Tim, the hackman, had an accident to his load before he was ready to
start from the camp after dinner. He was hauling maple and other
hardwood logs to the turning mill at Sunrise Cove; and, the team he
worked being a sturdy pair of animals, he piled a heavy cargo on the
jumper. Just as he called to Carolyn May to hop upon the load for the
ride home the horses started.
"Hey, you!" sang out the hack driver. "What d'ye think you're doin'?
Hey, there! Whoa!"
Unguided, the horses brought the sled with a vicious crash against a
snow-covered stump. The load rocked, one runner hoisted into the air,
and the load toppled over completely. The log-chain could not stand such
a strain, and right there and then occurred a notable overturn.
"Pitcher of George Washington!" bawled Tim. "Now look what you went and
done!"
He declaimed this against the spirited team. The whole camp yelled its
delight.
"You ain't fit to drive anything more lively than that old rackabones
you tackle to your hack in summer, Tim," declared the boss of the camp.
"You don't know nothing about managing a real horse."
"Hi, Timmy!" called another, "want somebody to hold their heads while ye
build up that load again?"
But the hackman accepted this good-naturedly. He was delayed quite an
hour, however, in starting from the camp with Carolyn May; and an hour
out of a winter's afternoon is a good deal, for it becomes dark early at
that time of year.
When Tim had his load perfectly secure again he tossed the sacks on the
logs, and then lifted Carolyn May to the top. Prince whined and barked
at her. Her eminence was too great for him to gain.
"Never mind, Princey," she called to him. "You'd rather run, you know
you would. We're going home now."
The men in sight swung their caps and called their good-byes after her.
Judy Mason flapped her apron from the cabin door. The sailor reached up
to shake her mittened hand. This time the horses started properly, and,
groaning, the heavily laden sled swung into the beaten track.
The sun was already down; a silver paring of moon hung above the tree
tops, growing brighter each minute as the daylight faded. The stars
would soon begin to sparkle in the heavens. The track led through the
thick wood, which quickly hid the camp and all its busy scene from view.
Timothy had climbed to the top of the load, too, and settled himself
comfortably for the ride. He proceeded to fill and light his pipe.
"Aren't you ever scared that there might be bears or something in the
woods, Mr. Timothy?" Carolyn May asked him, looking about in some
trepidation. "Of course, with Prince here, I know that no wild animal
could steal upon us. But when you're alone?"
Tim chuckled. "Bears don't pedestrianate around in winter--not as ever I
heard on," he said. "They've got too much sense. Bears hole up when the
snow flies. An', b'sides, they're ain't no bears. All done away with
long ago."
"Are you sure?" Carolyn May asked anxiously.
"Sure as shootin'. Pitcher of George Washington! think I'd go traipsin'
through these woods without no gun," Tim asked, grinning at her, "if
there was anything fiercer'n a polecat to be met up with? An', come to
think of it, _they_ hole up in winter, too. Gid-ap, there, ye
lazybones!"
The horses nodded their heads, as though agreeing with all he had said;
the bells tinkled and the sled runners crunched over the snow. Prince
did not feel so much like "cavorting," as Tim called it, and followed
the sled at a sober gait. The woods were very silent. Not a bird winged
its way across their path, and all the rabbits seemed to have hidden
themselves. The little girl began to nod and her eyes blinked.
Suddenly, on the branch of a tree that overhung the road they were
following, Carolyn May saw a grey, furry body hugging close to the limb.
"Oh! what's that?" she gasped, scarcely loud enough for Tim to hear.
At one end of the grey body a round, catlike head was thrust out over
the branch--the eyes yellow and glaring, the pointed ears erect.
"Oh, what a big cat!" Carolyn May cried, louder now. "See there!"
Tim, the hackman, turned in startled haste. At her cry the animal on the
limb gathered its legs under it, arched its back, and uttered a
startling screech.
"Oh, dear me!" murmured Carolyn May, "he's seen Prince."
This was probably the case, for the creature repeated its yowl, just
like an enraged tom-cat, only much louder than even old Jimmy could
squall. Tim yelled to the horses and bent forward to lash them with the
slack of the reins.
They leaped ahead, but not soon enough to carry the loaded sled out from
under the limb. Prince, who had uttered a challenging growl, danced
around the trunk of the tree. The huge cat leaped!
"Oh, my! Oh, my!" shrieked Carolyn May.
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.
"Would ye, ye nasty beast?" cried Tim, rising to his feet. "Scat!"
He struck at the head of the lynx with his club. That blow certainly
would have done some execution had it landed where Tim intended it to
land--on the creature's head. But, instead, the end of the club came down
with great force on a log.
The blow had a tremendous effect, but not in the way Tim expected. The
jar of the stroke almost paralysed the man's arm. He uttered a groan and
staggered back. The sled runner went over a hummock just then on one
side of the trail, while the runner on the other side sank into a rut.
Like a diver from a springboard, Tim went head first, and backward, into
a snowbank beside the road.
"Pitcher of George--" The rest of his favourite ejaculation was smothered
by the snow, into which he plunged so deeply that only his felt boots,
kicking heavenward, were to be seen.
Meanwhile, the sled lumbered on, although the reckless pace of the
horses was reduced.
The peril to the little girl on the pile of logs increased, however, as
the pace of the horses decreased. She was quite helpless, save that she
managed to retain her grasp on the log-chain. But there was nobody to
protect her now from the furious beast that was making its best
endeavour to crawl to the top of the logs.
If the lynx shook the mongrel loose it would attain its desire. Assured
of a footing on the logs, there was no knowing what it might do in its
rage. Carolyn May was in the gravest peril.
The child was too excited to cry out again. She clung with her mittened
hands to the chain and gazed back at the snarling, spitting lynx with
wide-open, terrified eyes.
Both beasts were scratching and tearing at the logs to obtain a
foothold; the lynx was energetically trying to drag itself and the dog
farther up on the logs, while Prince was striving to pull down his prey.
The dog seemed to know his little mistress was in danger. He was not
going to let go. It was the lynx that finally gave in.
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?"
"I--I guess not, Mr. Timothy," answered the little girl.
"I never seen the beat of this in all my born days," declared the man.
"And that dog----"
"Prince is just the very _best_ dog!" Carolyn May affirmed. "Oh, Mr.
Timothy, take me down, quick! Poor Princey is all bloody; he must be
hurt!"
"He is hurt some. That lynx raked him once, I 'low," returned Tim. "But
he'll be all right when ye git him home and put something on the
scratches. My goodness! what an exciting time! I never did see the beat
of it!"
This statement Tim continued to repeat all the way to The Corners. He
set Carolyn May back on the load again and hoisted Prince up with her,
but he walked himself beside the team.
"Ain't goin' to take no more risks. Pitcher of George Washington! I
guess not. Dunno what your Uncle Joe and Aunty Rose'll say to me."
The story lost nothing in the telling when Tim, the hackman, and Carolyn
May both related it at the Stagg homestead. And poor Prince's wounds
spoke louder than words.
"Ain't been a wildcat in this county afore in five year," declared Tim.
"And I'm sartain sure there never was one here more savage."
When Uncle Joe saw Tim in the village and heard about the adventure he
hastened home to make sure that his little niece had received no injury.
Prince was enthroned on an old quilt beside the range.
Aunty Rose had herself washed his wounds--though she admitted being
afraid of his savage-looking teeth--and had put some healing balsam on
them. The dog, evidently enjoying his role of invalid, looked up at Mr.
Stagg and slapped his tail on the floor.
"If it hadn't been for that dumb creature, Joseph Stagg," said Aunty
Rose, still quite shaken over the incident, "we wouldn't maybe have our
little girl unhurt. If Timothy tells the truth----"
"I guess he tells the truth, all right," snorted Mr. Stagg. "He don't
know enough to tell anything but truth. Howsomever, if he'd stopped his
team, he could have licked that old lynx to a fare-ye-well. I wouldn't
trust Hannah's Car'lyn with him again--not even to go to church."
"Why, Uncle Joe," said Carolyn May, "you can't really blame Mr. Timothy
for being scared at that awful wildcat. I was scared myself."