Oblivious of everything save that he was confronted by a creature intent upon attacking him, the savage, primitive man was aroused in the young rancher. He realized that he must, in this emergency, depend for defense upon his hands alone—as must have an ancient dweller in a cave of the stone age.
As the bird, with a savage scream, swooped down at him, Roy lashed out with his bare fists. One blow caught the eagle full upon its feathered breast, knocking him aside. A wild yell burst from the boy’s lips, rivaling the bird’s screech in its intensity. He shouted. He called out meaningless phrases. He was a savage, battling for his life against an ancient enemy.
As the eagle, knocked from its course, fluttered to the ground, Roy’s eyes lit with a strange, fierce gleam. He sprang for the bird and sought to grasp the creature, but, to his surprise, the great dweller of the upper regions was not there. With a single beat of its powerful wings it had gained the air once more.
Sobbing in rage, Roy leaped to his feet, his injured ankle forgotten. Some ten feet above the ground the bird wheeled, screamed, and returned to the attack. This time it was more wary, and did not plunge directly for the boy, but shot down a little to one side, then, spreading its pinions wide, glided in. Roy, his lips drawn back in a snarl, met it fully. The beak stabbed once, as quick as a rattler striking, and Roy felt a searing pain in his right shoulder. A dark stain spread over his shirt. At the same time the boy was able to seize one of the wings in both hands, and he hung on desperately, twisting it with all his strength. Another quick stab of the powerful beak, and Roy released his hold, blood now streaming from his left arm.
The eagle, realizing now that his adversary was no weakling, but able to strike him down with one blow, retreated for the moment to consider matters. This gave Roy the chance he needed, and he quickly drew the knife from his pocket and opened it.
“Now, come on!” he yelled, taking a step forward toward the bird that was resting on the ground, reassembling his ruffled plumage. “Start something, you buzzard!” It is not to be wondered at that the boy in his excitement had mistaken his huge antagonist. “Buzzard” was the first thought that had come to his mind, and he shouted it out.
The bird held off, considering. His wing had been cruelly twisted by this strange-looking foe before him. Some one should suffer for that. And then, with a scream of defiance, the eagle arose again in the air.
Roy stood tense, waiting, his knife held in readiness. The moment’s respite had given the boy time to realize his danger. This was no buzzard, but an eagle that seemed bent upon the boy’s destruction. Tales of strong men being killed by this species of bird flashed through Roy’s mind, and he clenched the knife more firmly. If he was to die, he would put up a good fight first!
The bird was diving again. The pain in his wing had rendered the eagle careless of consequences, as he must punish this impudent being, and now he swooped directly at Roy. The boy drew back his arm. The sun glittered on the open blade as he held the knife poised for action. A harsh cry from the bird—a grunt of fierce effort from the boy—and the eagle, a long jagged rip in his side, lay gasping upon the ground!
Roy sprang forward, his hand red from blood that was not all his own. He knew that he must finish this now, before the bird had a chance to recover. Again the knife sank deep in feathers and flesh, and this time Roy knew his work was well done. The eagle sounded a single cry that floated upward and wavered to silence in the blue regions of its element, the body of the bird gave a convulsive shudder—then the tremulous breathing stopped, the head sank down, and the wings folded themselves quietly to rest.