The she-wolf lunged for him, her jaw open and fangs exposed, aiming for the veins on the little boy’s neck. He screamed as he was toppled over by the force of fur and muscle and fangs that had been flung at him with such fury.  He fell backwards, landing hard, the beast prone on top of him.  

His eyes were clenched tightly shut.  

He waited for the final blow and the flow of that warm liquid he felt spreading on his chest to turn into a torrent.

He asked the Great Spirit to commend him to that place where small boys slain by their fellow creatures of the forest go when their time has come and they would no longer feel the earth beneath their feet.

After a few minutes of laying there, the she-wolf lying motionless on top of him, he heard what sounded like the cries of small pups coming from the thicket.  He opened his eyes to behold the face and jaws of the she-wolf not more than five inches from his own.  She had a look on her face that to him was one of shock and surprise.  He pushed the dead carcass off of him, running his hand over the bright crimson moistness that covered his torso.  He looked down at his bloody hand that had held his meager means of defense – one that had proved sturdy enough to save him from the ferocious onslaught of his assailant.  

With a long pull that took most of the strength he had left he retrieved his makeshift blade lodged under the breastbone and through the heart of the beast, no doubt impaling her through the force of her own weight when she pounced upon him.  

Then there was that sound again, coming from the thicket . . .