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—”