Side by side, they rose up from the ground as one.
They sailed straight into those jaws of death, their small, red bodies taking the ripping, slashing claws meant for me.
I screamed and charged back into the fight, swinging my ax, but I was careful not to hit one of my dogs.
The battle raged on and on, down the side of the mountain, over huckleberry bushes, fallen logs, and rocks.
It was a rolling, tumbling mass of fighting fury. I was in the middle of it all, falling, screaming, crying and hacking away at every opportunity.
I had cut the big cat several times. Blood showed red on the bit of the ax, but as yet I had not gotten in the fatal lick.
I knew it had to be soon for my dogs were no match against the razor-sharp claws and the long, yellow fangs.
The screams of the big cat and the deep bellowing voices of my dogs echoed through the mountains as if the demons of hell had been turned loose.
Down the side of the mountain, the terrible fight went on, down to the very bottom of the canyon.
The big cat had Old Dan by the throat. I knew he was seeking to cut the all-important vein, the jugular.
At the pitiful bawl of Old Dan, Little Ann, throwing caution to the wind, ran in and sank her teeth in the lion’s tough neck.
With her claws digging into the mountain soil, she braced herself, and started pulling.
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