No more would he scream his challenge from the rimrocks to the valley below.
The small, harmless calves and the young colts would be safe from his silent stalk.
He fell toward me. It seemed that with his last effort he was still trying to get at me.
As his heavy body struck the ground, something exploded in my head.
I knew no more. When I came to, I was sitting down.
It was silent and still. A bird, disturbed by the fight, started chirping far up on the side of the mountain.
A small winter breeze rustled some dead leaves in the deep canyon.
A cold, crawling chill crept over my body. I looked over at the lion.
My dogs were still glued to his lifeless body. In his dying convulsions the ax had become dislodged from the wound.
It lay there in the moonlight, covered with blood.
My numb brain started working. I thought of another time the ax had been covered with blood.
I don’t know why I thought of Rubin Pritchard at that time, or why I thought of these words I had often heard: “There is a little good in all evil.”
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