“Well, stay close by in future.”
The flame-colored she-cat sprang to her paws. “Why?” she challenged. “I can look after myself.”
“There are some dangerous cats around,” Stick growled.
To his surprise Red bounded forward and pushed her forehead against his shoulder with an affectionate purr. “More dangerous than you?” she meowed, looking up; her eyes were glimmering with amusement. “Surely not!”
For a moment Stick wanted to cover her ears with licks as he used to when she was a kit. But those days were long gone. When he didn’t say anything, he saw the amusement fade from Red’s eyes.
“I’m going to see how Percy’s getting on,” she mewed, turning and stalking across the patch of waste ground.
Stick watched her go, sadness twisting in his belly.
“You won’t tame that one so easily.”
Stick jumped as he realized that Coal had padded up behind him. “I don’t want to tame her,” he responded gruffly. “I want to keep her safe.”
“She’s old enough to keep herself safe,” Coal pointed out.
“She needs a mother.”
Coal touched his tail-tip briefly to his friend’s shoulder. “You’ve done the best you could.”
“But it’s not enough, is it?” Stick replied. “It won’t ever be enough.”
Stick padded across the waste ground, in the opposite direction from the one Red had taken. At the edge of the open space he leaped onto the fence and began walking along the top, balancing easily. The Twoleg gardens were deserted in the gathering night. Though lights showed in some of the dens, the shadows lay thickly where Stick prowled.
Stick’s whiskers quivered and he opened his jaws to taste the air. Rabbit! His belly rumbled and water flooded his jaws, but he knew that this scent came from a rabbit in a Twoleg cage.
I’d be in more trouble than it’s worth if I tried to catch it.
As Stick padded along the fence top the smell grew stronger. A new taint mingled with it: the scent of fear. Stick wondered if young Twolegs were trying to play with the rabbit again; he knew that the rabbit didn’t like it. Then a terrified shriek rose from the garden just ahead. Stick froze. This wasn’t because of clumsy young Twolegs. The rabbit was being hunted!
Stick bounded along the fence top until he came to the garden where the rabbit lived. Halting in the shade of a holly tree, he looked down at the shiny mesh cage in the middle of the smooth green grass. The black-and-white rabbit crouched close to the ground, while Misha and Skipper circled the cage. Their pelts bristled and their teeth were bared in a snarl. On the far side of the grass, the Twoleg nest was dark and silent.
“Stop it!” Stick called out. “That rabbit isn’t prey.”
Misha and Skipper halted and stared up at him.
“Oh, really?” Misha sneered. “You’d hunt it fast enough if you weren’t scared of the Twolegs.”
“I’m not scared!” Stick growled.
“Prove it!” Skipper challenged. “Help us catch this rabbit.”
“No.” Stick began to back away along the fence. No good will come of this.
But before he could leave, Skipper ran at the cage and rocked it upward with one massive shoulder. The rabbit shrieked again and shrank back into the corner farthest from the gap. Misha pressed herself to the ground and reached under the cage with one paw to drag the creature into the open.
The rabbit crouched on the grass, trembling, as first Misha, then Skipper darted at it, lashing out with their paws to rip its ears. Tufts of black-and-white fur drifted over the grass, and Stick spotted a dark stain beginning to spread on the rabbit’s shoulder.
“Kill it cleanly, at least,” he growled.
Misha looked up at him, her cream-colored pelt pale in the gathering darkness. “Make us.”
She turned back to the terrified rabbit, motioning Skipper to stand aside. The rabbit tried to run; Misha let it cover a few tail-lengths before pouncing on it again and cuffing it around the head.
The rabbit let out a long, high-pitched wail and struggled as both cats returned to the attack. Its powerful fear-scent flooded over Stick and his belly growled with hunger. He slid his claws in and out, scoring the wooden fence. All his instincts were telling him to leap down and join in, to claim his share of the prey, but he knew what the result would be.
We can’t afford to make enemies of the Twolegs.
Finally the rabbit collapsed, limp with shock, its chest heaving with fast, panting breaths. Stick couldn’t bear to watch any longer. Leaping down from the fence he raced across the grass and shouldered Skipper away from the quivering creature.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the ginger-and-white tom demanded.
“I’m going to put the poor thing out of its misery,” Stick snarled.
“Don’t think you get to share,” Misha spat. “This is our prey.”
Ignoring her, Stick lifted one paw to deliver a killing blow. At the same moment Skipper and Misha both threw their heads back and let out bloodcurdling yowls. A window in the Twoleg nest lit up; yellow light flooded over the grass. The door of the nest crashed open and loud Twoleg voices came from inside.
Stick glanced around. Misha and Skipper had vanished, leaving him alone in the middle of the lighted patch of grass, crouched over the shivering rabbit. The Twoleg yowling grew louder. A huge male Twoleg appeared in the doorway, brandishing a bristly wooden pole. His mate and two Twoleg kits followed him out, wailing, as he charged at Stick.
The rabbit scrambled to its paws and took off. Stick spun around and fled for the fence. Something sailed over his head and crashed into the bushes a tail-length away. Without looking back he scrambled to the top of the fence and ran along it, past the waste ground and down into the alley. The Twoleg yowling died away behind him.
Stick stood still, his heart thumping. He shivered at the thought of the Twoleg stick landing across his back, cracking his spine. We keep our heads down around Twolegs. And now this happens.
“Enjoy your fresh-kill, loser?”
Stick spun around as he recognized Skipper’s voice. He and Misha were sitting farther down the alley in the shadow of some garbage cans, calmly cleaning their paws.
“I didn’t hurt that rabbit, and you know it,” Stick snarled, padding toward them. “You set me up.”
“You set yourself up.” Misha drew her paw over one ear.
“Maybe it’ll teach you not to interfere in the future,” Skipper sneered. He rose to his paws and padded forward until he stood nose to nose with Stick.
Stick tensed. He was here alone; if they attacked, he would be torn apart. He’d seen what Misha was prepared to do to another cat.
But Skipper stayed relaxed, and his voice was almost friendly, though Stick saw hostility gleaming in his narrowed eyes. “I’ve seen Red around a lot lately,” he remarked. “Next time, it might be a tuft of her fur that’s left beside a dead Twoleg pet.”
“Leave Red out of this,” Stick growled. “And don’t make threats you can’t keep.”
“Oh, they’re not threats.” Misha spoke from behind Skipper, arching her back in a long, luxurious stretch and showing her sharp teeth in a yawn. “They’re promises.”
Chapter 13
Leafstar padded up to the fresh-kill pile and dropped her squirrel onto it. “We hunted well today,” she observed.
Patchfoot nodded as he deposited his own prey—a mouse and two shrews—on the pile. Shorty had caught two mice, and Shrewtooth was pleased with himself for once, for chasing a rabbit and bringing it down.
The sun had risen above the gorge, but it was so early that dew still clung to the grass. The cats who had not been chosen for the dawn patrols were beginning to emerge from their dens. Sparrowpelt bounded down the trail, halted briefly at the bottom to give one ear a good scratch, then headed for the river to drink. Waspwhisker clambered down after him, slower and more awkward because of the wound from the rat battle. Leafstar padded across to meet him as he reached the foot of the trail.