Good dogs were not easy to get; I had tried hard enough for one before
starting, but without success. Even unborn puppies had jealous
prospective owners waiting to claim them.
There is always plenty of room at the top of the tree, and good hunting
dogs were as rare as good men, good horses, and good front oxen. A lot
of qualities are needed in the make-up of a good hunting dog: size,
strength, quickness, scent, sense and speed--and plenty of courage.
They are very very difficult to get; but even small dogs are useful, and
many a fine feat stands to the credit of little terriers in guarding
camps at night and in standing off wounded animals that meant mischief.
Dennison was saved from a wounded lioness by his two fox-terriers. He
had gone out to shoot bush-pheasants, and came unexpectedly on a lioness
playing with her cubs: the cubs hid in the grass, but she stood up at
bay to protect them, and he, forgetting that he had taken the big
`looper' cartridges from his gun and reloaded with Number 6, fired. The
shot only maddened her, and she charged; but the two dogs dashed at her,
one at each side, barking, snapping and yelling, rushing in and jumping
back so fast and furiously that they flustered her. Leaving the man for
the moment, she turned on them, dabbing viciously with her huge paws,
first at one, then at the other; quick as lightning she struck right and
left as a kitten will at a twirled string; but they kept out of reach.
It only lasted seconds, but that was long enough for the man to reload
and shoot the lioness through the heart.
There was only the one dog in our camp; and she was not an attractive
one. She was a bull-terrier with a dull brindled coat--black and grey
in shadowy stripes. She had small cross-looking eyes and uncertain
always-moving ears; she was bad tempered and most unsociable; but she
was as faithful and as brave a dog as ever lived. She never barked;
never howled when beaten for biting strangers or kaffirs or going for
the cattle; she was very silent, very savage, and very quick. She
belonged to my friend Ted, and never left his side day or night. Her
name was Jess.
Jess was not a favourite, but everybody respected her, partly because
you knew she would not stand any nonsense--no pushing, patting or
punishment, and very little talking to--and partly because she was so
faithful and plucky. She was not a hunting dog, but on several
occasions had helped to pull down wounded game; she had no knowledge or
skill, and was only fierce and brave, and there was always the risk that
she would be killed. She would listen to Ted, but to no one else; one
of us might have shouted his lungs out, but it would not have stopped
her from giving chase the moment she saw anything and keeping on till
she was too dead beat to move any further.
The first time I saw Jess we were having dinner, and I gave her a bone--
putting it down close to her and saying, "Here! good dog!" As she did
not even look at it, I moved it right under her nose. She gave a low
growl, and her little eyes turned on me for just one look as she got up
and walked away.
There was a snigger of laughter from some of the others, but nobody said
anything, and it seemed wiser to ask no questions just then.
Afterwards, when we were alone, one of them told me Ted had trained her
not to feed from any one else, adding, "You must not feed another man's
dog; a dog has only one master!"
We respected Jess greatly; but no one knew quite how much we respected
her until the memorable day near Ship Mountain.
We had rested through the heat of the day under a big tree on the bank
of a little stream; it was the tree under which Soltke prayed and died.
About sundown, just before we were ready to start, some other waggons
passed, and Ted, knowing the owner, went on with him intending to rejoin
us at the next outspan. As he jumped on to the passing waggon he called
to Jess, and she ran out of a patch of soft grass under one of the big
trees behind our waggons. She answered his call instantly, but when she
saw him moving off on the other waggon she sat down in the road and
watched him anxiously for some seconds, then ran on a few steps in her
curious quick silent way and again stopped, giving swift glances
alternately towards Ted and towards us. Ted remarked laughingly that
she evidently thought he had made a mistake by getting on to the wrong
waggon, and that she would follow presently.
After he had disappeared she ran back to her patch of grass and lay
down, but in a few minutes she was back again squatting in the road
looking with that same anxious worried expression after her master.
Thus she went to and fro for the quarter of an hour it took us to
inspan, and each time she passed we could hear a faint anxious little
whine.
The oxen were inspanned and the last odd things were being put up when
one of the boys came to say that he could not get the guns and
water-barrel because Jess would not let him near them. There was
something the matter with the dog, he said; he thought she was mad.
Knowing how Jess hated kaffirs we laughed at the notion, and went for
the things ourselves. As we came within five yards of the tree where we
had left the guns there was a rustle in the grass, and Jess came out
with her swift silent run, appearing as unexpectedly as a snake does,
and with some odd suggestion of a snake in her look and attitude. Her
head, body and tail were in a dead line, and she was crouching slightly
as for a spring; her ears were laid flat back, her lips twitching
constantly, showing the strong white teeth, and her cross wicked eyes
had such a look of remorseless cruelty in them that we stopped as if we
had been turned to stone. She never moved a muscle or made a sound, but
kept those eyes steadily fixed on us. We moved back a pace or two and
began to coax and wheedle her; but it was no good; she never moved or
made a sound, and the unblinking look remained. For a minute we stood
our ground, and then the hair on her back and shoulders began very
slowly to stand up. That was enough: we cleared off. It was a mighty
uncanny appearance.
Then another tried his hand; but it was just the same. No one could do
anything with her; no one could get near the guns or the water-barrel;
as soon as we returned for a fresh attempt she reappeared in the same
place and in the same way.
The position was too ridiculous, and we were at our wits' end; for Jess
held the camp. The kaffirs declared the dog was mad, and we began to
have very uncomfortable suspicions that they were right; but we decided
to make a last attempt, and surrounding the place approached from all
sides. But the suddenness with which she appeared before we got into
position so demoralised the kaffirs that they bolted, and we gave it up,
owning ourselves beaten. We turned to watch her as she ran back for the
last time, and as she disappeared in the grass we heard distinctly the
cry of a very young puppy. Then the secret of Jess's madness was out.
We had to send for Ted, and when he returned a couple of hours later
Jess met him out on the road in the dark where she had been watching
half the time ever since he left. She jumped up at his chest giving a
long tremulous whimper of welcome, and then ran ahead straight to the
nest in the grass.
He took a lantern and we followed, but not too close. When he knelt
down to look at the puppies she stood over them and pushed herself in
between him and them; when he put out a hand to touch them she pushed it
away with her nose, whining softly in protest and trembling with
excitement--you could see she would not bite, but she hated him to touch
her puppies. Finally, when he picked one up she gave a low cry and
caught his wrist gently, but held it.
That was Jess, the mother of Jock!