She did not realise the full danger of the situation. A mad lynx is no pleasant beast to meet; and this one, when it leaped, landed upon the rear of the load of logs.
“Pitcher of George Washington!” yelled Tim, the hackman. “We’re boarded by pirates, sure enough!”
The squalling, clawing brute tried to draw itself up on the logs. The horses were running now, and the jolting of the sled made the beast’s hold precarious. Besides, just as the cat landed, Prince darted around to the rear of the sled. With a growl of rage, the big mongrel flung himself upward and managed to seize the lynx just at the root of its stubby tail.
Then there was a squalling time, indeed! The cat, clawing and spitting, sought to retain its hold on the logs, and yet strike at its adversary.
Prince had claws of his own, and he was scratching at the logs to gain a foothold; but his claws were not like the sabre-sharp nails of the lynx. A single thrust of a spread paw of the cat would have raked poor Prince’s hide to shreds.
With the horses galloping and the lynx jouncing, half on and half off the logs, there was little likelihood of the wildcat’s turning on its enemy. There was enough bull in Prince to clamp his jaws in an unbreakable hold, now that he had gripped the lynx.
Carolyn May was thoroughly frightened. She had to cling with both hands to save herself from being flung from the sled. Tim began to realise, at length, that he must do something besides yell at the horses.
“Pitcher of George Washington!” he gurgled. “That blamed wood-pussy’s gotter git off this load! I didn’t come out here to give it a ride, I vum!”
He hung the reins on one of the sled stakes, seized a hickory club as thick as his forearm, and crept back towards the angry animal.
The dog’s weight hanging to its tail was giving the lynx about all it could think of or take care of; yet it spat at Tim and struck at him with one paw.