Timmy was third on prairie chicken. Everybody said his performance was
marvelous in view of his total ignorance of this splendid game, so Dan
Pelly did not think it worth while to advertise the fact that he had
introduced Timmy to two crippled chickens the day before in order that
he might know their scent when he ran on to it. The International in
Montana was won by Timmy, and Dan's cup of happiness overflowed when the
judges handed him his trophies and a check for a thousand dollars.
Colonel Dorsey gave him a stiff run but the best the Colonel could do
was second place.
And then came the never to be forgotten day down in Kentucky when Timmy
went in on bobwhite quail for the All America, the field trial classic
of the Western Hemisphere. Timmy was at home again on quail. He had some
bad luck before he learned about bobwhite's peculiarities, but he had
enough wins to put him in the finals, and at the finish he was cast off
with a little Llewellyn bitch whose performance made Dan Pelly's heart
skip a beat or two. Nothing except Timmy's age and years of experience
enabled him to win over her; up to the last moments of the race
predictions were freely made that it would be a dead heat.
But just before the whistle blew, Timmy roaded a small cover to a stanch
point--the sole find made during the heat--and Dan Pelly went home with
Timmy and more money than he had ever seen before in his life except in
a bank; although better to wistful little Dan was the knowledge that he
had bred, raised, trained and handled the most consistent winner and the
most spectacularly outstanding bird dog champion in North America. Old
Keepsake and her wonderful consort, Kenwood Boy, had transmitted their
great qualities to their son, and Dan knew, in view of Tiny Tim's great
record over the field trial circuit, how much in demand would be the
puppies from that strain. Please God, Timmy might live long enough to
perpetuate his great qualities in his offspring.
Dan's return was not a triumphal one. He felt like anything except a
conquering hero. Indeed, he felt mean and low and untrustworthy; he had
to call on a reserve store of courage in order to face Martha and
explain his dastardly conduct in appropriating her fifty dollars,
breaking his promise and running away with Timmy.
Martha was sitting on the porch in her rocking-chair as Dan and his dog
came up the lane. Tiny Tim romped ahead and sprang up in Martha's lap
and kissed her and whimpered his joy at the homecoming--so Martha had
ample opportunity to brace herself to meet the culprit.
"Hello, Martha, old girl," Dan cried with a cheerfulness he was far from
feeling. "Timmy and I are home again. Are you going to forgive me,
Martha?"
Martha looked so glum and serious that Dan's heart sank.
"Oh, Martha!" he quavered and came slowly up the steps and tossed into
her lap a huge roll of banknotes. "I know I done wrong, Martha," he
declaimed. "I've been gamblin' on the side--you know, honey--side bets
on Timmy. I'm afraid we're never going to be real poor again. We've got
the mortgage paid off and three thousand in reserve, and I'm going to
sell Timmy for seven thousand five hundred dollars, with a half interest
in his sire fees for three years----"
Martha stood up, her eyes ablaze with scorn and anger.
"Dan Pelly," she flared at him, "how dare you?"
Dan hung his head.
"Oh, Martha," he pleaded, "can't you realize how terrible it is to keep
a good dog down?"
"Who offered to buy Timmy?"
"Mr. Fletcher, the owner of Colonel Dorsey."
"Tell him to go chase himself," Martha suggested slangily. "If you
expect to make your peace with me, Dan Pelly, you'll give up all idea of
selling Timmy."
"But Martha--seven thousand five hundred dollars! Think what it means to
you. No more worry about our old age, everything settled fine and dandy
at last after twenty-five years of hard luck."
"Do you really want to sell Timmy, Dan?"
"No, Martha, I don't. It'd break my heart. Bu-bu-but--I'll do it for
your sake."
"Dan, come here."
Dan came and flopped awkwardly on his old knees while Martha's arms went
around him.
"Sweet old Dan," she whispered. "What a glorious holiday you two have
had! I've been so happy just realizing how happy you have been. Dan!"
"Yes, Martha."
"Perhaps we can get back into the dog business again. Don't you think
you'd like to buy about half a dozen really fine brood bitches? Timmy's
puppies would be spoken for before they were born. The least we could
get would be a hundred dollars each for them." She stroked his old head.
"I'm afraid, Dan, it's too late to reform you. Once a dog man, always a
dog man----"
What else she intended to say remained forever unsaid, for little, weak,
foolish, sentimental old Dan commenced to sniffle, as he had the night
old Keepsake was poisoned. He wasn't a worldly man or a very ambitious
man; he craved but little here below, but one of the things he craved
was clean sportsmanship and love and understanding and a small, neat,
field type English setter that would be just a little bit better than
the other fellow's. And tonight he was so filled with happiness he just
naturally overflowed. Tiny Tim, observing that something was wrong, came
and leaned his shoulder against Martha's knee and laid his muzzle in her
hand and rested it there. It was a big moment!
[Footnote 3: _Copyright, 1922, by International Magazine Co.
(Cosmopolitan Magazine)_]
[Illustration: JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD]
_FOREWORD_
_There must be some sentiment attached to an author's choice of what he
considers his "best story" if he can reach any such decision at all.
Frankly, I cannot, and so I have chosen the story which has always lived
closest to my heart. It is really not a short story complete in itself
but is one of ten stories, or instalments, which make up my novel
"Kazan._"
_This individual story I like best because in it I bid good-by to Kazan
and Gray Wolf, two dogs whose memories will live with me long after the
memories of many of my two-legged friends have faded away. Kazan died up
near Fort MacPherson, a little this side of the Arctic Circle; Gray Wolf
near Norway House. Gray Wolf was a dog with an undoubted strain of wolf
in her, and was blinded when very young. She did not belong to me, but
was owned by a man who claimed to be a relative of the Bishop of the
Yukon. Kazan was mine. He was a one-man dog. It was his friendship for
blind Gray Wolf, when we were on one of our adventures near Norway
House, that led to the writing of my novel "Kazan._"
[Illustration]