No sound came from Neewa.
Flung on his back, he was digging his claws into feathers so thick and soft that they seemed to have no heart or flesh.

He felt upon him the presence of the Thing that was death.

The beat of the wings was like the beat of clubs: they drove the breath out of his body, they blinded his senses, yet he continued to tear fiercely with his claws into a fleshless breast.
In his first savage swoop Oohoomisew, whose great wings measured five feet from tip to tip, had missed his death-grip by the fraction of an inch.

His powerful talons that would have buried themselves like knives in Neewa's vitals closed too soon, and were filled with the cub's thick hair and loose hide.

Now he was beating his prey down with his wings until the right moment came for him to finish the killing with the terrific stabbing of his beak.