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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/77509-0.txt b/77509-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e0aedb9 --- /dev/null +++ b/77509-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,668 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77509 *** + + + + +BILL OF THE WILD STREAK + +By Howard E. Morgan + + + + +I. + + +Like shoulders of dirty gray rock, irregular, ghostly under the pale +moonlight, the sheep spread out over the hillside, dozing contentedly. +On the crest of the short slope that was the pasture, a big gray and +white dog sat watching the flock. From time to time he started off in a +businesslike manner and hurried some blundering ewe back into the +moonlit open. + +Ordinarily, this close attention was not necessary. Stupid though they +were, most of the sheep knew better than to approach the strip of +checkered shadow bordering the thicket, that was the dividing line +between safety and danger. Just now, however, there were several young +lambs among them, newly born, and the mothers seemed to have lost all +sense of discretion. So at least Bill thought as for the tenth time he +urged an obstinate ewe and her spindle-legged calf away from the forest +edge. Each time, this particular ewe had refused to take his fangless +proddings seriously and in good part; each time she had resented his +interference with her senseless plans, and finally, she charged him, +furiously, with lowered head—so quickly that, as he sprang aside, she +caught him a glancing blow that almost upset him. + +The big dog recovered quickly, circled swiftly about and rushed at her, +silently, teeth bared. Not until within half a dozen feet of his +intended victim did he realize what he was doing. It was then too late +to stop. He sprang clear over the ewe and crouched panting in the shadow +of a stump. + +Through a necklike opening in the forest came the ring of an ax on wood. +That was the man cutting kindlings for his morning fire. The big dog +cowered. Whined softly. Once more he had nearly proved unfaithful to the +master. For long he lay low, belly to the ground, then came erect slowly +and tail between his legs, again took up his sentinellike position on +the ridge top. + +Bill was a mongrel, a splendid mixture of at least four fine strains; +his mother was a sled dog from the Yukon, part chow, part Ungava husky +with a dash of wolf blood running strongly near the surface; his father +was a collie with an interbreeding of mastiff. Bill's hair was long and +thick, like a collie; he was big-boned, broad-chested, like a husky, his +mighty jaws, wide, massive, steel-muscled, were from his maternal +grandsire, the wolf. What wonder, with such varying warlike strains, +that violent passions fought ceaselessly for possession of his mighty +body. + +For long after his brush with the sheep, the dog crouched on the +hilltop, motionless and limp. The wild desire that had urged him to +kill, left him slowly and he was forlornly ashamed. However, it was a +familiar sensation, quite. Many times before he had escaped murder by a +hair’s breadth. Each time it had been on account of the master. + +His allegiance to Hardin knew no bounds. Once he gave way to the +bloodlust and the master would be lost to him forever. Well he knew. The +sheep belonged to the man. It was the man’s wish that they should suffer +no harm, that their foolish lives be protected at all costs. Bill had +risked his own life times without number in the pursuit of duty as +interpreted by his collie instincts. It was the master’s wish. But this +particular night, the wild urge in him refused to be readily put aside. +From time to time, deep, full-toned growls issued from his great throat. + +The tiny scream of a bugle sounded, echoing sharply back from the purple +hills. Instantly Bill was on his feet and whining eagerly. It was the +man. Hardin had been a soldier. Every night he blew upon the yellow +horn, a never-ending source of wonder and awe to all wilderness folk. To +Bill it recalled a pile of rags and old burlap bags behind the stove +where he slept through the cold winter nights. This concrete reminder of +the master’s nearness banished the last shreds of wildness. He barked +once, sharply, joyously, then circled the herd slowly, majestically, a +sedate, aloof being, competent and ready protector of the weak, a +trusted friend of the master. + +This streak of the killer in Bill, Hardin had often suspected. He knew +dogs. But because he did know them, he trusted Bill implicitly. It was a +question of his influence over the wild streak. And he had every +confidence in his ability to hold the big dog’s devotion. + +Of one thing only was he uncertain, which was—to just what extent Bill’s +interbreeding had merged. As—in some people—an admixture of several +races will produce an evenly balanced, intelligent whole; and in others, +various racial traits will stand out distinctly—good and bad, loyalty +and treachery, never merging—veritable Dr. Jekylls and Mr. Hydes; the +one at times obliterating the other, the two never forming an evenly +balanced, law-abiding whole—so it was with dogs. + +Hardin assumed that Bill’s interbreeding had struck the happy medium. +Many of the most loyal and intelligent of dogs are mongrels. True +Americans. Bill showed no distinctive racial traits. There was little of +the wolf about him. On the surface he was dog, all dog. Home-loving. +Devoted to the sheep and the master. The only thing was his eyes which +at times held a strange, greenish glare. + +Not more than half a dozen times Hardin had surprised that wild gleam in +the big dog’s eyes. Each time a single word from him had banished it. +But it was there, the wild streak in him, the bloodlust of the killer +demanding expression. But as time passed, Hardin came to think less and +less about it. Bill was the best sheep dog he had ever owned. + +This particular night the man did not visit the herd as was his custom. +He had worked hard during the day walling up with huge stones a spring +that bubbled out of the ground near the cabin—and he was very tired. He +reflected pleasurably upon the fact that the little pond would save the +lives of many sheep during the hot summer days—and—confident in Bill’s +guardianship of the growing herd—he rolled in his blankets and was soon +sleeping soundly. + +For long after the metallic clatter of the bugle had died away, Bill +trotted back and forth along the open ridge top, tensely, joyously +expectant, awaiting the arrival of the man. This nightly visit was +always the occasion for a rough and tumble encounter which the dog +enjoyed beyond all else. But the man did not come. Puzzlement gave way +to disappointment, and a great longing, not unmixed with fear, fear that +the master might have gone away. Once before the man had left, without +him, visiting a distant settlement; had stayed several days and Bill had +experienced all the acute sufferings of a sensitive youngster deprived +of its mother for the first time. + +Finally, he could stand it no longer and after thrice circling the herd, +thrice assuring himself that all was well, he rushed down the valley +toward the cabin. He came to a sliding stop before the closed door. +Cocked his ears inquiringly, listened intently. The man was inside. +Asleep. His regular breathing was clearly audible to Bill’s sensitive +ears. Reassured, but still vaguely dissatisfied, he trotted slowly back +to the herd. + +As he drew near, his step quickened. The sheep were downwind, still, a +sixth sense warned him of danger. A collie would have rushed wildly +forward, barking loudly. Bill advanced silently in a wide half-circle +along the ridge top, belly close-hugging the ground, like the wolf. + +It was old Graybeard, the coyote. Bill drew close without the unwelcome +visitor detecting him. The dog did not really think that the coyote +would attack the sheep. It was a time of plenty in the wilderness. Old +Graybeard was sleek and well fed. More likely it was just deviltry. +Graybeard could outrun the sheep dog. + +Well he knew it. Bill knew it too. It was the coyote’s delight to steal +upon the unsuspecting sheep, to nip sharply right and left and then to +run away, a wraithlike streak into the night; and from a near-by hillock +grin down as Bill, with much frantic effort, quieted the milling herd. + +Sometimes Bill took this as a joke. Sometimes he went into a rage. +Depending upon his state of mind. To-night—deprived of the softening +influence of his frolic with the man—he was angry. Graybeard knew Bill +was away and took his time. No sport in a practical joke if the jokee is +not there to appreciate it. + +He nipped tentatively at a gangling white figure that practically fell +over him where he crouched in a bed of huckleberry bushes. The lamb, a +very young one, bawled frantically. The nip had been as nothing at all. +Graybeard was surprised. But his surprise was many times multiplied when +a ewe, usually the most timid of creatures, charged him wildly, quite +disregarding his menacing front. + +At the last moment he danced nimbly aside. Unfortunately for all +concerned, however, the ewe’s splay foot slid from off a moss-covered +bowlder; she lurched sideways, fell, and in falling, knocked Graybeard +neatly off his feet. With a snarl of rage he sprang forward and buried +his yellow fangs in her throat. + +At the climax of the tragedy, Bill was no more than a dozen yards away. +He lay stretched flat to the ground among some low-lying shrubs. His big +body was vibrant with righteous rage. Still, he did not move. Well he +knew that, at his first motion, the coyote would flee. And he might +never catch him. Many times he had tried and failed. + +Graybeard raised his bloody muzzle and tested the stilly air. It told +him nothing. Bill had worked about downwind. The coyote was not +particularly hungry, but having killed he intended to eat. He worried +savagely at the dead sheep. Bill stole forward, noiseless as a shadow. +The coyote took alarm suddenly. But not quite quickly enough. Even as he +sprang away, Bill was upon him. + +Wily old battler that he was, Graybeard was no match for this hundred +pounds of enraged dogflesh. A single flashing downward stroke of the +wolf-like fangs ripped the coyote from shoulder to gullet—and the fight +was over. + +For long the victor crouched over the dead body of the coyote, growling +deep in his throat, the light of battle in his eyes. Then the bleating +of the sheep roused him to a sense of duty. The herd had scattered in +all directions over the hillside. He rounded them up in his usual +efficient manner, but they refused to be quieted. He threatened them +savagely. Even nipped them more severely than usual, but all to no +avail. They persisted in stampeding wildly, rushing head-on into stumps +and bowlders and into each other in their excitement. + +Bill finally guessed the reason for this continued panic. The dead +coyote. The odor of blood. First, he dragged the body of the coyote to +the edge of a gravel-banked coulee at the foot of the slope and pushed +it in. Then he caught upon the dead sheep. The ewe’s body was still +warm. For the first time in his life he got a taste of fresh, sweet +mutton. He licked his jaws pleasurably. Instantly the wolf in him came +to the surface. His eyes shone with a strange greenish glare. He looked +upon the milling mass of sheep with new eyes, hungry eyes. The dead ewe +was not for him. He would make his own kill. Slowly, cautiously, he +crept toward the herd. + +Suddenly a shrill whistle sounded. The man. The sheep had awakened him +with their bawling. Bill froze to the ground. Again the whistle sounded, +nearer this time. Bill whined uncertainly. The wild desire left him. And +as the man’s tall figure appeared on the naked ridge top, he loped +forward slowly to meet him. The man eyed him suspiciously in the half +darkness. + +“What’s goin’ on here, you big, no-account bum?” + +But his voice was not angry. Bill waved his bushy tail and made gruff, +loving noises in his throat. But he did not come near the outstretched +hand. Instead he turned away abruptly down the hill, ears and tail +drooping. The man followed, puzzled. + +“Somethin’s wrong here, sure enough. The old pup ain’t hisself—” And +then—“Sure, I'll betcha, becuz I didn’t come an’ see him t’night.” + +Hardin laughed. But in his assumption, this time, he was not correct. +Bill was facing a situation totally unprecedented in his brief +existence. He didn’t know just how the man would take it. The fact that +he had not killed the sheep did not occur to him as a saving grace. He +felt as guilty as though he had actually done the deed. And he was quite +sure that the man would know that he had intended to kill. The man knew +all things. There was no deceiving him. + +Bill was sorry. Thoroughly ashamed. And just a bit frightened. The man +would beat him, of course. He might shoot at him as he did at the +coyotes. Drive him away from the cabin perhaps. This last was what +brought about the dejection. + +But he had no thought of evading the issue. He led the way straight to +the dead sheep. + +After a brief inspection the man swore and shook his head sadly. + +“Damn it all. I was afraid of it.” + +“C’mere, you worthless houn’ dog.” + +Bill drooped in every muscle, but he did not cringe. For long Hardin +eyed the big dog. + +“Git out, you—I’m through with you. Git—!” + +He caught up a loose stone and poised it above his head. The dog did not +move. A lump rose in the man’s throat. “Git—Git, I tell you—!” He waved +the rock menacingly. He hated to do it, but— + +Bill whined and turned suddenly away. He stopped on the edge of the +coulee and whined again. The man hesitated, then dropped the rock and +caught up a handful of dry grass from a dead bog, lit it and peered +down. He saw the body of the coyote. + +“Doggone—I should have known, Bill; you didn’t kill that there sheep. +The herd wouldn’t have got so wild unless it had been a coyote ’r a bear +’r somethin’. Doggone, now, ain’t I ashamed. Sure enough purty nigh +plugged you, too, didn’t I? C’mere, boy—” + + + + +II. + + +In the days that followed, the dog and the man were inseparable, made +much of each other, like friends reunited after a serious +misunderstanding. Under these pleasant conditions Bill experienced no +recurrence of the wild streak. In constant touch with the man, the dog +in him was always uppermost. + +His thoughts revolved about the man, followed interestedly his every +action. Construction of the little pond seemed to him a foolish thing, +but he knew that there was some good reason for it. The man apparently +wasted his time on many foolish things, but always, sooner or later, an +adequate reason for them developed. So it would be with the pond. + +And one hot day in early summer, the man’s wisdom was made manifest. The +heat was intense. The sun a vivid red ball in a saffron sky. Man, dog +and sheep sweltered helplessly. It was then that the man helped Bill +drive the sheep around the base of the ridge to the pond. They +floundered in the cool water to their hearts’ content all the rest of +the day. + +One night at dusk a short, white-skinned man made his appearance at the +little cabin. He made much of Bill, but the latter accepted his advances +unemotionally; remained briskly, unresponsively aloof. The white-skinned +man meant nothing to him. He didn’t understand him in the first place. +And then again, he was just a bit jealous. As a friend of the master, +however, the man was, of course, to be treated with the greatest +respect. + +Well he knew that to obey the frequent urge to nip the visitor’s +inexpert fingers as they rubbed his ears the wrong way, was to bring the +master’s instant displeasure. The two men talked much together. The +visitor stayed on and on and with the passing of each day the master +became more and more preoccupied and Bill grew correspondingly +depressed. He whined dismally on the ridgetop through the long, hot +nights. Something unpleasant was going to happen. And it did. On the +fourth night the bugle did not sound. Next morning, the cabin was +deserted. Bill did not know it, of course, but the man’s little +homestead lay in the center of valuable timber country; the +white-skinned man had been negotiating for its purchase and Hardin had +gone to town to consummate the deal. All he knew was that the master had +gone and that he was very, very lonesome. + +All of the next day and night he circled the herd like an automaton, +time and again rushing away to the cabin, whining dismally before the +door. + +He became nervous and crotchety. On the second night he picked a quarrel +with a wolverine and was severely mauled. He even disputed the right of +way with a pink-nosed porcupine and collected half a dozen barbed quills +for his pains. Most of these quills came to rest in his upper forelegs; +after much painful worrying, he pulled them out with his teeth. A +couple, however, worked into his wrinkled snout and defied his most +heroic efforts. + +It may have been the lack of contact with the man; it may have been the +porcupine quills that festered and rendered him feverish with pain and +rage—most likely a combination of both—at any rate—on the third night +after the man had left—the old craving to kill came upon him in a flood +of sentient desire that would not be denied. A big ewe gave birth to a +gangling lamb in a cluster of oak scrub on the forest edge. All of his +efforts to drive her back into the herd and safety, were unavailing. +Finally, enraged, he rushed silently upon her. + +Five minutes later, four dead sheep bore irrefragable evidence of his +lustful efforts. The murders done, he slunk away into the forest, +swiftly, silently, furtively, like the wolf. But—in his going was none +of the arrogant bearing of his rapacious forebear. The passion to kill +left him as suddenly as it had come. He went—tail between his legs, head +drooping, like a dog. And he knew that he might never return. + + + + +III. + + +Hours later, Hardin entered upon the scene of carnage. It did not need +sight of the bloody-jowled creature that slunk guiltily away into the +thicket upon his approach, to tell him the name of the murderer. He +knew. All about were tracks. Dog tracks. Bill’s tracks. + +The man swore in a frightful manner. His face was white with rage. His +business in town had not turned out well; he was tired and hungry and +hot—there were other troubles, too; and now—this. The rifle leaped to +his shoulder. Five shots followed the slinking figure of his erstwhile +friend into the thicket. And he laughed when a yelp of pain told him +that one of his shots, at least, had found its mark. + +In his heart the man was kind and it is doubtful if he would have nursed +his hard feelings against the erring dog if it had not been for his +other troubles; the girl back in the States, for instance, who had +married another; and the lumber people who were trying to rob him. The +man was the sort that sours under difficulties. It seemed that everyone +and everything was against him. + +Alone with his thoughts, he longed for an opportunity to give vent to +his vengeful feelings. Of his real and fancied enemies, Bill was nearest +at hand. Hence it was that he carried his long rifle with him wherever +he went, hoping ever for a chance shot at his unfaithful friend. + +Hardin knew dogs and he felt sure that Bill could not stay away for +long. One day—he would come back. When he did—the rifle would be ready +at hand. In the man’s hardened heart there was no room for clemency; to +his mind, the renegade sheep dog was no different from any other killer +of sheep—the coyote or the wolf. In fact, he was worse, if anything. + +From a neighbor, Hardin purchased another sheep dog, a lazy old collie +called Stub—Stub because a bear trap had claimed all but six inches of +his bushy tail. The collie was a good enough sheep dog as sheep dogs go, +but his cringing docility found no response in the man’s spirited +nature. + +The random shot from the man’s rifle had torn a deep groove along Bill’s +ribs. The wound did not respond readily to his frequent cleansings, +festered and would not heal. For several days he was very ill, lay close +hidden in the alder swamp. He reverted naturally to a health-giving diet +of tansy and coarse grasses. + +At the end of a week the wound began to heal. So also did his sore nose. +And with the first sign of returning good health came an irresistible +yearning to return to the old life. + +The whispering silences of the alder swamp appalled him. He was restless +and nervous. He longed for the sheep; they had become a part of his very +self. He longed for the cabin, the heap of old burlap bags behind the +stove, the bits of fish and half-cooked meat; but above all, he longed +for the little things—the boisterous rompings, the kind words, the rough +caress—which only the man, his man, could bestow. + +Came a night when he crawled out of his hiding place and made his way +slowly, uncertainly toward the pasture. He was still very weak. Tottered +when he walked. At first glimpse of the fat old dog, Stub, he flew into +a great rage. If his strength had permitted he would at once have +challenged the collie to battle. But discretion fortunately prevailed. +He merely crouched low at the edge of the thicket, teeth bared in a +perpetual snarl—and watched. + +Every night thereafter, he occupied the same spot among the gray shadows +bordering the swamp. He saw the man inspecting the flock and growled +lovingly. But sight of the rifle brought him to his senses. The man +would shoot him—he knew. + +When Hardin returned to the cabin he trailed along—at a distance. With +ears cocked inquiringly, head on one side, he followed longingly the +man’s preparations for supper. Later, when the cabin was in darkness, he +stole forward furtively and searched for scraps. He found only a large +strip of pork rind which ordinarily he would have ignored. But now—he +swallowed it gratefully and hunted for more. With the coming of night he +returned to the pasture and during the few short hours of darkness, +unseen, unsuspected, assisted Stub in guarding the herd. + +But with the complete return of his strength, this vicarious enjoyment +of things once his own, did not satisfy. Came a night when he openly +fronted the collie on the ridgetop. The latter was game and flew +clumsily at Bill’s throat. Bill easily evaded him. The tussle was brief +and bloodless. Bill could easily have killed the collie; instead, he +merely rolled him over on his back and fastened his great teeth gently +but firmly in the other’s throat, barely breaking the skin. + +Stub saw the light. The fight went out of him. Thereafter the herd was +Bill’s. He might have killed to his heart’s content had he so desired. +But there was nothing further from his thoughts. Instead he took over +his old job. Stub soon came to take these nightly visits as a matter of +course, and slept peacefully on his favorite bed of pine needles while +Bill watched the sheep. + +And then one day Bill came face to face with the man. From the summit of +a grassy knoll Bill had espied the familiar figure and had circled about +in a wide arc to come in behind him without being seen. He was curious, +as always, to know what the master was about. He felt sure that the man +would follow the beaten path through the swamps. But he didn’t. Hence it +was that they came face to face in a grassy, open glade flanked by a +dense thicket of alder. + +By not so much as a quiver of his bushy tail did the big dog betray the +conflicting emotions pounding through his tense body. Only his eyes +softened, dog-like, with mute appeal when he saw the anger that was in +the man’s heart suddenly reflected in the sun-browned face. + +Hardin, fortunately for the dog, had left his rifle at the cabin. +Mumbling to himself he searched the ground for a loose rock or a stick, +but finding neither he drew his knife, cut a sturdy sapling and set +about fashioning it into a club. Bill did not move. He sensed +uncertainty in the man’s actions. Truth to tell, Hardin was hoping that +the dog would go away. He trimmed the heavy stick in a most leisurely +manner, then, as the dog still remained motionless, he advanced +determinedly and with fixed purpose, club raised. + +But his heart somehow wasn’t in it. He swung wildly. Missed purposely. +The dog’s thick roach-hair lifted automatically. He snarled. +Involuntarily. Not in anger. But this outward indication of defiance was +enough to rekindle the man’s smoldering rage. Next time, the club found +its mark, again, and still again. The dog made no sound, but backed away +slowly under the shower of blows, into the thicket, lips still lifted in +a fixed snarl, but with a questioning, appealing look in his eyes that, +despite all, tempered the force that lay behind the club. + +Following the encounter, Hardin was sheepishly displeased with himself, +ashamed, like a man after too severely beating a youngster in a fit of +anger. He left off carrying the rifle, knowing in his heart that he +would not shoot the dog if he had the chance. As a matter of fact he +rather hoped that Bill would one day come back to him. He convinced +himself readily that the dog had learned its lesson, would never again +become a killer. For witness—the sheep were still there; lazy old Stub +would have proved of little hindrance if the big wolf dog had really +wanted another taste of fresh mutton. + +That appealing look in his old friend’s eyes haunted the man for days. + + + + +IV. + + +The sultry dog days of August brought distress in varying degrees to all +wilderness folk. There had been no rain for weeks. A dry blight struck +all green things; the poplar leaves turned prematurely yellow and fell +away; the hardy wire grass in the pasture became brown and dry. Unfit +even for the sheep. With Stub’s help, Hardin drove the herd a mile +farther down the valley where the feed was somewhat better. + +The swamp itself, usually a summer paradise for all water-loving +animals, was but a morass of tangled roots and tinder-dry bogs, +surrounded by odorous pools of fetid green slime. On the upland slopes +the rabbits perished by the thousand. The shortage of food and water +drove many mountain dwellers to the lowlands. Several gaunt and silent +moose visited Kootenai Swamp, searched eternally among the few remaining +mudholes for lily roots. Many wolves, lions, bears, caribou, deer, and +hosts of lesser animals, all left their footprints in the newly formed +runway leading to the man’s pond which was the only running water for +miles about. + +An ever-growing restless uncertainty, attended by a corresponding +shortening of temper, affected all the beasts alike. This unsettled +state of mind brought about many bloody quarrels. A caribou bull and a +big cougar staged a battle to the death in Kootenai Swamp not a quarter +of a mile from the cabin. A black bear and a silver-tip grizzly fought +on the ridge top near the old pasture. + +As might be expected, the sheep formed an irresistible attraction for +the hungry visitors. One and all, singly and in pairs, they investigated +with longing eyes. One and all, they gauged the chances involved in +breaking through the guard of that confident, competent-appearing +beast—that was neither dog nor wolf, yet bigger and more menacing than +either—whose watchful eyes seemed never to close. + +Each one was duly impressed. The wisest among them decided to devote +their efforts for the time being to easier, if less palatable, prey. +There were still plenty of rabbits scattered in the neighborhood of the +lowlands. + +It devolved upon a young cougar, arrogant with the inexperience and +optimism of youth, to make the first attempt. For hours he lay well +hidden in the crotch of a long-limbed beech tree not a dozen yards from +the huddled flock of sheep. Bill knew he was there, had known it from +the first, but he made no sign. After waiting half the night for the +cougar to declare his intentions he purposely allowed an arbitrary old +ram, who could take care of himself if the exigency demanded, to wander +near the beech tree. + +The cougar sprang. But his claws never so much as touched the ram. Bill +was upon him before he struck the ground. Luckily perhaps for the dog, +the cougar was young and unskilled in the niceties of mixed warfare. At +any rate, the hissing, growling, clutching combatants soon fell apart, +disclosing the lion stretched out at full length—quite dead. Outside of +a few scratches, Bill was uninjured. + +Came a night when the prevailing nervous uncertainty among the +wilderness peoples broke out suddenly into frantic hysteria. Great and +small, they rushed wildly here and there in apparently aimless, +panic-stricken flight. The thickets were filled with strange noises. +Flocks of birds, squawking and screaming, shrilled overhead, all tending +toward the east. + +The gray night air was hazy, stiflingly hot, despite a lively breeze. +The western sky reflected a dull pinkish glow. Even Stub, roused from +his perpetual nap, sniffed the air and whined querulously up at the +heavens. Bill circled the restless herd at a swinging lope, nose high in +air, listening intently, striving to learn what it was all about. +Something was wrong, he knew. But what? It was that which puzzled him. + +A miniature whorl of wind dropping down out of the sky gave him the +answer. Fire. Although he had never before been through a forest fire, +he realized instinctively its menace. His first thought was of the +sheep. It was up to him to protect them. Alone, unencumbered by +responsibility, he would have sought out the nearest body of water. This +through no conscious mental effort; instinct merely, dictating that this +was the thing to do. Every other living thing experienced the same vital +urge. So it was that with swift, sure maneuvering, he turned the +unwieldy herd of milling sheep toward that spot where lay the cabin—and +the man’s pond. + +Hardin was awakened by the excited bleating of the sheep. He caught up +the rifle and hurried outside, assured that something was wrong. + +The sight that met his eyes brought furious curses to his lips. The +cabin faced the east and was located at the base of a fifty-foot bank of +shale, so that he got no warning of the oncoming wall of fire which +already tinged the western sky with coruscant flares of scarlet and +yellow. Nor did he at once identify the pungent odor that accompanied +the hot breeze. The sum total of his first impression was a bawling, +straggling mass of wild-eyed sheep harassed by a savage dog whose jowls +and body were streaked with blood. Even as he watched, Bill charged a +persistently wayward ewe silently and furiously; she careened wildly to +one side, crashed into the oncoming herd. Several sheep piled over her. +Bill dived into the struggling mass, growling fiercely, nipping sharply +with his great teeth. Speed at that very moment was the principal thing. + +Even now the flames were licking along the ridgetop. Bill knew. There +was no time to spare. But Hardin did not know. He thought only that the +dog had again turned killer. The rifle spat fire, once—twice. At the +first shot Bill’s feet flew from under him. He hurtled forward, nose +burrowing into the sand. The second shot found its mark as he lay +writhing on the ground. + +Mumbling incoherently with rage, Hardin hurried after the sheep. And +then, abruptly—he felt the hot breath of the fire—caught the vivid +reflection in the sky. A dead tree on the near horizon burst suddenly +into flames. The man was stunned for a moment. Then understanding came +to him. + +Bill had not turned killer. Instead, he had saved the sheep. And that, +too, strange to say, in the face of the fire. But now—he was dead. + +A lump rose in the man’s throat. Remorse filled his heart. The flames +were now raging along the ridge top in plain sight and in the sudden +glare he made out the big dog hitching painfully along the ground toward +the cabin. The man was glad. He cried out happily. Waved his gun. Called +encouragingly. Once in the cabin the dog would be safe. Of this he was +certain. The flames would split on either side of the cliff, thus +avoiding the cabin altogether. + +Most of the sheep were already in the water urged by Stub’s lumbering +efforts. By the time Hardin had thrust the last reluctant lamb into the +pond the flames were sweeping up from the swamp, accompanied by +flame-shot billows of acrid smoke. + +The heat was stifling. The man sprawled close to the ground. The +blistering heat waves seared his body like hot irons. And then—as a +smoke cloud lifted—he saw—the unexpected had happened. The cabin was in +flames. And—the injured dog was in the cabin. + +Without an instant’s hesitation the man sprang into action. He scrambled +into the pool, drenched his few clothes thoroughly, then, bending low, +ran toward the cabin. Before the door he fell, gasping and coughing. +Dropped face down in the sand and with his first full breath, called out +encouragingly: “Stay put, old timer—I’m a comin’.” + +The cabin door had blown shut and as he kicked it open a gust of flame +enveloped him. Again he dropped to the ground and rolled over and over +in frantic effort to extinguish his burning clothing. Ignoring his many +burns the man pushed on into the cabin. + +Bill lay behind the big Yukon stove on his old bed of burlap bags. His +beautiful body was smeared with blood from his battle with the cougar +and the man’s bullets. His eyes were half closed. He was breathing with +difficulty in short, choking gasps. The man crawled to him over the dirt +floor. Sank exhausted. Roused as the hungry flames licked his +smoke-blackened face, lifted the dog in his arms and stumbled out, +almost exhausted, through the flame-filled doorway. + +Crouching in the pool, the big dog still in his arms, with no thought of +his own hurts Hardin took stock of Bill’s injuries. One of the bullets +had broken a foreleg, the other had torn a ragged hole through the thick +muscles of the neck. Painful, not necessarily fatal. Hardin was well +versed in rough surgery. While the roaring of the fire diminished in the +distance and the sheep one by one floundered out of the steaming pool, +he prepared splints for the broken leg, and as he worked he talked: + +“I didn’t mean t’ do it, ol’ pup. Honest. Don’t know whut I was thinkin’ +of—wy, doggone, if I had a mite o’ sense I would of known. But you know +me, Bill—I ain’t got no more brains that a—than a—than one o’ them +sheep. Yeah, that’s right—I ain’t got no more sense than a sheep—an’ you +an’ me knows as how that ain’t much. But this is whut I was goin’ t’ +tell you—me an’ you is goin’ away. Yeah, sure enough. I sold these here +sheep t’ Sam Dodd. You remember Sam. Kinda wisht I’d sold t’ them lumber +fellers now—the skunks—wouldn’t we have the laugh on ’em, after this; +serve ’em right, too. Anyhow, you an’ me is goin’ away, like I said—away +up yender some place—where they ain’t no sheep. Jest you an’ me—that’s +the life, eh, pup—jest you an’ me—” + +Some things the man said were a bit confusing. Never before had he made +such a long speech; but his words were kind. The gist of it was quite +clear. All was forgiven. All was well. And despite his many hurts, Bill +was very happy. To show that he was in sympathetic agreement with +whatever the master had in mind, he wiggled his tail feebly and reached +for the man’s smoke-blackened face with his tongue. + + +[Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the April 18, 1925 issue of +_Argosy-Allstory Weekly_ magazine.] + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77509 *** diff --git a/77509-h/77509-h.htm b/77509-h/77509-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..03c3046 --- /dev/null +++ b/77509-h/77509-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,638 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0"> + <title>Bill of the Wild Streak</title> + <style> + body { max-width: 40em; margin: 2em auto; padding: 0 1em; font-family: serif; line-height: 1.6; } + h1 { text-align: center; } + h2 { margin-top: 2em; } + .italic { font-style: italic; } + .bold { font-weight: bold; } + .underline { text-decoration: underline; } + .small-caps { font-variant: small-caps; } + blockquote { margin: 1em 2em; } + figure { margin: 2em auto; width: 80%; max-width: 100%; text-align: center; } + figure.left { float: left; margin: 0 2em 1em 0; width: 50%; max-width: 50%; } + figure.right { float: right; margin: 0 0 1em 2em; width: 50%; max-width: 50%; } + figure.center { margin: 2em auto; display: block; } + figure img { width: 100%; height: auto; } + figcaption { margin-top: 0.5em; font-style: italic; } + .poem { margin: 1em 0; } + .poem.center { text-align: center; } + .poem.center .stanza { display: inline-block; text-align: left; } + .poem-title { text-align: center; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 1em; } + .stanza { margin-bottom: 1em; } + .line { margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; } + .indent { margin-left: 2em; } + .indent2 { margin-left: 4em; } + .indent3 { margin-left: 6em; } + .center { text-align: center; } + .milestone { text-align: center; margin: 2em 0; } + .milestone.stars::before { content: "* * * * *"; white-space: pre; } + .milestone.space { height: 2em; } + table { border-collapse: collapse; margin: 1em 0; } + td, th { border: 1px solid #ccc; padding: 0.5em; } + + /* Custom styles */ + body { margin-left: 11%; margin-right: 10%; line-height: 1.25; } + h1 { margin-bottom: 2em; font-weight: normal; text-align: center; + font-size: 1.4em; margin-bottom: 0; } + h2 { text-align: center; font-weight: normal; page-break-before: always; + font-size: 1.25em; margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; } + p { text-indent: 1.15em; margin-top: 0.1em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; + text-align: justify; } + p.no-indent { text-indent: 0; } + /* title page styling */ + .mb10 { margin-bottom: 1.0em; } + .mt05 { margin-top: 0.5em; } + .fs12 { font-size: 1.2em; } + .fs14 { font-size: 1.4em; } + .tac { text-align: center; } + /* centering */ + .titlepage + { text-align: center; margin: 2em 0; } + .titlepage p + { margin: 0.5em 0; } + /* front page separators */ + .titlepage { + border-bottom: 1px solid #999; + padding-bottom: 2em; + } + /* transcriber's note */ + .transcriber { + font-size: 0.9em; + border: 1px solid silver; + margin: 1.8em 8% 0; + padding: 0.3em 2%; + background-color: #DDDDEE; + } + .transcriber p { text-indent: 0; margin: 0; } + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77509 ***</div> +<h1>Bill of the Wild Streak</h1> +<div class="titlepage"> +<figure class="center" style="width: 75%;"> + <img src="images/illus-fpc.jpg" alt="A dog holding a cougar by the neck."> +</figure> +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="line fs14 tac">BILL OF THE WILD STREAK</div> + <div class="line tac mt05">BY</div> + <div class="line fs12 mb10 tac">Howard E. Morgan</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> +<h2 id="chI">I.</h2> +<p>Like shoulders of dirty gray rock, irregular, ghostly under the pale +moonlight, the sheep spread out over the hillside, dozing contentedly. +On the crest of the short slope that was the pasture, a big gray and +white dog sat watching the flock. From time to time he started off in a +businesslike manner and hurried some blundering ewe back into the +moonlit open.</p> +<p>Ordinarily, this close attention was not necessary. Stupid though they +were, most of the sheep knew better than to approach the strip of +checkered shadow bordering the thicket, that was the dividing line +between safety and danger. Just now, however, there were several young +lambs among them, newly born, and the mothers seemed to have lost all +sense of discretion. So at least Bill thought as for the tenth time he +urged an obstinate ewe and her spindle-legged calf away from the forest +edge. Each time, this particular ewe had refused to take his fangless +proddings seriously and in good part; each time she had resented his +interference with her senseless plans, and finally, she charged him, +furiously, with lowered head—so quickly that, as he sprang aside, she +caught him a glancing blow that almost upset him.</p> +<p>The big dog recovered quickly, circled swiftly about and rushed at her, +silently, teeth bared. Not until within half a dozen feet of his +intended victim did he realize what he was doing. It was then too late +to stop. He sprang clear over the ewe and crouched panting in the shadow +of a stump.</p> +<p>Through a necklike opening in the forest came the ring of an ax on wood. +That was the man cutting kindlings for his morning fire. The big dog +cowered. Whined softly. Once more he had nearly proved unfaithful to the +master. For long he lay low, belly to the ground, then came erect slowly +and tail between his legs, again took up his sentinellike position on +the ridge top.</p> +<p>Bill was a mongrel, a splendid mixture of at least four fine strains; +his mother was a sled dog from the Yukon, part chow, part Ungava husky +with a dash of wolf blood running strongly near the surface; his father +was a collie with an interbreeding of mastiff. Bill's hair was long and +thick, like a collie; he was big-boned, broad-chested, like a husky, his +mighty jaws, wide, massive, steel-muscled, were from his maternal +grandsire, the wolf. What wonder, with such varying warlike strains, +that violent passions fought ceaselessly for possession of his mighty +body.</p> +<p>For long after his brush with the sheep, the dog crouched on the +hilltop, motionless and limp. The wild desire that had urged him to +kill, left him slowly and he was forlornly ashamed. However, it was a +familiar sensation, quite. Many times before he had escaped murder by a +hair’s breadth. Each time it had been on account of the master.</p> +<p>His allegiance to Hardin knew no bounds. Once he gave way to the +bloodlust and the master would be lost to him forever. Well he knew. The +sheep belonged to the man. It was the man’s wish that they should suffer +no harm, that their foolish lives be protected at all costs. Bill had +risked his own life times without number in the pursuit of duty as +interpreted by his collie instincts. It was the master’s wish. But this +particular night, the wild urge in him refused to be readily put aside. +From time to time, deep, full-toned growls issued from his great throat.</p> +<p>The tiny scream of a bugle sounded, echoing sharply back from the purple +hills. Instantly Bill was on his feet and whining eagerly. It was the +man. Hardin had been a soldier. Every night he blew upon the yellow +horn, a never-ending source of wonder and awe to all wilderness folk. To +Bill it recalled a pile of rags and old burlap bags behind the stove +where he slept through the cold winter nights. This concrete reminder of +the master’s nearness banished the last shreds of wildness. He barked +once, sharply, joyously, then circled the herd slowly, majestically, a +sedate, aloof being, competent and ready protector of the weak, a +trusted friend of the master.</p> +<p>This streak of the killer in Bill, Hardin had often suspected. He knew +dogs. But because he did know them, he trusted Bill implicitly. It was a +question of his influence over the wild streak. And he had every +confidence in his ability to hold the big dog’s devotion.</p> +<p>Of one thing only was he uncertain, which was—to just what extent +Bill’s interbreeding had merged. As—in some people—an admixture of +several races will produce an evenly balanced, intelligent whole; and in +others, various racial traits will stand out distinctly—good and bad, +loyalty and treachery, never merging—veritable Dr. Jekylls and Mr. +Hydes; the one at times obliterating the other, the two never forming an +evenly balanced, law-abiding whole—so it was with dogs.</p> +<p>Hardin assumed that Bill’s interbreeding had struck the happy medium. +Many of the most loyal and intelligent of dogs are mongrels. True +Americans. Bill showed no distinctive racial traits. There was little of +the wolf about him. On the surface he was dog, all dog. Home-loving. +Devoted to the sheep and the master. The only thing was his eyes which +at times held a strange, greenish glare.</p> +<p>Not more than half a dozen times Hardin had surprised that wild gleam in +the big dog’s eyes. Each time a single word from him had banished it. +But it was there, the wild streak in him, the bloodlust of the killer +demanding expression. But as time passed, Hardin came to think less and +less about it. Bill was the best sheep dog he had ever owned.</p> +<p>This particular night the man did not visit the herd as was his custom. +He had worked hard during the day walling up with huge stones a spring +that bubbled out of the ground near the cabin—and he was very tired. He +reflected pleasurably upon the fact that the little pond would save the +lives of many sheep during the hot summer days—and—confident in Bill’s +guardianship of the growing herd—he rolled in his blankets and was soon +sleeping soundly.</p> +<p>For long after the metallic clatter of the bugle had died away, Bill +trotted back and forth along the open ridge top, tensely, joyously +expectant, awaiting the arrival of the man. This nightly visit was +always the occasion for a rough and tumble encounter which the dog +enjoyed beyond all else. But the man did not come. Puzzlement gave way +to disappointment, and a great longing, not unmixed with fear, fear that +the master might have gone away. Once before the man had left, without +him, visiting a distant settlement; had stayed several days and Bill had +experienced all the acute sufferings of a sensitive youngster deprived +of its mother for the first time.</p> +<p>Finally, he could stand it no longer and after thrice circling the herd, +thrice assuring himself that all was well, he rushed down the valley +toward the cabin. He came to a sliding stop before the closed door. +Cocked his ears inquiringly, listened intently. The man was inside. +Asleep. His regular breathing was clearly audible to Bill’s sensitive +ears. Reassured, but still vaguely dissatisfied, he trotted slowly back +to the herd.</p> +<p>As he drew near, his step quickened. The sheep were downwind, still, a +sixth sense warned him of danger. A collie would have rushed wildly +forward, barking loudly. Bill advanced silently in a wide half-circle +along the ridge top, belly close-hugging the ground, like the wolf.</p> +<p>It was old Graybeard, the coyote. Bill drew close without the unwelcome +visitor detecting him. The dog did not really think that the coyote +would attack the sheep. It was a time of plenty in the wilderness. Old +Graybeard was sleek and well fed. More likely it was just deviltry. +Graybeard could outrun the sheep dog.</p> +<p>Well he knew it. Bill knew it too. It was the coyote’s delight to steal +upon the unsuspecting sheep, to nip sharply right and left and then to +run away, a wraithlike streak into the night; and from a near-by hillock +grin down as Bill, with much frantic effort, quieted the milling herd.</p> +<p>Sometimes Bill took this as a joke. Sometimes he went into a rage. +Depending upon his state of mind. To-night—deprived of the softening +influence of his frolic with the man—he was angry. Graybeard knew Bill +was away and took his time. No sport in a practical joke if the jokee is +not there to appreciate it.</p> +<p>He nipped tentatively at a gangling white figure that practically fell +over him where he crouched in a bed of huckleberry bushes. The lamb, a +very young one, bawled frantically. The nip had been as nothing at all. +Graybeard was surprised. But his surprise was many times multiplied when +a ewe, usually the most timid of creatures, charged him wildly, quite +disregarding his menacing front.</p> +<p>At the last moment he danced nimbly aside. Unfortunately for all +concerned, however, the ewe’s splay foot slid from off a moss-covered +bowlder; she lurched sideways, fell, and in falling, knocked Graybeard +neatly off his feet. With a snarl of rage he sprang forward and buried +his yellow fangs in her throat.</p> +<p>At the climax of the tragedy, Bill was no more than a dozen yards away. +He lay stretched flat to the ground among some low-lying shrubs. His big +body was vibrant with righteous rage. Still, he did not move. Well he +knew that, at his first motion, the coyote would flee. And he might +never catch him. Many times he had tried and failed.</p> +<p>Graybeard raised his bloody muzzle and tested the stilly air. It told +him nothing. Bill had worked about downwind. The coyote was not +particularly hungry, but having killed he intended to eat. He worried +savagely at the dead sheep. Bill stole forward, noiseless as a shadow. +The coyote took alarm suddenly. But not quite quickly enough. Even as he +sprang away, Bill was upon him.</p> +<p>Wily old battler that he was, Graybeard was no match for this hundred +pounds of enraged dogflesh. A single flashing downward stroke of the +wolf-like fangs ripped the coyote from shoulder to gullet—and the fight +was over.</p> +<p>For long the victor crouched over the dead body of the coyote, growling +deep in his throat, the light of battle in his eyes. Then the bleating +of the sheep roused him to a sense of duty. The herd had scattered in +all directions over the hillside. He rounded them up in his usual +efficient manner, but they refused to be quieted. He threatened them +savagely. Even nipped them more severely than usual, but all to no +avail. They persisted in stampeding wildly, rushing head-on into stumps +and bowlders and into each other in their excitement.</p> +<p>Bill finally guessed the reason for this continued panic. The dead +coyote. The odor of blood. First, he dragged the body of the coyote to +the edge of a gravel-banked coulee at the foot of the slope and pushed +it in. Then he caught upon the dead sheep. The ewe’s body was still +warm. For the first time in his life he got a taste of fresh, sweet +mutton. He licked his jaws pleasurably. Instantly the wolf in him came +to the surface. His eyes shone with a strange greenish glare. He looked +upon the milling mass of sheep with new eyes, hungry eyes. The dead ewe +was not for him. He would make his own kill. Slowly, cautiously, he +crept toward the herd.</p> +<p>Suddenly a shrill whistle sounded. The man. The sheep had awakened him +with their bawling. Bill froze to the ground. Again the whistle sounded, +nearer this time. Bill whined uncertainly. The wild desire left him. And +as the man’s tall figure appeared on the naked ridge top, he loped +forward slowly to meet him. The man eyed him suspiciously in the half +darkness.</p> +<p>“What’s goin’ on here, you big, no-account bum?”</p> +<p>But his voice was not angry. Bill waved his bushy tail and made gruff, +loving noises in his throat. But he did not come near the outstretched +hand. Instead he turned away abruptly down the hill, ears and tail +drooping. The man followed, puzzled.</p> +<p>“Somethin’s wrong here, sure enough. The old pup ain’t hisself—” And +then—“Sure, I'll betcha, becuz I didn’t come an’ see him t’night.”</p> +<p>Hardin laughed. But in his assumption, this time, he was not correct. +Bill was facing a situation totally unprecedented in his brief +existence. He didn’t know just how the man would take it. The fact that +he had not killed the sheep did not occur to him as a saving grace. He +felt as guilty as though he had actually done the deed. And he was quite +sure that the man would know that he had intended to kill. The man knew +all things. There was no deceiving him.</p> +<p>Bill was sorry. Thoroughly ashamed. And just a bit frightened. The man +would beat him, of course. He might shoot at him as he did at the +coyotes. Drive him away from the cabin perhaps. This last was what +brought about the dejection.</p> +<p>But he had no thought of evading the issue. He led the way straight to +the dead sheep.</p> +<p>After a brief inspection the man swore and shook his head sadly.</p> +<p>“Damn it all. I was afraid of it.”</p> +<p>“C’mere, you worthless houn’ dog.”</p> +<p>Bill drooped in every muscle, but he did not cringe. For long Hardin +eyed the big dog.</p> +<p>“Git out, you—I’m through with you. Git—!”</p> +<p>He caught up a loose stone and poised it above his head. The dog did not +move. A lump rose in the man’s throat. “Git—Git, I tell you—!” He +waved the rock menacingly. He hated to do it, but—</p> +<p>Bill whined and turned suddenly away. He stopped on the edge of the +coulee and whined again. The man hesitated, then dropped the rock and +caught up a handful of dry grass from a dead bog, lit it and peered +down. He saw the body of the coyote.</p> +<p>“Doggone—I should have known, Bill; you didn’t kill that there sheep. +The herd wouldn’t have got so wild unless it had been a coyote ’r a bear +’r somethin’. Doggone, now, ain’t I ashamed. Sure enough purty nigh +plugged you, too, didn’t I? C’mere, boy—”</p> +<h2 id="chII">II.</h2> +<p>In the days that followed, the dog and the man were inseparable, made +much of each other, like friends reunited after a serious +misunderstanding. Under these pleasant conditions Bill experienced no +recurrence of the wild streak. In constant touch with the man, the dog +in him was always uppermost.</p> +<p>His thoughts revolved about the man, followed interestedly his every +action. Construction of the little pond seemed to him a foolish thing, +but he knew that there was some good reason for it. The man apparently +wasted his time on many foolish things, but always, sooner or later, an +adequate reason for them developed. So it would be with the pond.</p> +<p>And one hot day in early summer, the man’s wisdom was made manifest. The +heat was intense. The sun a vivid red ball in a saffron sky. Man, dog +and sheep sweltered helplessly. It was then that the man helped Bill +drive the sheep around the base of the ridge to the pond. They +floundered in the cool water to their hearts’ content all the rest of +the day.</p> +<p>One night at dusk a short, white-skinned man made his appearance at the +little cabin. He made much of Bill, but the latter accepted his advances +unemotionally; remained briskly, unresponsively aloof. The white-skinned +man meant nothing to him. He didn’t understand him in the first place. +And then again, he was just a bit jealous. As a friend of the master, +however, the man was, of course, to be treated with the greatest +respect.</p> +<p>Well he knew that to obey the frequent urge to nip the visitor’s +inexpert fingers as they rubbed his ears the wrong way, was to bring the +master’s instant displeasure. The two men talked much together. The +visitor stayed on and on and with the passing of each day the master +became more and more preoccupied and Bill grew correspondingly +depressed. He whined dismally on the ridgetop through the long, hot +nights. Something unpleasant was going to happen. And it did. On the +fourth night the bugle did not sound. Next morning, the cabin was +deserted. Bill did not know it, of course, but the man’s little +homestead lay in the center of valuable timber country; the +white-skinned man had been negotiating for its purchase and Hardin had +gone to town to consummate the deal. All he knew was that the master had +gone and that he was very, very lonesome.</p> +<p>All of the next day and night he circled the herd like an automaton, +time and again rushing away to the cabin, whining dismally before the +door.</p> +<p>He became nervous and crotchety. On the second night he picked a quarrel +with a wolverine and was severely mauled. He even disputed the right of +way with a pink-nosed porcupine and collected half a dozen barbed quills +for his pains. Most of these quills came to rest in his upper forelegs; +after much painful worrying, he pulled them out with his teeth. A +couple, however, worked into his wrinkled snout and defied his most +heroic efforts.</p> +<p>It may have been the lack of contact with the man; it may have been the +porcupine quills that festered and rendered him feverish with pain and +rage—most likely a combination of both—at any rate—on the third night +after the man had left—the old craving to kill came upon him in a flood +of sentient desire that would not be denied. A big ewe gave birth to a +gangling lamb in a cluster of oak scrub on the forest edge. All of his +efforts to drive her back into the herd and safety, were unavailing. +Finally, enraged, he rushed silently upon her.</p> +<p>Five minutes later, four dead sheep bore irrefragable evidence of his +lustful efforts. The murders done, he slunk away into the forest, +swiftly, silently, furtively, like the wolf. But—in his going was none +of the arrogant bearing of his rapacious forebear. The passion to kill +left him as suddenly as it had come. He went—tail between his legs, +head drooping, like a dog. And he knew that he might never return.</p> +<h2 id="chIII">III.</h2> +<p>Hours later, Hardin entered upon the scene of carnage. It did not need +sight of the bloody-jowled creature that slunk guiltily away into the +thicket upon his approach, to tell him the name of the murderer. He +knew. All about were tracks. Dog tracks. Bill’s tracks.</p> +<p>The man swore in a frightful manner. His face was white with rage. His +business in town had not turned out well; he was tired and hungry and +hot—there were other troubles, too; and now—this. The rifle leaped to +his shoulder. Five shots followed the slinking figure of his erstwhile +friend into the thicket. And he laughed when a yelp of pain told him +that one of his shots, at least, had found its mark.</p> +<p>In his heart the man was kind and it is doubtful if he would have nursed +his hard feelings against the erring dog if it had not been for his +other troubles; the girl back in the States, for instance, who had +married another; and the lumber people who were trying to rob him. The +man was the sort that sours under difficulties. It seemed that everyone +and everything was against him.</p> +<p>Alone with his thoughts, he longed for an opportunity to give vent to +his vengeful feelings. Of his real and fancied enemies, Bill was nearest +at hand. Hence it was that he carried his long rifle with him wherever +he went, hoping ever for a chance shot at his unfaithful friend.</p> +<p>Hardin knew dogs and he felt sure that Bill could not stay away for +long. One day—he would come back. When he did—the rifle would be ready +at hand. In the man’s hardened heart there was no room for clemency; to +his mind, the renegade sheep dog was no different from any other killer +of sheep—the coyote or the wolf. In fact, he was worse, if anything.</p> +<p>From a neighbor, Hardin purchased another sheep dog, a lazy old collie +called Stub—Stub because a bear trap had claimed all but six inches of +his bushy tail. The collie was a good enough sheep dog as sheep dogs go, +but his cringing docility found no response in the man’s spirited +nature.</p> +<p>The random shot from the man’s rifle had torn a deep groove along Bill’s +ribs. The wound did not respond readily to his frequent cleansings, +festered and would not heal. For several days he was very ill, lay close +hidden in the alder swamp. He reverted naturally to a health-giving diet +of tansy and coarse grasses.</p> +<p>At the end of a week the wound began to heal. So also did his sore nose. +And with the first sign of returning good health came an irresistible +yearning to return to the old life.</p> +<p>The whispering silences of the alder swamp appalled him. He was restless +and nervous. He longed for the sheep; they had become a part of his very +self. He longed for the cabin, the heap of old burlap bags behind the +stove, the bits of fish and half-cooked meat; but above all, he longed +for the little things—the boisterous rompings, the kind words, the +rough caress—which only the man, his man, could bestow.</p> +<p>Came a night when he crawled out of his hiding place and made his way +slowly, uncertainly toward the pasture. He was still very weak. Tottered +when he walked. At first glimpse of the fat old dog, Stub, he flew into +a great rage. If his strength had permitted he would at once have +challenged the collie to battle. But discretion fortunately prevailed. +He merely crouched low at the edge of the thicket, teeth bared in a +perpetual snarl—and watched.</p> +<p>Every night thereafter, he occupied the same spot among the gray shadows +bordering the swamp. He saw the man inspecting the flock and growled +lovingly. But sight of the rifle brought him to his senses. The man +would shoot him—he knew.</p> +<p>When Hardin returned to the cabin he trailed along—at a distance. With +ears cocked inquiringly, head on one side, he followed longingly the +man’s preparations for supper. Later, when the cabin was in darkness, he +stole forward furtively and searched for scraps. He found only a large +strip of pork rind which ordinarily he would have ignored. But now—he +swallowed it gratefully and hunted for more. With the coming of night he +returned to the pasture and during the few short hours of darkness, +unseen, unsuspected, assisted Stub in guarding the herd.</p> +<p>But with the complete return of his strength, this vicarious enjoyment +of things once his own, did not satisfy. Came a night when he openly +fronted the collie on the ridgetop. The latter was game and flew +clumsily at Bill’s throat. Bill easily evaded him. The tussle was brief +and bloodless. Bill could easily have killed the collie; instead, he +merely rolled him over on his back and fastened his great teeth gently +but firmly in the other’s throat, barely breaking the skin.</p> +<p>Stub saw the light. The fight went out of him. Thereafter the herd was +Bill’s. He might have killed to his heart’s content had he so desired. +But there was nothing further from his thoughts. Instead he took over +his old job. Stub soon came to take these nightly visits as a matter of +course, and slept peacefully on his favorite bed of pine needles while +Bill watched the sheep.</p> +<p>And then one day Bill came face to face with the man. From the summit of +a grassy knoll Bill had espied the familiar figure and had circled about +in a wide arc to come in behind him without being seen. He was curious, +as always, to know what the master was about. He felt sure that the man +would follow the beaten path through the swamps. But he didn’t. Hence it +was that they came face to face in a grassy, open glade flanked by a +dense thicket of alder.</p> +<p>By not so much as a quiver of his bushy tail did the big dog betray the +conflicting emotions pounding through his tense body. Only his eyes +softened, dog-like, with mute appeal when he saw the anger that was in +the man’s heart suddenly reflected in the sun-browned face.</p> +<p>Hardin, fortunately for the dog, had left his rifle at the cabin. +Mumbling to himself he searched the ground for a loose rock or a stick, +but finding neither he drew his knife, cut a sturdy sapling and set +about fashioning it into a club. Bill did not move. He sensed +uncertainty in the man’s actions. Truth to tell, Hardin was hoping that +the dog would go away. He trimmed the heavy stick in a most leisurely +manner, then, as the dog still remained motionless, he advanced +determinedly and with fixed purpose, club raised.</p> +<p>But his heart somehow wasn’t in it. He swung wildly. Missed purposely. +The dog’s thick roach-hair lifted automatically. He snarled. +Involuntarily. Not in anger. But this outward indication of defiance was +enough to rekindle the man’s smoldering rage. Next time, the club found +its mark, again, and still again. The dog made no sound, but backed away +slowly under the shower of blows, into the thicket, lips still lifted in +a fixed snarl, but with a questioning, appealing look in his eyes that, +despite all, tempered the force that lay behind the club.</p> +<p>Following the encounter, Hardin was sheepishly displeased with himself, +ashamed, like a man after too severely beating a youngster in a fit of +anger. He left off carrying the rifle, knowing in his heart that he +would not shoot the dog if he had the chance. As a matter of fact he +rather hoped that Bill would one day come back to him. He convinced +himself readily that the dog had learned its lesson, would never again +become a killer. For witness—the sheep were still there; lazy old Stub +would have proved of little hindrance if the big wolf dog had really +wanted another taste of fresh mutton.</p> +<p>That appealing look in his old friend’s eyes haunted the man for days.</p> +<h2 id="chIV">IV.</h2> +<p>The sultry dog days of August brought distress in varying degrees to all +wilderness folk. There had been no rain for weeks. A dry blight struck +all green things; the poplar leaves turned prematurely yellow and fell +away; the hardy wire grass in the pasture became brown and dry. Unfit +even for the sheep. With Stub’s help, Hardin drove the herd a mile +farther down the valley where the feed was somewhat better.</p> +<p>The swamp itself, usually a summer paradise for all water-loving +animals, was but a morass of tangled roots and tinder-dry bogs, +surrounded by odorous pools of fetid green slime. On the upland slopes +the rabbits perished by the thousand. The shortage of food and water +drove many mountain dwellers to the lowlands. Several gaunt and silent +moose visited Kootenai Swamp, searched eternally among the few remaining +mudholes for lily roots. Many wolves, lions, bears, caribou, deer, and +hosts of lesser animals, all left their footprints in the newly formed +runway leading to the man’s pond which was the only running water for +miles about.</p> +<p>An ever-growing restless uncertainty, attended by a corresponding +shortening of temper, affected all the beasts alike. This unsettled +state of mind brought about many bloody quarrels. A caribou bull and a +big cougar staged a battle to the death in Kootenai Swamp not a quarter +of a mile from the cabin. A black bear and a silver-tip grizzly fought +on the ridge top near the old pasture.</p> +<p>As might be expected, the sheep formed an irresistible attraction for +the hungry visitors. One and all, singly and in pairs, they investigated +with longing eyes. One and all, they gauged the chances involved in +breaking through the guard of that confident, competent-appearing +beast—that was neither dog nor wolf, yet bigger and more menacing than +either—whose watchful eyes seemed never to close.</p> +<p>Each one was duly impressed. The wisest among them decided to devote +their efforts for the time being to easier, if less palatable, prey. +There were still plenty of rabbits scattered in the neighborhood of the +lowlands.</p> +<p>It devolved upon a young cougar, arrogant with the inexperience and +optimism of youth, to make the first attempt. For hours he lay well +hidden in the crotch of a long-limbed beech tree not a dozen yards from +the huddled flock of sheep. Bill knew he was there, had known it from +the first, but he made no sign. After waiting half the night for the +cougar to declare his intentions he purposely allowed an arbitrary old +ram, who could take care of himself if the exigency demanded, to wander +near the beech tree.</p> +<p>The cougar sprang. But his claws never so much as touched the ram. Bill +was upon him before he struck the ground. Luckily perhaps for the dog, +the cougar was young and unskilled in the niceties of mixed warfare. At +any rate, the hissing, growling, clutching combatants soon fell apart, +disclosing the lion stretched out at full length—quite dead. Outside of +a few scratches, Bill was uninjured.</p> +<p>Came a night when the prevailing nervous uncertainty among the +wilderness peoples broke out suddenly into frantic hysteria. Great and +small, they rushed wildly here and there in apparently aimless, +panic-stricken flight. The thickets were filled with strange noises. +Flocks of birds, squawking and screaming, shrilled overhead, all tending +toward the east.</p> +<p>The gray night air was hazy, stiflingly hot, despite a lively breeze. +The western sky reflected a dull pinkish glow. Even Stub, roused from +his perpetual nap, sniffed the air and whined querulously up at the +heavens. Bill circled the restless herd at a swinging lope, nose high in +air, listening intently, striving to learn what it was all about. +Something was wrong, he knew. But what? It was that which puzzled him.</p> +<p>A miniature whorl of wind dropping down out of the sky gave him the +answer. Fire. Although he had never before been through a forest fire, +he realized instinctively its menace. His first thought was of the +sheep. It was up to him to protect them. Alone, unencumbered by +responsibility, he would have sought out the nearest body of water. This +through no conscious mental effort; instinct merely, dictating that this +was the thing to do. Every other living thing experienced the same vital +urge. So it was that with swift, sure maneuvering, he turned the +unwieldy herd of milling sheep toward that spot where lay the cabin—and +the man’s pond.</p> +<p>Hardin was awakened by the excited bleating of the sheep. He caught up +the rifle and hurried outside, assured that something was wrong.</p> +<p>The sight that met his eyes brought furious curses to his lips. The +cabin faced the east and was located at the base of a fifty-foot bank of +shale, so that he got no warning of the oncoming wall of fire which +already tinged the western sky with coruscant flares of scarlet and +yellow. Nor did he at once identify the pungent odor that accompanied +the hot breeze. The sum total of his first impression was a bawling, +straggling mass of wild-eyed sheep harassed by a savage dog whose jowls +and body were streaked with blood. Even as he watched, Bill charged a +persistently wayward ewe silently and furiously; she careened wildly to +one side, crashed into the oncoming herd. Several sheep piled over her. +Bill dived into the struggling mass, growling fiercely, nipping sharply +with his great teeth. Speed at that very moment was the principal thing.</p> +<p>Even now the flames were licking along the ridgetop. Bill knew. There +was no time to spare. But Hardin did not know. He thought only that the +dog had again turned killer. The rifle spat fire, once—twice. At the +first shot Bill’s feet flew from under him. He hurtled forward, nose +burrowing into the sand. The second shot found its mark as he lay +writhing on the ground.</p> +<p>Mumbling incoherently with rage, Hardin hurried after the sheep. And +then, abruptly—he felt the hot breath of the fire—caught the vivid +reflection in the sky. A dead tree on the near horizon burst suddenly +into flames. The man was stunned for a moment. Then understanding came +to him.</p> +<p>Bill had not turned killer. Instead, he had saved the sheep. And that, +too, strange to say, in the face of the fire. But now—he was dead.</p> +<p>A lump rose in the man’s throat. Remorse filled his heart. The flames +were now raging along the ridge top in plain sight and in the sudden +glare he made out the big dog hitching painfully along the ground toward +the cabin. The man was glad. He cried out happily. Waved his gun. Called +encouragingly. Once in the cabin the dog would be safe. Of this he was +certain. The flames would split on either side of the cliff, thus +avoiding the cabin altogether.</p> +<p>Most of the sheep were already in the water urged by Stub’s lumbering +efforts. By the time Hardin had thrust the last reluctant lamb into the +pond the flames were sweeping up from the swamp, accompanied by +flame-shot billows of acrid smoke.</p> +<p>The heat was stifling. The man sprawled close to the ground. The +blistering heat waves seared his body like hot irons. And then—as a +smoke cloud lifted—he saw—the unexpected had happened. The cabin was +in flames. And—the injured dog was in the cabin.</p> +<p>Without an instant’s hesitation the man sprang into action. He scrambled +into the pool, drenched his few clothes thoroughly, then, bending low, +ran toward the cabin. Before the door he fell, gasping and coughing. +Dropped face down in the sand and with his first full breath, called out +encouragingly: “Stay put, old timer—I’m a comin’.”</p> +<p>The cabin door had blown shut and as he kicked it open a gust of flame +enveloped him. Again he dropped to the ground and rolled over and over +in frantic effort to extinguish his burning clothing. Ignoring his many +burns the man pushed on into the cabin.</p> +<p>Bill lay behind the big Yukon stove on his old bed of burlap bags. His +beautiful body was smeared with blood from his battle with the cougar +and the man’s bullets. His eyes were half closed. He was breathing with +difficulty in short, choking gasps. The man crawled to him over the dirt +floor. Sank exhausted. Roused as the hungry flames licked his smoke-blackened +face, lifted the dog in his arms and stumbled out, almost +exhausted, through the flame-filled doorway.</p> +<p>Crouching in the pool, the big dog still in his arms, with no thought of +his own hurts Hardin took stock of Bill’s injuries. One of the bullets +had broken a foreleg, the other had torn a ragged hole through the thick +muscles of the neck. Painful, not necessarily fatal. Hardin was well +versed in rough surgery. While the roaring of the fire diminished in the +distance and the sheep one by one floundered out of the steaming pool, +he prepared splints for the broken leg, and as he worked he talked:</p> +<p>“I didn’t mean t’ do it, ol’ pup. Honest. Don’t know whut I was thinkin’ +of—wy, doggone, if I had a mite o’ sense I would of known. But you know +me, Bill—I ain’t got no more brains that a—than a—than one o’ them +sheep. Yeah, that’s right—I ain’t got no more sense than a sheep—an’ +you an’ me knows as how that ain’t much. But this is whut I was goin’ t’ +tell you—me an’ you is goin’ away. Yeah, sure enough. I sold these here +sheep t’ Sam Dodd. You remember Sam. Kinda wisht I’d sold t’ them lumber +fellers now—the skunks—wouldn’t we have the laugh on ’em, after this; +serve ’em right, too. Anyhow, you an’ me is goin’ away, like I +said—away up yender some place—where they ain’t no sheep. Jest you an’ +me—that’s the life, eh, pup—jest you an’ me—”</p> +<p>Some things the man said were a bit confusing. Never before had he made +such a long speech; but his words were kind. The gist of it was quite +clear. All was forgiven. All was well. And despite his many hurts, Bill +was very happy. To show that he was in sympathetic agreement with +whatever the master had in mind, he wiggled his tail feebly and reached +for the man’s smoke-blackened face with his tongue.</p> +<div class="notes"> +<div class="transcriber"> +<p>Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the April 18, 1925 issue + of <i>Argosy-Allstory Weekly</i> magazine.</p> +</div> +</div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77509 ***</div> +</body> +</html>
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