Lad was down again; and the sow,--no longer in a squealing rush,
but with a new cold deadliness,--was gauging the distance to his
exposed throat. The first shot peppered her shoulder; the tiny
pellets scarce scratching the tough hide.
The Mistress had, halted, to fire. Now, she ran forward: With the
muzzle not three feet from the sow's head, she pulled trigger
again.
The pig's huge jaws road opened with deliberate width. One
forefoot was pinning the helplessly battling dog to earth, while
she made ready to tear out his throat.
The second shot whizzed about her head and face. Two or three of
the pellets entered the open mouth.
With a sound that was neither grunt nor howl, yet which savored
of both, the sow lurched back from the flash and roar and the
anguishing pain in her tender mouth. The Mistress whirled aloft
the empty and useless gun and brought it crashing down on the
pig's skull. The carved mahogany stock broke in two. The jar of
impact knocked the weapon from its wielder's numbed fingers.
The sow seemed scarce to notice the blow.
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