But he was now living a life in which his
previous experience must often fail him as a guide. A faint
rustling on the leafy ground had sent him ahead at a run, and his
sharp, angry bark showed that some hostile creature of the woods
had been discovered. Again and again the angry yelping was
changed into a sort of yowl, half anger, half distress. The
hunters hurried forward to find the little fool charging again
and again a huge porcupine that was crouched with its head under
a log, its hindquarters exposed but bristling with spines; and
its tail lashing about, left a new array of quills in the dog's
mouth and face each time he charged. Skookum was a plucky
fighter, but plainly he was nearly sick of it. The pain of the
quills would, of course, increase every minute and with each
movement. Quonab took a stout stick and threw the porcupine out
of its retreat, (Rolf supposed to kill it when the head was
exposed,) but the spiny one, finding a new and stronger enemy,
wasted no time in galloping at its slow lumbering pace to the
nearest small spruce tree and up that it scrambled to a safe
place in the high branches.
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