Twenty minutes later, they relaxed, having seen no sign of the army or anyone else. Vetta suddenly stopped and listened intently.
“What is it, Vett? Your Torph hearing picking up something?”
The baby stirred, making soft sounds. Vetta tried to quiet her. “I’m not sure, Tee. I have this strange sensation that we’re being followed, but I don’t hear anything. It started maybe fifteen minutes ago.”
Seltie studied the road behind. “I don’t see anything, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Let’s keep going as quietly as we can and keep our ears open.”
The two resumed their hike. Seltie was in the lead, about thirty feet ahead of Vetta, who had fallen behind while trying to quiet the baby. Without warning, a large tawny cougar charged out from the brush with incredible speed. It snapped at the baby, but missed, instead clamping its powerful jaws on Vetta’s shoulder.
The cougar knocked Vetta to the ground, where she twisted and turned, struggling to keep her body between the cougar and the baby. The huge cat snarled viciously, trying to pull the baby away from her mother. Bits of blood, blouse, and baby blanket flew through the air and littered the roadway.
Seltie stabbed at the cougar with her walking stick. “You leave them alone, you flea-bitten monster!” She pounded the cougar’s head with the butt end of her stick until the cougar let go of Vetta.
Tail swishing, ears tightly pressed against its head, the cougar whirled around and slowly began advancing on Seltie, who backed away.
“Run, Vett! Hide in the brush as best you can!” Seltie continued backing away, drawing the beast farther and farther from Vetta. Whenever the big cat got too close, she’d swing at it with the stick. “That’s right, you mangy old cat—keep coming at me. Forget that little baby. She wouldn’t be more than a mouthful for a big critter like you. My meat is tougher, but there’s a lot more of it, and it’s saltier.”
When Seltie had drawn the cougar several hundred feet away from Vetta and the baby, she stopped and raised her stick high above her head. Defiantly staring down at the snarling, growling beast, she called out loudly, “Vetta! Tell Cal I love him!”
In a low, grim voice she spoke to the cougar, “I know you’re going to kill me, but that’s okay. Once you’re full of me, you won’t want that little baby or her mother. And, now, if you don’t mind, how about I bash your head with my stick as many times as I can before you bite me dead? Hold still now, steady…”
A feral grin spread across Seltie’s face. “Okay, here comes bash number one.” She took a deep breath and brought her stick sharply down on the cougar’s muzzle with such force that the end of the stick splintered and broke.
The cougar staggered, but recovered in a flash. It sneezed twice and pawed at its face, then swiped at Seltie with its razor-sharp claws.
Seltie dodged the blow, which surely would have killed her instantly, then thrust the jagged broken end of her stick deep into the cougar’s open mouth and down its throat. She lost her balance and fell to the ground.
The injured animal screamed horribly and writhed wildly, struggling to free itself from the searing pain in its throat. It shook the shaft out of its bleeding mouth, then wiped its face with its paws.
Seltie scrambled to recover the stick. She got hold of it and was making ready for a second attack when the cougar flew at her and knocked her to the dirt, then stood on her chest and, with a single bite, snapped her neck.
Vetta, concealed in a thicket, shuddered as she witnessed the death of her friend, then began to cry silently. She didn’t dare arouse the child—if it started to cry, that would be the end of them. Vetta closed her eyes and forced herself to take long, slow, deep breaths until she regained her control. She didn’t want to watch the cougar drag Seltie away.
Zip-zip-zip! Thwack-thwack-thwack!
Vetta opened her eyes to see the cougar lying dead next to Seltie’s body, three arrows protruding from its neck. Her first impulse was to race to Seltie’s side in case she might somehow still be alive, but she froze when she heard voices—harsh voices, Fessal voices.
A few moments later, her suspicions were confirmed—two full squads of Fessal soldiers approached, accompanied by a large, rickety old wooden wagon, pulled by a team of two small, unhappy oxen. They all gathered around the corpses of Seltie and the cougar and stood, staring.