Yan got such a shock that he nearly lost his hold, but quickly recovering, he braced himself in a crotch, and got out the revolver just as the Lynx with a fierce snarl leaped to a side branch that brought it nearly on a level with him.  He nervously cocked the pistol, and scarcely attempting to sight in the darkness, he fired and missed.  The Lynx recoiled a little and crouched at the report.  The boys below raised a shout and Turk outdid them all in racket.

“A Lynx!” shouted Yan, and his voice betrayed his struggle with fear.

“Look out!” Caleb called.  “You better not let him get too close.”

The Lynx was growling ferociously.  Yan put forth all his will-power to control his trembling hand, took more deliberate aim, and fired.  The fierce beast was struck, but leaped wildly at the boy.  He threw up his arm and it buried its teeth in his flesh, while Yan clung desperately to the tree with the other arm.  In a moment he knew he would be dragged off and thrown to the ground, yet felt less fear now than he had before.  He clutched for the revolver with the left hand, but it found only the fur of the Lynx, and the revolver dropped from his grasp.  Now he was indeed without hope, and dark fear fell on him.  But the beast was severely wounded.  Its hind quarters were growing heavy.  It loosed its hold of Yan and struggled to get on the limb.  A kick from his right foot upset its balance; it slipped from the tree and flopped to the ground below, wounded, but full of fight.  Turk rushed at it, but got a blow from its armed paw that sent him off howling.

[Illustration:  “He nervously fired and missed.”]

A surge of reaction came over Yan.  He might have fainted, but again he remembered the Trapper’s words, “Bravery is keeping on even when you are skairt.”  He pulled himself together and very cautiously worked his way back to the leaning tree.  Hearing strange sounds, yells, growls, sounds of conflict down below, expecting every moment to hear the Lynx scramble up the trunk again, to finish him, dimly hearing but not comprehending the shouts, he rested once at the leaning tree and breathed freely.

“Hurry up, Yan, with that revolver,” shouted Blackhawk.

“I dropped it long ago.”

“Where is it?”

Yan slid down the sapling without making reply.  The Lynx had gone, but not far.  It would have got away, but Turk kept running around and bothering it so it could not even climb a tree, and the noise they made in the thicket was easy to follow.

“Where’s the revolver?” shouted Caleb, with unusual excitement.

“I dropped it in the fight.”

“I know.  I heard it fall in the bushes,” and Sam soon found it.

Caleb seized it, but Yan said feebly, “Let me!  Let me!  It’s my fight!”

Caleb surrendered the pistol, said “Look out for the Dog!” and Yan crawled through the bushes till that dark moving form was seen again.  Another shot and another.  The sound of combat died away, and the Indians raised a yell of triumph—­all but Little Beaver.  A giddiness came over him; he trembled and reeled, and sank down on a root.  Caleb and Sam came up quickly.