“Here is a fight surely!” whispered Barringford. “They mean business, they do!”
“What shall we do?” whispered Dave. The sight thrilled him to the core.
“Let ’em have it out, lad—ain’t no ust to interfere in sech a muss as thet.”
The two animals were certainly “having it out.” Over and over they went and the fur continued to fly. The wildcat now had the panther by the neck, while the latter was twisted half around and was clawing frantically, trying to reach its enemy’s vitals.
“Looks as if the wildcat would get the best of it,” observed Henry. But at that moment the larger beast shook the hold of the other, and swinging around caught the wildcat in the stomach with its claws. Then the wildcat closed in with another snarl, catching the panther in the lower jaw. It was a death-like grip that could not be shaken, and the animals fell over on their sides. The fur and snow continued to fly, but both animals soon grew weaker. There was a last struggle, a gasp from the wildcat, and then that animal stretched out dead. The hold on the panther’s jaw relaxed and slowly the panther staggered up. It went but a few steps, then fell down, gave a grunt or two, and began to kick feebly.
“Both on ’em done fer!” said Sam Barringford. “It war certainly a great fight.”
“The painter ain’t dead yet!” cried Henry. “Look out!”
They turned and saw that the panther was trying to get up. It had discovered the intruders and wanted to fight. It gave a feeble leap, but failed to reach them.
“I’ll fix thet painter,” murmured Barringford, and drew his hunting knife.
“Don’t touch him—let him go,” pleaded Dave. “He made such a good fight against the wildcat.” The panther had turned towards the bushes. Now it slunk out of sight, so weak that it could scarcely drag one foot after another. Before they left the spot they saw the animal breathe its last.