She hears a quiet sad whine, then more of that ragged, pained breathing.

Oh no, the poor thing... 

She backs away a bit, pours fresh water on her arm (shallow cuts, thankfully) and then holds her other arm over the wounds until they stop bleeding. She makes quiet soothing noises with her mouth as she does (and winces when one of them comes out as more of a screech than she intended. Normally it's fine, but...)

Then, carefully, she uses a stick to push some of the fern aside and peer inward.

The wounded cat there is both too small to be fully grown and also bigger than any cat she's ever seen with her eyes before. 

It's also bleeding from a wound on its side, and another on one of its back legs. 

She's done first aid on farm animals, before. They didn't like her much more than the people did, but she was good at wrestling with them, which was one of the only ways to bandage a wounded sheep.

The cat is hurt, pretty badly, but it doesn't seem like it's lost too much blood. Looks... probably survivable? With her help, at anyways.

She (slowly, carefully) opens her waterskin, and then pours some water from as high as she can hold it down into the feline's mouth. It flinches at first, but then starts to drink.

She makes soothing noises at the poor thing, then backs away slowly, and then empties the contents of her bag on the ground and hurries as fast as she can back to her tree. She needs it to trust her, and she also needs some cloth to cover the wound. 

(Climbing the tree with the claw wounds on her arm hurts horribly, but she barely notices. It's not what's important right now.) 

She returns to the creature's hidingbush about 20 minutes later, armed with a bit of spare clothing and the rest of her dried meats. She carefully offers a piece to the poor thing.

(It's doing a bit worse, but still breathing.)

sniffsniffsniiiifffffffffffffffffffff CHOMP chewchewchewchewchewchew...

Okay, good, it can still eat. She sighs in relief. Now for the hard part.

She spends the next hour alternating between feeding and occasionally watering the poor thing, making soft noises, looking around to see if anything is coming. Each time she feeds it, she brings herself a little closer to its striking distance (slowly, carefully). 

It tenses up a few times, growling, but when she stops at the growls, it lets her continue.

After a while, she's getting her hand close enough to touch, and between snacks, it licks her.

That's as good a sign as any.  The wound on its leg isn't bleeding anymore, but the one on its side still is. And they both need to be washed. 

"Sorry. This is going to suck for both of us," she whispers to it softly.

She takes the waterskin out from the inside of her warm jacket (she'd placed it against her stomach to warm it up-  cold water hurts more and doesn't clean any better), and pours it over the wounds. She's not aiming for gentle (this will hurt no matter what), or for doing a perfect job washing it out (she definitely can't do that), but even a bad job washing a wound can be the difference between life and death.