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.]