America 1883: The Western Homeland

Chapter 137 First Aid for Lion Cubs

Chapter 137 First Aid for Lion Cubs

Without saying a word, Jonah turned and ran.

Tom rushed to his mother Margaret like a whirlwind, his voice hoarse and growling, "Honey! Quickly, make a bowl of strong honey water! And hurry!"

Margaret glanced at her son's hands clutching his chest and his burning, anxious eyes, and instantly understood.

Hidden beneath that bulging fur coat was a critically endangered little life!

Without saying a word, she turned around abruptly and rushed into the house. Almost in the blink of an eye, she came out with a bowl of warm, thick, golden honey water.

Meanwhile, Tom was already kneeling beside the leaping campfire in the kitchen.

He moved with astonishing speed, grabbing several sizzling stones that had just been pulled from the fire and quickly wrapping them tightly with tough cowhide.

Then, with utmost care, it was stuffed into the inner layer of thick cloth and pressed tightly against the outside of that cold, stiff little body.

The touch from his fingertips made his heart sink; it was so cold!

It was like a frozen piece of wood, devoid of any sign of life.

"Don't stop!" Tom gritted his teeth, and without hesitation, he inserted his index finger into the cub's slightly open mouth, precisely pressing on the faint blood vessel under its tongue.

Ten seconds! Once! Ten seconds! And again!

He was like a tightly wound spring, desperately stimulating his almost vanished heartbeat using this most primitive method.

Jonah ran back, panting.

Tom grabbed the bowl of honey water his mother handed him, picked up a sharpened chicken feather tube, dipped it in the sticky honey syrup, and carefully brought it to the cub's tightly closed, cold mouth.

One drop, then another—

The golden nectar struggled to seep into the gap between their lips.

"Make goat milk! Quick!" Tom yelled at Jonah without even looking up.

Perhaps it's the stubbornness of life itself, or perhaps it's an instinctive yearning for this world.

Just as the thick cloth wrapped around the hot stone gradually began to transmit heat, and the cold, stiff little body seemed to loosen slightly, the cub's mouth opened a tiny crack!

A faint, delicate whimper, like that of a newborn chick, escaped from her throat.

So faint it was almost drowned out by the crackling of the campfire.

If Tom hadn't practically pressed his ear against it, he wouldn't have been able to hear it at all!

Tom exhaled a long breath only when he felt the little body in his palm was no longer bone-chillingly cold and began to feel a faint warmth. He then carefully laid it flat on the thicker, softer hay mat.

Jonah brought over some warm goat milk.

Tom picked up the quill again, dipped it in the warm milk, and held it above the cub's slightly open mouth.

A plump drop of milk falls precisely into the mouth.

He held his breath and watched as the drop of milk was instinctively rolled off before dipping his brush in again.

One drop — Stop — One more drop —

The movements were gentle and steady, each one precisely delivered to that faint will to survive.

The cub's faint swallowing instinct became its only hope for survival.

Sweat rolled down Tom's nose, landing on the cub's sparse downy fur and spreading into dark spots, but he was oblivious, all his will focused on the simple feather tube and the suspended milk droplet.

Time flowed slowly in the crackling of the campfire and the tiny gaps between the dripping of milk.

After an unknown amount of time, just as Tom dipped his hand into the goat's milk again, preparing to drip it, his little mouth, which had been passively receiving the milk, suddenly sucked very slightly, almost as if it were a hallucination!

The movement was so subtle, like ripples on water ruffled by the wind, that it made Tom and Jonah hold their breath at the same time!

Tom's pupils contracted sharply, and his heart felt as if it had been struck by a heavy hammer.

He could hardly believe it, and carefully dripped another drop.

This time, the tiny movement was a little more obvious. The tip of the tongue instinctively curled towards the dripping milk droplet, and a barely audible, faint gurgling sound came from the throat, filled with satisfaction!

"It—it's sucking!" Tom's eyes lit up instantly as he stared intently at the tiny change.

He dipped his fingers in the goat's milk again, his movements becoming gentler and more focused.

That faint sucking force, though weak, stubbornly proclaimed the will to resist.

"Come, give it to me!" Tom's mother Margaret's steady voice rang out beside him.

Tom looked up at his mother's face, which was marked by the passage of time but exuded an undeniable determination. He hesitated for a moment, but ultimately silently gave way.

Margaret's rough yet exceptionally skillful hands gently stroked the cub's sparse downy fur, feeling the faint undulations.

She took the feather duster from Tom's hand and, without pausing, precisely and patiently repeated the breastfeeding motion.

Dip, hold, drip, wait —

That focus and composure seemed to be etched into her very bones.

Until her calloused fingers gently pressed the cub's slightly swollen belly.

"It's ready!" Margaret's voice carried a certain confidence born of experience.

Tom's heart immediately jumped: "Is it full?"

He stared at the cub, and no matter how he looked at it, the belly didn't seem much different from before.

Margaret shook her head, her gaze never leaving the cub: "Its belly is already bulging."

Her tone was simple, yet it carried an undeniable weight.

Her experience in feeding vulnerable lives is beyond question.

She looked up at her son, a barely perceptible hint of pity in her cloudy eyes: "Tom, you need to be prepared. It's too small, too weak; its chances of survival are slim."

Even if it is saved now, without the licking of the lioness, the warm embrace, and the crucial colostrum antibodies, how long can this newborn life struggle in this harsh world?

Margaret seemed to see through her son's distress. She said nothing more, but gently rubbed the cub's slightly swollen belly with her warm palms, very slowly and with a peculiar rhythm.

"Rub it a little, it can help you excrete it faster. Holding it in is more harmful to your body."

Her words were brief and to the point, but Tom understood instantly.

Without the stimulation of the lioness's licking, the cub simply cannot excrete on its own!

The mother is imitating the lioness's instincts in a human way.

"You—have you ever cared for lion cubs before?" Tom couldn't help but ask the question that had been bothering him.

"No!" Margaret's answer was crisp and straightforward, even carrying a hint of the frankness typical of Western women. "But I raised your sister, and you."

Tom was speechless for a moment: "—We are humans, but this is a lion!"

Margaret continued working, glancing at him matter-of-factly: "When it comes to breastfeeding and massaging the belly, I don't see much difference!"

Well, it seems the mother has mistaken this "King of the Wilderness" for another "baby" that needs her care.

Tom gave a helpless twitch of his lips; he couldn't refute this reason.

Then it suddenly dawned on him: "Where's Little John?"

"He's having a blast playing with those mischievous monkeys. Your aunts are watching, they've got plenty to do." Margaret didn't even look up. "If you hadn't brought this little guy back, I would have gone over to lend a hand already."

Tom smiled wryly; given the current situation, it was impossible for him to get away and help.

"Feed it again in a while." Margaret finally stopped massaging it, stood up, and stretched her stiff back. "Remember, feed it frequently, in small amounts, and massage its belly a lot. If it can pee—"

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