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.