"He didn't hurt me! He didn't mean to," went on the Kid.

"Of course he didn't," said Ann with conviction. "Father, ye're too hard on the dawg. Ye hadn't oughter have kicked him."

An obstinate look settled on Joe Barnes's face. "Yes, I had, too. 'N'

he'll be gittin' more'n that, ef he don't l'arn not to be ugly to the Kid," he retorted harshly. Then, with an uneasy sense that, whether right or wrong, he was in the minority, he returned to the doorstep and moodily resumed his smoking. Ann called Sonny many times to come out and get his dinner. But Sonny, broken-hearted, and the ruins of all his life and love and trust tumbled about his ears, would not hear her. He was huddled in the back of his kennel, with his nose jammed down into the corner.

Two days later it happened that both Joe and Ann went down together into the field in front of the house to weed the carrot patch. They left the Kid asleep in his trundle bed, in the little room off the kitchen. When they were gone, Sonny came out of his kennel and lay down in the middle of the yard, where he could keep a watchful eye on everything belonging to Joe Barnes.

It was the Kid's invariable custom to sleep soundly for a good two hours of the early afternoon. On this afternoon, however, he broke his custom. Joe and Ann had not been ten minutes away, when he appeared in the kitchen door, his yellow hair tousled, his cheeks rosy, his plump fists trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes. His face was aggrieved, because he had woke up and found himself alone. But at the sight of Sonny the grievance was forgotten. He ran to the dog and began to maul him joyously.

His recent bitter experience raw in his heart, Sonny did not dare to respond, but lay with his nose on his paws, unstirring, while the child sprawled over him. After a few minutes this utter unresponsiveness chilled even the Kid's enthusiasm. He jumped up and cast his eyes about in search of some diversion more exciting. His glance wandered out past the barn and up the pasture toward the edge of the forest. A squirrel, sitting on a black stump in the pasture, suddenly began jumping about and shrilly chattering. This was something quite new and very interesting. The Kid crawled through the bars and started up the pasture as fast as his st.u.r.dy little legs could carry him.

The squirrel saw him coming, but knowing very well that he was not dangerous, held his ground, bouncing up and down on the stump in vociferous excitement. When the Kid was within three feet of him, he gave a wild "K-r-r-r-r!" of derision, and sprang to another stump.

With eyes dancing and eager little hands outstretched, the Kid followed--again and again, and yet again--till he was led to the very edge of the wood. Then the mocking imp in red fur whisked up an ancient hemlock, and hid himself, in silence, in a high crotch, tired of the game.

At the edge of the woods the Kid stopped, peering in among the shadows with mingled curiosity and awe. The bright patches of sunlight on the brown forest floor and on the scattered underbrush allured him.

Presently, standing out in conspicuous isolation, a great crimson toadstool caught his eye. He wanted the beautiful thing intensely, to play with. But he was afraid. Leaning his face against the old fence, he gazed through desirously. But the silence made him more and more afraid. If only the squirrel would come back and play with him, he would not be afraid. He was on the point of giving up the beautiful crimson toadstool and turning back home, when he saw a little gray bird hopping amid the lower limbs of a spruce in among the shadows.

"Tsic-a-dee-dee!" whistled the little gray bird, blithely and rea.s.suringly. At once the shadows and the stillness lost their terrors. The Kid squeezed boldly through the fence and started in for the glowing toadstool.

Just as he reached the coloured thing and stooped to seize it, a sharp "Tzip, tzip!" and a rustling of stiff feathers startled him. Looking up, he saw a bright-eyed brown bird running hither and thither before him, trailing one wing on the ground as if unable to fly. It was such a pretty bird! And it seemed so tame! The Kid felt sure he could catch it. Grabbing up the crimson toadstool, and holding it clutched to his bosom with one hand, he ran eagerly after the brown bird. The bird, a wily old hen partridge, bent on leading the intruder away from her hidden brood, kept fluttering laboriously on just beyond his reach, till she came to a dense patch of underbrush. She was just about to dive into this thicket, when she leaped into the air, instead, with a frightened squawk, and whirred up into the branches of a lofty birch near by.

Bitterly disappointed, the Kid gazed up after her, still clutching the bright toadstool to his breast. Then, by instinct rather than by reason, he dropped his eyes to the thicket, and stared in to see what had frightened away the pretty brown bird.

At first he could see nothing. But to his sensitive little nerves came a feeling that something was there. Gradually his eyes, accustoming themselves to the gloom, began to disentangle substance and shadow.

Then suddenly he detected the form of a gray crouching animal. He saw its tufted ears, its big round face, with mouth half open grinningly.

Its great, round, pale, yellow green eyes were staring straight at him.

In his fright the Kid dropped his toadstool and stared back at the gray animal. His first impulse was to turn and run; but, somehow, he was afraid to do that--afraid to turn his back on the pale-eyed, crouching shape. As he gazed, trembling, he saw that the animal looked like a huge gray cat.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "IN HIS FRIGHT THE KID DROPPED HIS TOADSTOOL AND STARED BACK AT THE GRAY ANIMAL."]

At this thought he felt a trifle rea.s.sured. Cats were kind, and nice to play with. A big cat wouldn't hurt him, he felt quite sure of that.

But when, after a minute or two of moveless glaring, the big cat, never taking its round eyes from his face, began to creep straight toward him, stealthily, without a sound, then his terror all came back. In the extremity of his fear he burst out crying, not very loud, but softly and pitifully, as if he hardly knew what he was doing. His little hands hanging straight down at his sides, his head bent slightly forward, he stood helplessly staring at this strange, terrible cat creeping toward him through the thicket.

Sonny, meanwhile, had grown uneasy the moment the Kid climbed through the bars into the pasture. The Kid had never gone into the pasture before. Sonny got up, turned round, and lay down in such a position that he could see just what the child was doing. He knew the little one belonged to Joe Barnes; and he could not let anything belonging to Joe Barnes get lost or run away. When the Kid reached the edge of the woods and stood looking through the fence, then Sonny roused himself, and started up the pasture in a leisurely, indifferent way, as if it was purely his own whim that took him in that direction. He pretended not to see the Kid at all. But in reality he was watching, with an anxious intentness, every move the little one made. He was determined to do his duty by Joe Barnes.

But when at last the Kid wriggled through the fence and darted into the gloom of the forest, Sonny's solicitude became more personal. He knew that the forest was a place of many strange perils. It was no place for the Kid. A sudden fear seized him at thought of what might happen to the Kid, there in the great and silent shadows. He broke into a frantic run, scrambled through the fence, picked up the little adventurer's trail, and darted onward till he caught sight of the Kid's bright curly head, apparently intent on gazing into a thicket.

At the sight he stopped abruptly, then sauntered forward with a careless air, as if it was the most ordinary chance in the world that he should come across the Kid, away off here alone.

Instinctively, under the subtle influence of the forest silence, Sonny went forward softly, on his toes, though anything like stealth was altogether foreign to him. As he crept up, he wondered what it was in the thicket to keep him so still. There was something mysterious about it. The hair began to rise along Sonny's back. Then, a moment later, he heard the Kid crying. There was no mistaking the note of terror in that hopeless, helpless little sound. Sonny did not need to reason about it; his heart understood all that was necessary. Something was frightening the Kid. His white teeth bared themselves, and he darted forward.

At this instant there came a crackling and swishing in the thicket; and the Kid, as if released from a spell, turned with a scream and started to flee. He tripped on a root, however, and fell headlong on his face, his yellow curls mixing with the brown twigs and fir needles. Almost in the selfsame second a big gray lynx burst from the green of the underbrush and sprang upon the little, sprawling, helpless form.

But not actually upon it. Those outstretching, murderous claws never actually sank into the Kid's flesh. For Sonny was there just as soon as the lynx was. The wild beast changed its mind, and attack, just in time to avoid being taken at a serious disadvantage. The rush of Sonny's heavy body bore it backward clear of the Kid. The latter scrambled to his feet, stifled his sobs, and stared open-mouthed at the sudden fury of battle which confronted him.

Had Sonny not been endowed with intelligence as well as valour, he would have fallen victim almost at once to his adversary's terrific, raking hind claws. But fortunately, during his pugnacious puppyhood he had had several encounters with war-wise, veteran cats. To him, the lynx was obviously a huge and particularly savage cat. He knew the deadly power of its hind claws, with all the strength of those great hind quarters behind them. As he grappled with the screeching lynx, silently, after the fashion of his bull ancestors, he received a ripping slash from one of its armed fore paws, but succeeded in fixing his grip on the base of the beast's neck, not far from the throat.

Instantly he drew himself backward with all his weight, crouching flat, and dragging the enemy down with him.

In this position, Sonny, backing and pulling with all his strength, the spitting and screeching cat was unable to bring its terrible hinder claws into play. The claws of the beast's great fore paws, however, were doing cruel work on Sonny's back and sides; while its long fangs, pointed like daggers, tore savagely at the one point on his shoulder which they could reach. This terrible punishment Sonny took stoically, caring only to protect the tender under part of his body and his eyes. His close grip on the base of the animal's neck shielded his eyes, and, according to the custom of his tenacious breed, he never relaxed his hold for a moment, but kept chewing in, chewing in, inexorably working his way to a final, fatal grip upon the throat. And not for a moment, either, did he desist from his steady backward pull, which kept the foe from doubling upon him with its hind quarters.

For several minutes the furious struggle went on, Sonny, apparently, getting all the worst of it. His back and shoulders were pouring blood; while his enemy showed not a hurt. Then suddenly the gray beast's screeching took on a half strangling sound. With its mouth wide open it ceased to bite, though its fore paws raked and clawed more desperately than ever. Sonny's relentless hold was beginning to throttle. His mouth was now too full of long fur and loose skin for him to bite clean through the throat and finish the fight. But he felt himself already the victor.

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 G.o.d! 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 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."

Joe Barnes looked at the dog, the torn sides, streaming red wounds, and b.l.o.o.d.y muzzle. Woodsman that he was, he understood. "Sonny!" he cried in a piercing voice. The dog raised his head, wagged his stump of a tail feebly, and made a futile effort to rise.

Gulping down something in his throat, Joe Barnes handed the child over to Ann, and strode to Sonny's side. Bending over him, he tenderly gathered the big dog into his arms, holding him like a baby. Sonny reached up and licked his chin. Joe turned and hastened back to the old gray house with his burden.

"Come along, mother," he said, his voice a little unsteady. "You'll have to look out for the Kid all by yerself for a bit now. I reckon I'm goin' to hev' about all I kin do, a-nursin' Sonny."

THE END