This is the strange yarn of three dogs. If the dogs had been humans,
the story would have been on stage and screen long ago.
Frayne’s Farms is the alliterative name for the hundred-acre tract of
rich bottom land; in the shadow of the Ramapo Mountains,--a range that
splits North Jersey’s farm country for some twenty odd miles.
Back in these mountains are queer folk; whose exploits sometimes serve
as a page story for some Sunday newspaper. Within forty miles of New
York City as the crow flits, the handful of mountaineers are well-nigh
as primitive as any South Sea Islanders. They are as a race apart; and
with their own barbarous codes and customs.
Down from the mountains in the starvingly barren winter time, every
few years, a band of huge black mongrel dogs used to swoop upon the
Valley, harrying it from end to end in search of food; and leaving a
trail of ravaged henroosts and sheepfolds in their wake.
These plunderers were the half-wild black dogs of the
mountaineers;--dogs blended originally from a tangle of diverse
breeds; hound predominating; and with a splash of wolf-blood in their
rangy carcases.
When famine and cold gripped the folk of the mountains, the dogs were
deprived of even such scanty crusts and bones as were their summer
portion. And, under the goad of hunger, the black brutes banded for a
raid on the richer pickings of the Valley.
At such times, every able-bodied farmer, from Trask Frayne to the
members of the Italian garden-truck colony, up Suffern-way, would arm
himself and join the hunt. Rounding up the horde of mongrels, they
would shoot fast and unerringly. Such few members of the pack as
managed to break through the cordon and make a dash for the mountains
were followed hotly up into the fastnesses of the grey rocks and were
exterminated by trained huntsmen.
The mountaineers were too shrewd to make any effort to protect their
sheep-slaying and chicken-stealing pets from the hunters. Much as they
affected to despise the stolid toilers of the Valley, yet they had
learned from more than one bitter and long bygone experience that the
Valley men were not safe to trifle with when once righteous
indignation drove them to the warpath.
For years after such a battle, the Valley was wholly free from the
marauding black-dog pack. Not only did the dogs seem to shun, by
experience, the peril of invading the lowlands; but their numbers were
so depleted that there was more than enough food for all of the few
survivors, in the meagre garbage of the mountain shacks. Not until
numbers and forgetfulness again joined hands with famine, did the pack
renew its Valley forays.
When this story begins, a mere two years had passed since the latest
of the mongrel hunts. Forty farmers and hired men, marshalled and led
by young Trask Frayne, had rounded up not less than seventy-five of
the great black raiders at the bank of the frozen little Ramapo river,
which winds along at the base of the mountain wall, dividing the
Valley from the savage hinterland.
The pack’s depredations had beaten all records, that season. And the
farmers were grimly vengeful. Mercilessly, they had poured volley
after volley into the milling swarm of freebooters. Led by a giant
dog, ebony black and with the forequarters of a timber wolf, the
handful of remaining pillagers had burst through the cordon and
crossed the river to the safety of the bleak hills.
It was Trask Frayne who guided the posse of trackers in pursuit. For
the best part of two days the farmers kept up the hunt. An occasional
far-off report of a shotgun would be wafted to the Valley below, in
token of some quarry trailed to within buckshot range.
The gaunt black giant leading the pack seemed to be invulnerable. No
less than five times during that two-day pursuit some farmer caught
momentary sight of him; only to miss aim by reason of the beast’s
uncanny craftiness and speed.
Trask Frayne himself was able to take a hurried shot at the ebony
creature as the fugitive slunk shadowlike between two hillock
boulders.
At the report of Trask’s gun, the huge mongrel had whirled about,
snarling and foaming at the mouth and had snapped savagely at his own
shoulder; where a single buckshot had just seared a jagged groove.
But, before Frayne could fire a second shot, the dog had vanished.
Thus the hunt ended. Nearly all the black dogs of the mountaineers had
met the death penalty. It was the most thorough and successful of the
historic list of such battles. The raiders were practically
exterminated. Many a year must pass before the pack could hope again
to muster numbers for an invasion. And the Valley breathed easier.
Yet, Trask Frayne was not content. He knew dog-nature, as it is given
to few humans to know it. And he could not forget the wily black
giant that had led the band of mongrels. The Black was a super-dog,
for cunning and strength and elusiveness. That had been proven by
certain ultra-devastating features of the raid; as well as by his own
escape from the hunters.
And the Black still lived;--still lived, and with no worse reminder of
his flight than a bullet-cut on one mighty shoulder. Such a dog was a
menace; so long as he should continue alive.
Wherefore Trask Frayne wanted to kick himself for his own ill-luck in
not killing him. And he was obsessed by a foreboding that the Valley
had not seen the last of the Black. He could not explain this
premonition.
He could not explain it, even to himself. For Valley history showed
that each battle served as a wholesome lesson to the black dogs for
years thereafter. Never, between forays, was one of them seen on the
hither side of the Ramapo. Yet the idea would not get out of Frayne’s
head.
Trask had hated the necessary job of destroying the mongrels. For he
loved dogs. Nothing short of stark need would have lured him into
shooting one of them. His own two thoroughbred collies, Tam-o’-Shanter
and Wisp, were honoured members of the Frayne household.
Dogs of the same breed differ as much in character as do humans of the
same race. For example, no two humans could have been more widely
divergent in nature than were these two collies of Trask’s.
Tam-o’-Shanter was deep-chested, mighty of coat, tawny; as befitted
the son of his illustrious sire, old Sunnybank Lad. Iron-firm of
purpose and staunchly loyal to his master, Tam was as steady of soul
as a rock. Whether guarding the farm-buildings or rounding up a bunch
of scattered sheep that had broken bounds, he was calmly reliable.
He adored Trask Frayne with a worship that was none the less
all-absorbing because it was so undemonstrative. And he cared for
nothing and nobody else on earth--except Wisp.
Wisp had been the runt of a thoroughbred litter. He was slender and
fragile and wholly lovable; a dainty little tricolour, scarce forty
pounds in weight. Not strong enough for heavy work, yet Wisp was a
gallant guard and a gaily affectionate house dog--the cherished pet
and playfellow of the three Frayne babies. Also, he was Tam’s dearest
friend.
The larger collie, from puppyhood, had established a protection over
Wisp; ever conceding to him the warmest corner of the winter hearth,
the shadiest spot in the dooryard in summer, the best morsels of their
joint daily meal. He would descend from his calm loftiness to romp
with the frolicsome Wisp;--though the sight of stately Tam, trying to
romp, was somehow suggestive of Marshal Joffre playing pat-a-cake.
In short, he loved Wisp, as he loved not even Trask Frayne. More than
once, in the village, when a stray cur misunderstood Wisp’s gay
friendliness and showed his teeth at the frail little dog, Tam so far
departed from his wonted noble dignity as to hurl himself upon the
aggressor and thrash the luckless canine into howling submission.
He was Wisp’s guardian, as well as his dearest comrade. Once in a very
great while such inseparable friendships spring up between two
collies.
One morning in June, Trask set forth for Suffern with a flock of sixty
sheep. The day was hot; and the journey promised to be tiresome. So,
when the two collies had worked the sixty out from the rest of the
Frayne bunch of sheep and had started them, bleating and milling,
toward the highroad, Trask whistled Wisp back to him.
“Home, boy!” he ordered, patting the friendly uplifted head and
playfully rumpling the collie’s silken ears. “Back home, and take care
of things there to-day. It’s a long hot trip for a pup that hasn’t any
more stamina than you have, Wispy. Tam and I can handle them, all
right. Chase back home!”
The soft brown eyes of the collie filled with infinitely pathetic
pleading. Wisp understood the meaning of his master’s words as well as
might any of the Frayne children. From birth he had been talked to;
and his quick brain had responded; as does every clever collie’s.
Wisp knew he had been bidden to stay at home from this delightful
outing. And every inch of his body as well as his eloquent eyes cried
aloud in appeal to be taken along. Yet, when, once more, Frayne petted
his head and pointed towards the dooryard, the good little chap turned
obediently back.
As he passed Tam, the two dogs touched noses; as if exchanging speech
of some sort;--as perhaps they were. Then, disconsolately, Wisp
trotted to the house and curled up on the doormat in a small and furry
and miserably unhappy heap. There he was still lying, his sorrowful
eyes fixed on his master and on his busily-herding chum; as the huddle
of sheep were guided out of the gateway into the highroad beyond.
Glancing back, Frayne smiled encouragingly at the pathetic little
waiting figure at the door. Tam, too, paused, as he manœuvred the
last silly sheep into the highroad; and stood beside Frayne, for a
second, peering back at his chum. Under their momentary glance, Wisp
made shift to wag his plumy tail once; by way of affectionate
farewell.
Long afterward, Trask Frayne could summon up memory of the daintily
graceful little dog, lying so obediently on the doormat and wagging
such a brave goodbye to the master who had just deprived him of a
jolly day’s outing. Possibly the picture remained in Tam-o’-Shanter’s
memory, too.
It is to be hoped so. For never again were Frayne or Tam to see their
lovable little collie chum.
Dusk was sifting down the valley from beyond the mountain wall that
afternoon, when Trask Frayne turned once more into the gateway leading
to his farm. At his side trotted Tam. It had been a hard day, both for
dog and man. At best, it is no light task to marshal a flock of sixty
bolting sheep along miles of winding road. But when that road is
infested with terrifying motor-cars and when it goes past two or three
blast-emitting stone-quarries and a railway, the labour is spectacular
in spots and arduous at all times.
But, at last, thanks to Tam, the sheep had reached Suffern without a
single mishap; and had been driven skilfully into the herd-pens. The
seven-mile homeward tramp had been, by contrast, a mere
pleasure-stroll. Yet, both the collie and his master were glad of the
prospect of rest and of supper.
Frayne, reviewing the labour of the day, was pleased with his own
foresight in making Wisp stay at home. He knew such an ordeal, in such
weather, would have tired the delicate collie half to death.
Coming up the dusky lane from the house to meet the returning
wanderers was a slender, white-clad woman. As he saw her, Frayne waved
his hat and hurried forward at new speed. Thus, always, after one of
his few absences from home, his pretty young wife came up the lane to
welcome him. And, as ever, the sight of her made him forget his
fatigue.
Yet, now, after that first glance, worry took the place of eagerness,
in Frayne’s mind. For his wife was advancing slowly and spiritlessly;
and not in the very least with her wonted springy walk.
“The heat’s been too much for her!” he muttered worriedly to Tam.
“It’s been a broiling day. She ought to have----”
But Tam was no longer beside him. The big collie had started ahead,
toward the oncoming woman.
Usually, when Mildred Frayne came thus to greet her returning husband,
Wisp was with her. The little dog would bound ahead of his mistress,
as Frayne appeared; and come galloping merrily up to him and Tam. Tam,
too, always cantered forward to touch noses with his chum.
But, by this evening’s dim light, Frayne could not see Wisp. Nor did
Tam rush forward as usual. Instead, he was pacing slowly toward
Mildred, with head and tail adroop.
As Tam had turned in at the gate beside his master, the collie had
come to a convulsive halt. His nostrils had gone upward in a series of
eagerly suspicious sniffs. Then, his shaggy body had quivered all
over, as if with a spasm of physical pain. At that moment, Mildred’s
white-clad figure had caught his wandering eye. And he had moved
forward, downcast and trembling, to meet her.
It was Tam,--long before Trask,--who discovered that Mildred was
weeping. And this phenomenon, for the instant, turned his attention
from his vain search for Wisp and from the confusingly menacing scents
which had just assailed his nostrils.
Departing from his lifelong calm, the big dog whined softly, as he
came up with Mildred; and he thrust his cold muzzle sympathisingly
into her loose-hanging hand. Within him stirred all his splendid
race’s pitiful yearning to comfort a human in grief. So poignant was
this craving that it almost made him forget the increasingly keen
scents which had put him on his guard when he came in through the
gateway.
“Hello!” called Trask, cheerily, as he neared his wife. “Tired, dear?
You shouldn’t have bothered to walk all this way out to meet me. After
a rotten day like this, you ought to be resting.... Where’s Wisp? Is
he ‘disciplining’ me for making him stay home? I----”
Then he, too, saw Mildred was crying. And before he could speak again,
she had thrown her arms around his neck; and was sobbing out an
incoherent story, broken by an occasional involuntary shiver. Holding
her close to him and asking eagerly futile questions, Trask Frayne,
bit by bit, drew forth the reason for her grief.
Harry and Janet, the two older children, had gone down to the river,
that noon, to fish, off the dock, for perch. Mildred, at an upper
window where she was sewing, had watched them from time to time. For
the river was high and rapid from recent rains.
But Wisp was with them; and she had experience in the little collie’s
sleepless care over the youngsters. More than once, indoors, Wisp had
thrust his own slight body between a Frayne child and the fire. Again
and again, at the dock, he had interposed his puny bulk and had
shoved with all his force; when one or another of the babies ventured
too close to the edge.
To-day, as she looked up from her sewing, she had seen the trio leave
the dock and start homeward. Janet had been in the lead; swinging the
string of perch and sunfish and shiners they had caught. They had
skirted a riverside thicket on their way to the home-path.
Out from the bushes had sprung a gigantic lean dog, jet black except
for a zig-zag patch of white on one shoulder. The wind had been strong
in the other direction. So no scent of the dog had reached Wisp, who
was dawdling along a bit to the rear of the children.
The black had made a lightning grab at the carelessly swung string of
fish; and had snatched them away from Janet. As he turned to bolt back
into the thicket with his stolen feast, Harry had caught up a stick
and had charged in pursuit of the string of laboriously-caught fish.
The child had brought his stick down with a resounding thwack on the
head of the escaping beast.
The blow must have stung. For, instantly, the Black dropped the fish
and leaped upon the tiny chap. All this in a single second or less.
But, before the mongrel’s teeth could reach their mark, Wisp had
flashed past the two startled children and had launched his weak body
straight at the Black’s throat.
Down went the two dogs in a tearing, snarling heap.
Mildred, realising how hopelessly unequal was the contest, had run to
the aid of her beloved Wisp. Fleeing downstairs, she had snatched
Trask’s gun from its peg above the mantel, had seized at random a
handful of shells; and ran out of the house and towards the river,
loading the gun as she went.
By the time she came in sight, the Black had already recovered the
advantage he had lost by Wisp’s unexpected spring. By dint of strength
and of weight, he had torn himself free of Wisp’s weak grip, had flung
the lighter dog to earth and had pinned him there. Right gallantly did
little Wisp battle in the viselike grasp of the giant. Fiercely he
strove to bite at the rending jaws and to rip free from the crushing
weight above him.
But, as ever, mere courage could not atone for dearth of brute
strength and ferocity. Undeterred by his foe’s puny efforts or by the
fusillade of blows from Harry’s stick and from Janet’s pudgy fists,
the Black had slung Wisp to one side and had lunged once more at him.
This time he found the mark he sought:--the back of the neck, just
below the base of the brain. He threw all his vast jaw-power into one
terrific bite. And little Wisp’s frantic struggles ceased. The
valiant collie lay inert and moveless; his neck broken.
Maddened by conquest, the Black tossed the lifeless body in air. It
came to ground on the edge of the river. There, from the momentum of
the toss, it had rebounded into the water. The swift current had
caught it and borne it downstream.
Then, for the first time, the Black seemed to realise that both
frantically screaming children were showering futile blows on him.
With a snarl he turned on Harry. But, as he did so, Mildred’s flying
feet brought her within range. Halting, she raised the gun and fired.
She was a good shot. And excitement had not robbed her aim of
steadiness. But excitement had made her catch up a handful of
cartridges loaded lightly with Number Eight shot; instead of anything
more deadly.
The small pellets buzzed, hornetlike, about the Black’s head and
shoulders; several of them stinging hotly. But at that distance, the
birdshot could do no lasting damage. Nor did any of it chance to reach
one of his eyes.
With a yell of pain he wheeled to face the woman. And she let him have
the second barrel. Memories of former clashes with gunners seemed to
wake in the brute’s crafty brain. Snarling, snapping, shaking his
tormented head, he turned and plunged into the narrow river; gaining
the farther bank and diving into the waterside bushes before Mildred
could think to reload.
The balance of the day had been spent in a vain search of the bank,
downstream, for Wisp’s lost body; and in trying to comfort the
heart-broken children. Not until she had gotten the babies to bed and
had soothed them to sleep did Mildred have scope to think of her own
grief in the loss of the gentle dog who had been so dear to her.
“He--he gave his life for them!” she finished her sobbing recital. “He
knew,--he _must_ have known,--that he had no chance against that
horrible monster. And Wisp had never fought, you know, from the day he
was born. He knew that brute would kill him. And he never hesitated at
all. He gave his life for the children. And--and we can’t--can’t even
say a prayer over his grave!”
But Trask Frayne, just then, was not thinking of prayers. Deep down in
his throat, he was cursing:--softly, but with much venom. And the
nails of his hard-clenched fists bit deep into his palms.
“Black, with a white scar on the shoulder?” he said, at last, his own
harsh voice not unlike a dog’s growl. “Hound ears, and the build of a
timber-wolf? Almost as big as a Dane; and bone-thin? H’m! That’s my
buckshot-scar on his shoulder,--that zig-zag white mark. To-morrow
morning, I’m going hunting. Up in the mountains. Want to come along,
Tam?”
But, as before, Tam was not there, when his master turned to speak to
him. The collie had waited only long enough to note that the task of
comforting the weeping Mildred had been taken over by more expert
powers than his. Then he had trotted off towards the house; not only
to solve the problem of these sinister scents which hung so heavy on
the moist night air, but to find his strangely-absent chum, Wisp.
Circling the house, he caught Wisp’s trail. It was some hours old; but
by no means too cold to be followed by a collie whose scenting powers
had once tracked a lost sheep for five miles through a blizzard. With
Wisp’s trail was mingled that of two of the children. And it led to
the river-path.
True, there were other trails of Wisp’s, that the sensitive nostrils
caught. But all of them were older than this which led to the water.
Therefore, as any tracking dog would have known, Wisp had gone
riverward, since he had been near the house. And down the path, nose
to ground, followed Tam-o’-Shanter.
He did not move with his wonted stolidity. For, over and above the
mere trail scent, his nostrils were assailed by other and more
distressingly foreboding smells;--the smells he had caught as he had
entered the gate;--the smells which grew ranker at every loping step
he took.
In half a minute he was at the bank. And before that time, he had
abandoned the nose-to-earth tracking. For now all around him was that
terrible scent.
Back and forth dashed and circled and doubled Tam. And every evolution
told him more of the gruesome story.
Here among the bushes had lain a strange animal; an unwashen and
pungent and huge animal; apparently sleeping after a gorge of chicken
or lamb. Here, along the path, had come the children, with Wisp behind
them. Here the strange dog had leapt forth; and here,--alongside that
string of forgotten and sun-blown fish on the ground,--Wisp and the
stranger had clashed.
The dullest of scents could have told the story from that point:--the
trampled earth, the spatters of dried blood, the indentation in the
grass, where Wisp’s writhing body had striven so heroically to free
itself from the crushing weight above it and to renew the hopeless
battle.
Wisp was dead. He was slain by that huge and rank-scented creature.
His body had touched the river-brink, fully five feet from the scene
of the fight. After that it had disappeared. For running water will
not hold a scent.
Yes, Wisp was dead. He had been murdered. He had been murdered,--this
adored chum of his,--by the great beast whose scent was already graven
so indelibly on Tam’s heartsick memory.
There, at the river-edge, a few minutes later, Trask Frayne found
Tam-o’-Shanter; padding restlessly about, from spot to spot of the
tragedy; whimpering under his breath. But the whimper carried no hint
of pathos. Rather was it the expression of a wrath that lay too deep
for mere growling.
At his master’s touch, the great collie started nervously; and shrunk
away from the caress he had always craved. And his furtively swift
motion, in eluding the loved hand, savoured far more of the wolf than
of the trained house dog. The collie, in look and in action, had
reverted to the wild.
Tam trotted, for the tenth time, to the spot at the river-shore, where
the Black had bounded into the water. Impatiently,--always with that
queer little throaty whimper,--he cast up and down along the bank, in
quest of some place where Wisp’s slayer might perhaps have doubled
back to land.
Presently, Trask called to him. For the first time in his blameless
life, Tam hesitated before obeying. He was standing, hock-deep, in the
swirling water; sniffing the air and peering through the dusk along
the wooded banks on the far side of the stream.
Again, and more imperatively, Frayne called him. With visible
distaste, the collie turned and made his way back towards his master.
Frayne had finished his own fruitless investigations and was starting
homeward.
Half-way to the house he paused and looked back. Tam had ceased to
follow him and was staring once more at the patches of trampled and
dyed earth. A third and sharper call from Trask brought the collie to
heel.
“I don’t blame you, old boy,” said Frayne, as they made their way
towards the lighted kitchen. “But you can’t find him that way.
To-morrow you and I are going to take a little trip through the
mountains. I’d rather have your help on a hunt like that than any
hound’s. You won’t forget his scent in a hurry. And you know, as well
as I, what he’s done.”
On the way to the house, Frayne paused at the sheepfold; and made a
careful detour of it. But the inspection satisfied him that the fence
(built long ago with special regard to the mountainpack’s forays) was
still too stout to permit of any dog’s breaking through it. And he
passed on to the house; again having to summon the newly-furtive
collie from an attempt to go back to the river.
“He won’t pay us another visit to-night, Tam,” he told the sullen dog,
as they went indoors. “He’s tricky. And if he’s really on the rampage,
here in the Valley, he’ll strike next in some place miles away from
here. Wait till to-morrow.”
But once more Tam did not follow his overlord’s bidding. For, at dawn
of the morrow, when Trask came out of the house, shotgun in hand, the
dog was nowhere to be found. Never before had Tam forsaken his duties
as guardian of the farm to wander afield without Frayne.
The jingle of the telephone brought Trask back into the house. On the
other end of the wire was an irate farmer.
“I’m sending word all along the line,” came his message. “Last night a
dog bust into my hencoop and killed every last one of my prize
Hamburgs and fifty-three other chickens, besides. He worked as quiet
as a fox. ’Twasn’t till I heard a chicken squawk that I came out. That
must have been the last of the lot; and the dog had got careless. I
had just a glimpse of him as he sneaked off in the dark. Great big
cuss he was. As big as a house. Looked something like a wolf by that
bum light; and something like a collie, too. Last evening I got news
that Gryce, up Suffern-way, lost a lamb, night before, from some
prowling dog. D’you s’pose the dogs from the mountains is loose
again?”
“One of them is,” returned Frayne. “I’m going after him, now.”
He hung up the receiver, and, gun under arm, made his way to the scow
lying at the side of the dock. Crossing the river, he explored the
bank for a half mile in both directions. Failing to find sign or trail
of the Black, he struck into the mountains.
It was late that night when Trask slouched wearily into his own house
and laid aside his gun.
“Any trace of him?” asked Mildred, eagerly.
“Not a trace,” answered Frayne. “I quartered the range, farther back
than we ever hunted before. And I asked a lot of questions at that
God-forsaken mountaineer settlement, up there. That’s all the good it
did. I might hunt for a year and not get any track of the beast. Those
mountaineers are all liars, of course. Not one of ’em, would admit
they’d ever seen or heard of the dog. If I’d had Tam with me, I might
have caught the trail. To-morrow, I’ll see he goes along. He----”
“Tam?” repeated Mildred, in surprise. “Why, wasn’t he with you? He
hasn’t been home all day. He----”
“Hasn’t been home? Do you mean to say he didn’t come back?”
“No,” said his wife, worriedly. “When I got up this morning and found
you both gone, I thought of course you’d taken him along, as you said
you were going to. Didn’t----”
“He wasn’t anywhere around when I started,” replied Frayne.
“He’s--he’s never been away for a whole day, or even for a whole hour,
before. I wonder----”
“Oh, do you suppose that horrible brute has killed Tam, too?” quavered
Mildred, in new terror.
“Not he,” Trask reassured her. “Not he, or any other mortal dog. But,”
he hesitated, then went on, shamefacedly, “but I’ll tell you what I
_do_ think. I believe Tam has gone hunting, on his own account. I
believe he’s trailing that mongrel. If he is, he has a man’s size job
cut out for him. For the Black is as tricky as a weasel. Tam thought
more of Wisp than he thought of anything else. And he was like another
animal when he found what had happened, down yonder. Take my word for
it, he is after the dog that murdered his chum. Whether he’ll ever get
him, is another matter. But, if he really is after him, he’ll never
give up the hunt, as long as he has a breath of life left in him.
Either he’ll overhaul the cur or--well, either that or we’ll never
see him again. There’s no sense in my poking around in the mountains
without him. All we can do is wait. That and try to find Tam and chain
him up till he forgets this crazy revenge-idea.”
But even though the Fraynes did not see their cherished collie when
they arose next morning, they did not lack for news of him. In the
middle of a silent and doleful breakfast a telephone ring summoned
Trask from the table.
“That you, Frayne?” queried a truculent voice. “This is Trippler,--at
Darlington. I got rotten news for you. But it’s a whole lot rottener
for _me_. Last night my cow-yard was raided by a dog. He killed two of
the month-old Jersey calves and pretty near ripped the throat out of
one of my yearlings. I heard the racket and I ran out with my gun and
a flashlight. The cow-yard looked like a battlefield. The dog had
skipped. Couldn’t see a sign of him, anywheres.
“But about half an hour later he came back. He came back while I was
redding up the yard and trying to quiet the scared critters. He came
right to the cow-yard gate and stood sniffing there as bold as brass;
like he was trying to catch the scent of more of my stock to kill. I
heard his feet a-pattering and I turned the flashlight on him.
“He was _your_ dog, Frayne! That big dark coloured collie dog of
yours. I saw him as plain as day. I upped with my gun and I let him
have it. For I was pretty sore. But I must have missed him, clean. For
there wasn’t any blood near his footprints, in the mud, when I looked.
He just lit out. But I’m calling up to tell you you’ll have a big bill
to pay on this; and----”
“Hold on,” interrupted Frayne, quietly. “I’ll be up there, in twenty
minutes. Good-bye.”
As fast as his car could carry him, Trask made his way up the Valley
to Darlington, and to the Trippler farm. There an irately unloving
host awaited him.
“Before you go telling me the whole story all over again,” Trask broke
in on an explosive recital, “take me over to the exact spot where you
saw Tam standing and sniffing. The ground all around here is soaked
from the shower we had last evening. I want to see the tracks you were
speaking of.”
Muttering dire threats and whining lamentations for his lost calves,
Trippler led the way to the cow-yard; pointing presently to a gap in
the privet hedge which shut off the barns from the truck garden.
Frayne went over to the gap and proceeded to inspect the muddy earth,
inch by inch.
“It was here Tam stood when you turned the light on him?” he asked.
“Right just there,” declared Trippler. “And I c’n swear to him.
He----”
“Come over here,” invited Trask. “There are his footprints. As you
said. And I’d know them anywhere. There’s no other dog of his size
with such tiny feet. He gets them from his sire, Sunnybank Lad. Those
are Tam’s footprints, I admit that. I’d know them anywhere;--even if
they didn’t show the gash in the outer pad of the left forefoot; where
he gouged himself on barbed wire when he was a pup.”
“You admit it was him, then!” orated Trippler. “That’s all I need to
hear you say! Now, how much----?”
“No, no,” gently denied Frayne. “It isn’t anywhere near all you need
to hear. Now, let’s go back into the cow-yard. As I crossed it, just
now, I saw dozens of dog-footprints, among the hoof-marks of the
calves. Let’s take another look at them.”
Grumblingly, yet eager to add this corroboratory evidence, Trippler
followed him to the wallow of churned mud which marked the scene of
slaughter. At the first clearly defined set of footprints, Trask
halted.
“Take a good look at those,” he adjured. “Study them carefully. Here,
these, for instance;--where the dog planted all fours firmly for a
spring. They’re the marks of splay feet, a third larger than Tam’s;
and not one of them has that gash in the pad;--the one I pointed out
to you, back at the gap. Look for yourself.”
“Nonsense!” fumed Trippler, albeit a shade uneasily, as he stood up
stiffly after a peering study of the prints. “Anyhow,” he went on,
“all it proves is that there was two of ’em. This big splay-footed
cuss and your collie. They was working in couples, like killers often
does.”
“Were they?” Frayne caught him up. “Were they? Then suppose you look
carefully all through this welter of cow-yard mud; and see if you can
find a single footprint of Tarn’s. And while you’re looking, let me
tell you something.”
As Trippler went over the yard’s mud with gimlet eyes, Trask related
the story of Wisp’s killing; and his own theory as to Tam.
“He’s trailing that black dog,” he finished. “He struck his scent
somewhere, and followed him. He got here a half-hour too late. And
then when you fired at him he run off to pick up the trail again. But
I doubt if he got it. For, the Black would probably be cunning enough
to take to the river, after a raid like this. He’d have sense enough
to know somebody would track him. That brute has true wolf-cunning.”
“Maybe--maybe you’re right,” hesitated Trippler, after a minute search
of the yard had failed to reveal a footprint corresponding with
Tam’s. “And the county’s got to pay for ‘any damage done to stock by
an unknown dog.’ That’s the law. I’m kind of glad, too. You see, I
like old Tam. Besides, I c’n c’llect more damages from the county than
I c’d c’llect from a lawsoot with a neighbour. What’ll we do now? Fix
up a posse; like we did, the other times?”
“No,” replied Trask. “It would do no good. The Black is too clever.
And in summer there are too many ways to throw off the scent. Tam will
get him,--if anyone can. Let’s leave it to him.”
But other farmers were not so well content to leave the punishment of
the mysterious raider to Tam. As the days went on, there were more and
more tidings of the killer. Up and down the Valley he worked; never
twice in succession in the same vicinity.
Twice, an hour or so after his visits, men saw Tam prowling along the
mongrel’s cooling tracks. They reported to Frayne that the collie had
grown lean and gaunt and that his beautiful coat was one mass of briar
and burr; and that he had slunk away, wolf-fashion, when they called
to him.
Frayne, himself, caught no slightest sight of his beloved dog; though,
occasionally, in the mornings, he found empty the dish of food he had
set out on the previous night. Trask was working out the problem, for
himself, nowadays, deaf to all requests that he head another band of
hunters into the mountains. He was getting no sleep to speak of. But
he was thrilling with the suspense of what sportsmen know as “the
still hunt.”
Every evening, when his chores and his supper were finished, Frayne
went to the sheepfold and led thence a fat wether that had a real
genius for loud bleating. This vocal sheep he would tether to a stake
near the river-bank. Then he himself would study the trend of the
faint evening breeze; and would take up a position in the bushes,
somewhere to leeward of the sheep. There, gun across knees, he would
sit, until early daylight.
Sometimes he dozed. Oftener he crouched, tense and wakeful, in his
covert; straining his eyes, through the gloom, for the hoped-for sight
of a slinking black shadow creeping towards the decoy. Not alone to
avenge the death of Wisp and to rid the Valley of a scourge did he
spend his nights in this way. He knew Tam; as only a born dogman can
know his dog. He missed the collie, keenly. And he had solid faith
that on the death of the Black, the miserable quest would end and Tam
would return to his old home and to his old habits.
So, night after night, Frayne would keep his vigil. Morning after
morning, he would plod home, there to hear a telephoned tale of the
Black’s depredations at some other point of the Valley. At first his
nightly watch was kept in dense darkness. But, soon the waxing moon
lightened the river-bank; and made the first hours of the sentry duty
easier.
Frayne began to lose faith in his own scheme. He had an odd feeling
that the Black somehow knew of his presence in the thicket and that
Frayne’s Farms was left unvisited for that reason. Trask’s immunity
from the Black’s depredations was the theme of much neighboured talk,
as time went on. Once more was revived Trippler’s theory that Tam and
the Black were hunting in couples and that the collie (like so many
dogs which have “gone bad”) was sparing his late master’s property.
On all these unpleasant themes Trask Frayne was brooding, one night,
late in the month; as he sat in uncomfortable stillness amid the
bushes and stared glumly out at the occasionally-bleating wether. He
had had a hard day. And the weeks of semi-sleeplessness were beginning
to tell cruelly on him. His senses had taken to tricking him, of late.
For instance, at one moment, this night, he was crouching there,
waiting patiently for the full moon to rise above the eastern hills,
to brighten his vigil. The next moment,--though he was certain he had
not closed his eyes,--the moon had risen and was riding high in the
clear heavens.
Frayne started a little, and blinked. As he did so, his disturbed mind
told him he had not awakened naturally, but that he had been disturbed
by some sound. He shifted his drowsy gaze towards the tethered sheep.
And at once all slumber was wiped from his brain.
The wether was lying sprawled on the ground, in a posture that nature
neither intends nor permits. Its upflung legs were still jerking
convulsively, like galvanised stilts. And above it was bending a huge
dark shape.
The moon beat down mercilessly on the tableau of the slain sheep, and
of the Black, with his fangs buried deep in the twisting throat.
Now that the longed-for moment had at last come, Trask found himself
seized by an unaccountable numbness of mind and of body. By a mighty
effort he regained control of his faculties. Slowly and in utter
silence he lifted the cocked gun from his knees and put its butt to
the hollow of his shoulder.
The Black looked up, in quick suspicion, from his meal. Even in the
excitement of the instant, Frayne found scope to wonder at the brute’s
ability to hear so noiseless a motion. And his sleep-numbed finger
sought the trigger.
Then, in a flash, he knew why the Black’s great head had lurched so
suddenly up from the interrupted meal. From out a clump of alder,
twenty feet to shoreward of the river-bank orgy, whirled a tawny
shape. With the speed of a flung spear it sped; straight for the
feasting mongrel. And, in the mere breath of time it took to dash
through the intervening patch of moonlight, Frayne recognised the
newcomer.
The Black sprang up from beside the dead sheep, and faced the foe he
could no longer elude. Barely had he gained his feet when Tam was upon
him.
Yet the mongrel was not taken unaware. His crafty brain was alert and
the master of his sinewy body. As Tam leaped, the black dog reared to
meet him. Then, in practically the same gesture, the Black shifted his
direction, and dived beneath the charging collie, lunging for the
latter’s unprotected stomach. It was a manœuvre worthy of a wolf;
and one against which the average dog must have been helpless.
But the Black’s opponent was a collie. And, in the back of his brain,
though never in his chivalric heart, a collie is forever reverting to
his own wolf ancestors. Thus, as the Black changed the course of his
lunge, Tam, in mid-air, changed his. By a violent twist of every
whalebone muscle, Tam whirled himself sidewise. And the Black’s
ravening jaws closed on nothing.
In another instant,--even before he had touched ground,--Tam had
slashed with his curving eyeteeth. This is another trick known to
practically no animal save the wolf and the wolf’s direct descendant,
the collie. The razorlike teeth cut the Black’s left ear and cheek as
cleanly as might a blade.
But, in the same motion, the Black’s flying head had veered; and his
jaws had found a hold above Tam’s jugular. Again, with the normal dog,
such a hold might well have ended the fight. But, the Providence which
ordained that a collie should guard sheep on icy Highland moors also
gave him an unbelievably thick coat, to fend off the weather. And this
coat serves as an almost invulnerable armour; especially at the side
of the throat. The Black’s teeth closed upon a quantity of tangled
fur; but on only the merest patch of skin and on none of the under
flesh at all.
Tam ripped himself free, leaving a double handful of ruff between the
Black’s grinding jaws. As the mongrel spat out the encumbering gag of
fur, Tam’s curved fang laid bare the scarred shoulder once grazed by
Trask Frayne’s buckshot. And, in a rolling, fighting heap, the two
enemies rolled over and over together on the dew-drenched grass.
Frayne’s gun was levelled. But the man did not dare fire. By that
deceptive light, he had no assurance of hitting one dog without also
killing the other. And, chafing at his own impotence, he stood
stock-still, watching the battle.
Both dogs were on their feet again; rearing and rending in mute fury.
No sound issued from the back-curled lips of either. This was no mere
dogfight, as noisy as it was pugnacious. It was a struggle to the
death. And the dogs realised it.
Thrice more, the Black struck for the jugular. Twice, thanks to Tam’s
lightning quickness, he scored a clean miss. The third time, he
annexed only another handful of hair.
With his slashes he was luckier. One of Tam’s forelegs was bleeding
freely. So was a cut on his stomach, where the Black had sought to
disembowel him. And one side of his muzzle was laid open. But the
collie had given over such mere fencing tactics as slashing. He was
tearing into his powerful and wily foe with all the concentrated fury
of his month’s vain pursuit of vengeance.
The Black dived for the collie’s forelegs, seeking to crack their
bones in his mighty jaws and thus render his foe helpless. Nimbly,
Tam’s tiny white forefeet whisked away from the peril of each dive. In
redoubled fury he drove for the throat. And the two clashed, shoulder
to shoulder.
Then, amid the welter, came the final phase of the fight. The Black,
as the two reared, lunged again for the collie’s hurt throat. Tam
jerked his head and neck aside to avoid the grip. And, as once before,
the Black changed the direction of his lunge. With the swiftness of a
striking snake, he made the change. And, before the other could thwart
or so much as divine his purpose, he had secured the coveted hold, far
up on Tam’s left foreleg.
No mere snap or slash, this; but a death grip. The Black’s teeth sank
deep into the captured leg; grinding with a force which presently must
snap the bones of the upper leg and leave the collie crippled against
a practically uninjured and terrible antagonist. The rest would be
slaughter.
Tam knew his own mortal peril. He knew it even before Trask Frayne
came rushing out from his watching-place, brandishing the gun,
club-fashion. The collie did not try to wrench free and thereby to
hurry the process of breaking his leg or of tearing out the
shoulder-muscles. He thought, as quickly as the mongrel had lunged.
Rearing his head aloft, he drove down at the Black. The latter was
clinging with all his might to the collie’s foreleg. And, in the
rapture of having gained at last a disabling grip, he ignored the fact
that he had left an opening in his own defence;--an opening seldom
sought in a fight, except by a wolf or a wolf’s descendant.
It was for this opening that Tam-o’-Shanter struck. In a trice his
white teeth had buried themselves in the exposed nape of the Black’s
neck.
Here, at the brain’s base, lies the spinal cord, dangerously within
reach of long and hard-driven fangs. And here, Tam had fastened
himself.
An instant later,--but an instant too late,--the Black knew his peril.
Releasing his grip on the collie’s leg, before the bone had begun to
yield, he threw his great body madly from side to side, fighting
crazily to shake off the death-hold. With all his mighty strength, he
thrashed about.
Twice, he lifted the seventy-pound collie clean off the ground. Once
he fell, with Tam under him. But the collie held on. Tam did more than
hold on. Exerting every remaining atom of his waning power, he let his
body be flung here and there, in the Black’s struggles; and he
concentrated his force upon cleaving deeper and deeper into the
neck-nape.
This was the grip whereby the Black, a month agone, had crushed the
life out of friendly little Wisp. And, by chance or by fate, Tam had
been enabled to gain the same hold. Spasmodically, he set his fangs
in a viselike tightening of his grip.
At one instant, the Black was whirling and writhing in the fulness of
his wiry might. At the next, with a sickening snapping sound, his
giant body went limp. And his forequarters hung, a lifeless weight,
from his conqueror’s jaws.
Tam relaxed his hold. The big black body slumped to earth and lay
there. The collie, panting and swaying, stood over his dead enemy. The
bitterly long quest was ended. Heavenward went his bleeding muzzle.
And he waked the solemn stillnesses of the summer night with an eerie
wolf howl, the awesome primal yell of Victory.
For a few seconds Trask Frayne, unnoticed, stared at his dog. And, as
he looked, it seemed to him he could see the collie change gradually
back from a wild thing of the forests to the staunch and adoring
watchdog of other days. Then the man spoke.
“Tam!” he said, quietly. “_Tam!_ Old friend!”
The exhausted victor lurched dizzily about, at sound of the voice.
Catching sight of Trask, he trembled all over.
He took a dazed step towards Frayne. Then, with something queerly
like a human sob, the collie sprang forward; and gambolled weakly
about the man; licking Trask’s feet and hands; springing up in a
groggy effort to kiss his face; patting his master’s chest with eager
forepaws; crying aloud in an ecstasy of joy at the reunion.
Then, all at once, he seemed to remember he was a staid and dignified
middle-aged dog and not a hoodlum puppy. Ceasing his unheard-of
demonstrations, he stood close beside Frayne; looking up into Trask’s
eyes in silent worship.
“You’ve done a grand night’s work, Tam,” said Frayne, seeking to
steady his own voice. “And your hurts need bathing. Come home.”
His plumed tail proudly wagging, his splendid head aloft,
Tam-o’-Shanter turned and led the way to the house he loved.