Old Dan, spewing blood from a dozen wounds, leaped high in the air.
His long, red body sailed in between the outspread paws of the lion.
I heard the snap of his powerful jaws as they closed on the throat.
The big cat screamed again. Blood gurgled and sprayed.
In a bright red mist, it rained out over the underbrush and rattled like sleet on the white oak leaves.
In a boxer’s stance, he stood and clawed the air. His slitted eyes turned green with hate.
He seemed to be unaware of the two hounds hanging from his body, and kept staring at me.
I stood in a trance and stared back at the ghastly scene.
The breath of life was slowly leaving him. He was dying on his feet but refusing to go down.
My ax handle stuck straight out from his back. Blood, gushing from the mortal wound, glistened in the moonlight.
A shudder ran through his body. He tried once again to scream.
Blood gurgled in his throat. It was the end of the trail for the scourge of the mountains.
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