And Jock?
But I never saw my dog again. For a year or so he lived something of
the old veld life, trekking and hunting; from time to time I heard of
him from Ted and others: stories seemed to gather easily about him as
they do about certain people, and many knew Jock and were glad to bring
news of him. The things they thought wonderful and admirable made
pleasant news for them to tell and welcome news to me, and they were
heard with contented pride, but without surprise, as "just like him":
there was nothing more to be said.
One day I received word from Ted that he was off to Scotland for a few
months and had left Jock with another old friend, Tom Barnett--Tom, at
whose store under the Big Fig Tree, Seedling lies buried; and although I
was glad that he had been left with a good friend like Tom, who would
care for him as well as any one could, the life there was not of the
kind to suit him. For a few months it would not matter; but I had no
idea of letting him end his days as a watch-dog at a trader's store in
the kaffir country. Tom's trouble was with thieves; for the natives
about there were not a good lot, and their dogs were worse. When Jock
saw or scented them, they had the poorest sort of luck or chance: he
fought to kill, and not as town dogs fight; he had learnt his work in a
hard school, and he never stopped or slackened until the work was done;
so his fame soon spread and it brought Tom more peace than he had
enjoyed for many a day. Natives no longer wandered at will into the
reed-enclosed yard; kaffir dogs ceased to sneak into the store and
through the house, stealing everything they could get. Jock took up his
place at the door, and hungry mongrels watched him from a distance or
sneaked up a little closer when from time to time he trotted round to
the yard at the back of the building to see how things were going there.
All that was well enough during the day; but the trouble occurred at
night. The kaffirs were too scared to risk being caught by him, but the
dogs from the surrounding kraals prowled about after dark, scavenging
and thieving where they could; and what angered Tom most of all was the
killing of his fowls. The yard at the back of the store was enclosed by
a fence of close-packed reeds, and in the middle of the yard stood the
fowl-house with a clear space of bare ground all round it. On many
occasions kaffir dogs had found their way through the reed fence and
killed fowls perching about the yard, and several times they had burgled
the fowl-house itself. In spite of Jock's presence and reputation, this
night robbing still continued, for while he slept peacefully in front of
the store, the robbers would do their work at the back. Poor old
fellow! They were many and he was one; they prowled night and day, and
he had to sleep sometimes; they were watchful and he was deaf; so he had
no chance at all unless he saw or scented them.
There were two small windows looking out on to the yard, but no door in
the back of the building; thus, in order to get into the yard, it was
necessary to go out of the front door and round the side of the house.
On many occasions Tom, roused by the screaming of the fowls, had seized
his gun and run round to get a shot at the thieves; but the time so lost
was enough for a kaffir dog, and the noise made in opening the reed gate
gave ample warning of his coming.
The result was that Tom generally had all his trouble for nothing; but
it was not always so. Several times he roused Jock as he ran out, and
invariably got some satisfaction out of what followed; once Jock caught
one of the thieves struggling to force a way through the fence and held
on to the hind leg until Tom came up with the gun; on other occasions he
had caught them in the yard; on others, again, he had run them down in
the bush and finished it off there without help or hindrance.
That was the kind of life to which Jock seemed to have settled down.
He was then in the very prime of life, and I still hoped to get him back
to me some day to a home where he would end his days in peace. Yet it
seemed impossible to picture him in a life of ease and idleness--a
watch-dog in a house sleeping away his life on a mat, his only
excitement keeping off strange kaffirs and stray dogs, or burrowing for
rats and moles in a garden, with old age, deafness, and infirmities
growing year by year to make his end miserable. I had often thought
that it might have been better had he died fighting--hanging on with his
indomitable pluck and tenacity, tackling something with all the odds
against him; doing his duty and his best as he had always done--and died
as Rocky's dog had died. If on that last day of our hunting together he
had got at the lioness, and gone under in the hopeless fight; if the
sable bull had caught and finished him with one of the scythe-like
sweeps of the scimitar horns; if he could have died--like Nelson--in the
hour of victory! Would it not have been better for him--happier for me?
Often I thought so. For to fade slowly away; to lose his strength and
fire and intelligence; to outlive his character, and no longer be
himself! No, that could not be happiness!
Well, Jock is dead! Jock, the innocent cause of Seedling's downfall and
death, lies buried under the same big Fig Tree: the graves stand side by
side. He died, as he lived--true to his trust; and this is how it
happened, as it was faithfully told to me:
It was a bright moonlight night--Think of the scores we had spent
together, the mild glorious nights of the Bushveld!--and once more Tom
was roused by a clatter of falling boxes and the wild screams of fowls
in the yard. Only the night before the thieves had beaten him again;
but this time he was determined to be even with them. Jumping out of
bed he opened the little window looking out on to the fowl-house, and,
with his gun resting on the sill, waited for the thief. He waited long
and patiently; and by-and-by the screaming of the fowls subsided enough
for him to hear the gurgling and scratching about in the fowl-house, and
he settled down to a still longer watch; evidently the kaffir dog was
enjoying his stolen meal in there.
"Go on! Finish it!" Tom muttered grimly; "I'll have you this time if I
wait till morning!"
So he stood at the window waiting and watching, until every sound had
died away outside. He listened intently: there was not a stir; there
was nothing to be seen in the moonlit yard; nothing to be heard; not
even a breath of air to rustle the leaves in the big fig tree.
Then, in the same dead stillness the dim form of a dog appeared in the
doorway, stepped softly out of the fowl-house, and stood in the deep
shadow of the little porch. Tom lifted the gun slowly and took careful
aim. When the smoke cleared away, the figure of the dog lay still,
stretched out on the ground where it had stood; and Tom went back to
bed, satisfied.
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The morning sun slanting across the yard shone in Tom's eyes as he
pushed the reed gate open and made his way towards the fowl-house.
Under the porch, where the sunlight touched it, something shone like
burnished gold.
He was stretched on his side--it might have been in sleep; but on the
snow-white chest there was one red spot.
And inside the fowl-house lay the kaffir dog--dead.
Jock had done his duty.
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The End.