He was like a shadow--a gray dot here, a flash there, now hidden behind a stick no larger than a man's wrist, appearing for a moment, the next instant gone as completely as if he had not existed.
Thus he approached from fifty feet to within three feet of the spruce hen.

That was his favorite striking distance.

Unerringly he launched himself at the drowsy partridge's throat, and his needlelike teeth sank through feathers into flesh.
Sekoosew was prepared for what happened then.

It always happened when he attacked Napanao, the wood partridge.

Her wings were powerful, and her first instinct when he struck was always that of flight.