The knife was still sticking in the wound, and as the lynx felt another enemy above her, she momentarily turned her attention to the one above, while she struck with her claws to deliver herself from the fingers that were choking her.
That was Alf's chance. He plucked at the hunting-knife, and plunged it into the wild animal with three rapid thrusts.
Then followed another scream more wild and blood-curdling than the rest. It was a death-cry; for in a moment more Bob stood up, holding a limp body by the neck.
Holden slowly rose from his bed of broken willows, and he grinned as he regarded his clothes—especially the jacket, that hung from his left arm like the evening dress of a Weary Willie.
"Rather the worse for wear and tear!" he remarked with comical ruefulness.
"Which? The clothes or yourself?" questioned Bob, as he threw the lynx's carcase to one side.
"I guess it's the clothes more than anything else. There's a lot of blood about, but that's the lynx's more than mine."
In truth the lad was a strange spectacle, for hardly an inch of his clothes had not been visited by claws or teeth. The boy himself was covered with dust and dirt, while crimson patches of blood completed a picture that was both humorous and pathetic.
Fortunately, both the boys were able to look at the matter from the former point of view. Physical damage was not severe. There was a scratch on Alf's shoulder. Arnold examined it carefully, but decided that no danger was likely to follow, since the claws had passed through the leather jacket before touching the flesh. As a precaution against blood-poisoning, he insisted upon sucking the wound, after which he bound it with a handkerchief.
"That will be all right, I expect," he said, as the operation was completed. "I don't think we need worry about the other scratches."