The Indian jerked it tight, and they were bound
together. But now his only weapon was down at the bottom and the
water all muddied. He could not see, but plunged to grope for
the tomahawk. The snapper gave a great lurch to escape, releasing
the injured hand, but jerking the man off his legs. Then,
finding itself held by a forepaw, it turned with gaping, hissing
jaws, and sprang on the foe that struggled in bottom of the
water.
The snapper has the bulldog habit to seize and hold till the
piece tears out. In the muddy water it had to seize in the dark,
and fending first the left arm of its foe, fastened on with
fierce beak and desperate strength. At this moment Quonab
recovered his tomahawk; rising into the air he dragged up the
hanging snapper, and swung the weapon with all the force of his
free arm. The blow sank through the monster's shell, deep into
its back, without any visible effect, except to rob the Indian of
his weapon as he could not draw it out.
Then Rolf rushed into the water to help. But Quonab gasped, "No,
no, go back -- I'm alone."
The creature's jaws were locked on his arm, but its front claws,
tearing downward and outward, were demolishing the coat that had
protected it, and long lines of mingled blood were floating on
the waves.
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