“She threw a stick at a mountain cat that was goin’ after the boy and it run off?” the old man who was visiting asked. “Mid-lunge?” The two men sat on stools in front of the cabin fire, a whisky jug between them.
“That’s what she says.”
They both turned to look at Gina, who sat on the bed in the corner, singing a lullaby to the child, crooning him to sleep.
“Hard to believe,” the old man said, stroking his stringy white beard.
“Old cat,” Charles said.
“Maybe.” The old man took a sip from the jug. “Coulda been a young one, though. A woman’s protective instincts can be almighty strong.”
There was a disbelieving grunt at the fire and then silence.
“Stranger things’ve happened,” the old man observed. “And she does take kindly to that child.”
“She does that,” her husband said grudgingly.
from Old One Eye Pete