Squalling and clawing, its nails stripping long splinters from the maple logs, the cat fell back. When the two animals struck the hard snow, Prince was shaken off.
But the mongrel was brave. He dived in again and seized the lynx, this time by the throat. The cat got in a stroke with its hind paws. The lacerations along Prince’s side were deep and painful, but he held to his prey.
Meantime, the horses plunged on, dragging the loaded sled over the rough road at a pace which still imperiled the little girl. Each moment she might be shaken from her hold and flung from the logs into the roadway.
Should she fall, it was not likely that she would escape harm, as had Tim, the hackman. He had now struggled out of the drift unhurt, and came staggering along the track, shouting in futile fashion for his team to stop.
Oddly enough, he had clung to the club all this time, and, reaching the bloody patch of snow where the dog and the lynx struggled, he set upon the big cat and beat it so about the head that it was very quickly dead.
“Come on! Come on!” Tim shouted to the dog. “You ain’t got to stay here and growl at that critter no more. Ketch them horses!”
Prince actually seemed to know what Tim meant. Sore and bleeding as he was, the dog did not halt even to lick his wounds. He dashed ahead, barking, and quickly overtook the sled. The horses were not going very fast now, but they were not minded to halt, for all of Tim’s shouting.
Prince sprang at the nigh horse and seized its bridle rein. The team swerved out of the path, Prince hanging on and growling.
The sled struck an obstruction and the team stopped.
“Pitcher of George Washington! if that ain’t a smart dog, I never see one,” gasped Tim, panting and blowing. “Air ye hurt, Car’lyn May?”