Tom's watchful eye had seen him. He pulled three dogs from
the first battle group and hurled them on the new fighter. He had
scarcely started this struggle when the third sprang to the top of the
earthen breastwork, surveyed the field and with sullen deliberation,
trotted to the water's edge, jumped in and, placing two paws on a
swaying limb, dared any dog to come.
Here was work for the veteran! Boney was the only dog in the pack who
would dare accept that challenge. Tom choked him off the first coon,
pulled him to the bank and showed him his enemy in the water. He looked
just a moment at the snarling, daring mouth and made the plunge.
The boy had followed the dog and watched with bated breath. He circled
the coon twice, swimming in swift graceful curves. But his enemy was too
shrewd. A flank movement was impossible. The coon's fierce mouth was
squarely facing him at every turn and the dog plunged straight on his
foe.
To his horror the Boy saw the fangs sink into his friend's head, four
sets of sharp claws circle his neck, a tense grey ball of fur hanging
its dead weight below. The water ran red for a moment as both slowly
sank to the bottom.
Eyes wide with anguish he heard his father cry:
"By the Lord, he'll kill that dog shore--he's a goner!"
"No, he won't neither!" the Boy shouted, leaping into the water where he
saw them go down.
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