A ripping slither of tearing wood came from the other side of the hut. Pete turned his head dully. The lynx had thrust an entire foreleg through into the hut; the great head with its staring, inhuman yellow eyes was pushing through. Peter saw the foamy slaver drip from the snarling mouth.
Every joint protesting, aching in all his bones, Pete reached across to the bunk for the rifle. His jaw set, and he dragged himself to his feet. He took four steps across the hut, and thrust the muzzle of the rifle against the lynx’s forehead between the great, staring eyes. A shattering roar shook the solid hut, and, dropping his rifle, Pete staggered back to the life-giving blaze.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the March 1925 issue of Weird Tales magazine.