“Let us go down toward the lake then and home along the shore line. It is easier travelling that way.”
They went down the incline together, digging with their heels at times to stop them up, and slipping in fifteen feet lengths at other times. When they neared the bottom they heard a loud yelp, as of a dog suddenly hit by a missile of some kind. They looked out in the direction of the lake and away in the middle of it, half a mile from shore, their eyes sighted two dark objects rolling over and over each other.
A yelp, sharper than the first, came again.
“By jingo!” shouted Jim, “what do you know about that? It’s our supposed yellow-livered terrier. He’s got 304 the coyote. Come on! The brute will have him eaten alive.”
They plunged down the remainder of the hill, through another thicket of pines, along the shore and out on to the lake. The ice was several feet thick and as solid as the land itself. Time and again both Phil and Jim stepped up in order to try a shot, but it was impossible to get one in without endangering the life of the plucky old dog.
They slid and scurried along, full speed––while the terrier seemed to be hanging on gamely to the coyote, or else the coyote had such a hold on the terrier that the latter was unable to shake it. They continued to roll over and over in a whirling bundle of fur.
“Better try a shot anyway, Phil,” cried Jim in desperation. “You are surer with the gun than I am. The dog is all in and it looks as if it didn’t really matter now which you hit anyway.”
Phil threw the gun to his shoulder, took almost careless aim and fired. It was a long shot and a difficult one for even an expert.
For a moment, it looked as if the bullet had gone wide. The next moment it could be seen that something had been hit, but it was hard to tell what. Then out of the scurry and whirl, the old terrier was observed to get on top.
“Good boy!” cried Jim. “You got the right one!”