

The coyote's backward leap brought him near the end of the rotting log and Frosty's night-piercing eyes found the hollow there. His feline brain, able to execute a plan the instant it was conceived, did the rest. The end of Frosty's tail disappeared into the hollow a half-inch ahead of the coyote's snapping jaws. Though the hollow was scarcely big enough to admit his small body, Frosty managed to turn around in it.

Three feet away, the coyote bent his head to peer into the hollow and his disappointed panting sounded in jerky sequence. Growling a warning, Frosty took no further action. This was as simple and precise as a mathematical formula. The coyote could kill him. The coyote wanted to kill him. But the kitten was in the hollow log and the coyote was not. If the coyote could get in, he'd be here. All these indisputable elements added up to the fact that, at least temporarily, Frosty was safe.

He crouched watchfully, not afraid of the coyote but not foolish enough to engage in a battle that he did not have to fight. He was no match for the creature, he knew it, and since there didn't seem to be anything he could do right now, he did nothing.

After a moment, the coyote went away. No fool, he was perfectly aware of the fact that he might growl and scratch at the hole all night and still not reach the black kitten. He paused long enough to eat the two gray kittens and padded away on silent paws.

Frosty stayed where he was for another twenty minutes. When he finally moved, he went only to the entrance of the hollow and lingered there for five minutes more. He thought the coyote had gone but he wanted to be sure, and only when he was sure did he drop out of the hollow onto the ground.

He went into a half-crouch, tail curled against his flank and tense muscles ready to carry him wherever circumstance indicated he should go. This was a wholly unfamiliar world, one in which he'd have to feel every inch of his way. The least wrong move could bring disaster. Finally, eyes and ears alert, he moved softly as a shadow.

Frosty paused beside the limp gunny sack. He touched it with an extended nose, then glided cautiously around it. There was nothing to indicate that the sack was dangerous, but it had trapped him once and might again. Save for scent that still lingered on the sack, there was nothing whatever to indicate that the two gray kittens had ever been.

Knowing that he must do something, but with no clear idea of what that might be or where he should go, Frosty started into the night. He halted suddenly, warned more by deep-seated instinct than anything he could see or hear, and stood quietly under a bush. A moment later, he saw a big bird, a cruising great horned owl, pass overhead. Frosty stayed where he was for ten minutes. He knew only that he must be cautious. He could not know that the owl was hunting, and that a tender young kitten would be as acceptable as anything else.

A half-hour later, Frosty came to a streamlet, one of many that pursued their winding courses across the mountain, tumbled down it and finally poured their waters into a river. He crouched full-length and lapped water with a dainty pink tongue. . . . The kitten licked his chops, waited a bit, then drank again.

His thirst satisfied, he attended to every cat's implicit duty. Sitting down, he washed himself thoroughly with his tongue and used his front paws to groom that part of his fur which his tongue would not reach.

He licked his chops once more, smoothed his whiskers and wandered on. He struck at and missed a mouse that rustled the grass in front of him and watched, wide-eyed with wonder, when a rabbit bounded away. He missed another mouse and fluffed his fur and spat when a hunting fox rippled past.

Dawn found him in a grassy meadow. Little tendrils of moisture curled upward from dew-wet grass and a thin blanket of mist overhung the meadow. When something moved sluggishly in front of him, Frosty sprang to pin it down. His prize was a fat grasshopper, too torpid with morning cold to move swiftly. The kitten's tail lashed back and forth. He looked