Suddenly, as he continued that steady backward drag, the resistance ceased. The lynx had launched itself forward in one last convulsive struggle to free itself from those strangling teeth at its throat. For a second or two Sonny felt himself overwhelmed, engulfed, in a vortex of rending claws. In a tight ball of hate and ferocity and horror the two rolled over and over in the underbrush. Sonny, doubled up hard to protect his belly, heard a shrill cry of fear from the Kid. At the sound he summoned into his strained nerves and muscles a strength beyond the utmost which he had yet been able to put forth. His jaws worked upward, secured a cleaner grip, ground slowly closer; and at last his teeth crunched together. A great shudder shook the body of the lynx. It straightened out, limp and harmless.
For perhaps a minute Sonny maintained his triumphant grip, shaking the foe savagely. Satisfied, at last, that he was meeting with no more resistance, he let go, stood off, and eyed the body with searching suspicion. Then he turned to the Kid. The Kid, careless of the blood and wounds, kissed him fervently on the nose, called him “Poor Sonny! Dear, good Sonny!” and burst into a loud wailing.
Knowing that the one thing now was to get the Kid home again as soon as possible, Sonny started, looking back, and uttering a little imperative bark. The Kid understood, and followed promptly. By the time they reached the fence, however, Sonny was so weak from loss of blood he could hardly climb through. The Kid, with blundering but loving efforts, helped him. Then he lay down.
At this moment the voices of Joe and Ann were heard, shouting, calling wildly, from the yard. At the sound, Sonny struggled to his feet and staggered on, the Kid keeping close beside him. But he could manage only a few steps. Then he sank down again.
The man and woman came running up the pasture, calling the Kid; but the latter would not leave Sonny. He trotted forward a few steps, and stopped, shaking his head and looking back. When Joe and Ann came near enough to see that the little one’s face and hair and clothes were splotched with blood, fear clutched at their hearts. “My God! what’s happened to him?” gasped Ann, striving to keep up with her husband’s pace. But Joe was too quick for her. Darting ahead, he seized the little one, lifted him up, and searched his face with 301 frantic eyes. For all the blood, the child seemed well and vigorous.
“What’s it mean, Kid? Ye ain’t hurt––ye ain’t hurt––tell me ye ain’t hurt, Kid! What’s all this blood all over ye?” he demanded breathlessly.
By this time Ann was at his side, questioning with terrified eyes.
“Tain’t me, Unc’ Joe!” protested the Kid. “I ain’t hurted. It’s poor Sonny. He’s hurted awful. He killed the great, big––great, big––” the Kid was at a loss how to explain, “the great, big, dreadful cat, what was goin’ to eat me up, Sonny did.”