Sitting on his assigned portion of the backless wooden school bench,
fourteen-year-old Franz Halle tried earnestly to concentrate on the
Latin text before him. He read, "_Deinde rex perterritus Herculi hunc
laborem, graviorem, imposuit. Augeas_--"
Very interesting, he thought, and doubtless very important. Professor
Luttman, who taught the school at Dornblatt, said so, and Professor
Luttman was both wise and educated. Franz himself had heard the village
men say that he could discuss the classics, politics, history, higher
mathematics, astronomy and the latest method of bloodletting as a cure
for the ague, at endless length and most thoroughly. Franz tried again.
"_Deinde rex_--" Surely it meant something or Professor Luttman never
would have assigned it. But what? If only it were a squirrel track in
the snow, a chamois doe trying to lure an eagle away from its kid, a
trout in the cold little stream that foamed past Dornblatt, or an
uncertain patch of snow that was sure to become an avalanche, it would
be simplicity itself. But written words were never simple, not even when
they were written in the German that Franz could read.
Franz made one more manful effort. Then he gave up and devoted himself
to looking through the window on the south side of the school.
The mighty birches that had once grown there, and that had been so
lovely to see when spring clothed their branches in tightly curled new
leaves that looked oddly like baby lambs, or when the wind set trees and
leaves to dancing, had been felled for half a furlong down the
mountainside.
Franz smiled wistfully. Furlong--furrow long--the distance a team of
oxen could pull a plow without tiring. Now there was a word he
understood perfectly. Not that there were any gardens a furlong in
length around Dornblatt, for not even the strongest oxen could pull a
plow through solid rock. Some of the villagers had even carried dirt,
basket by basket, to cover the rocks and form more garden space.
Vaguely it occurred to Franz that there was something he had been doing
or should do, but he had forgotten what it was. He continued to look out
of the window.
The village spread below him, sturdy log buildings with living quarters
for humans on the second floor and stables for the cattle beneath. The
villages lined the narrow path that trailed on up the mountain and,
eventually, into the mighty Alps. Here and there was a garden patch, for
where there was so little land to cultivate, not even one square foot
must be wasted. But most of the gardens were beyond the limits of
Dornblatt itself. Summer pasturage for the village cattle, and the
fields where the villagers cut most of their hay, were far above timber
line.
Franz thought again of the birch trees that had been and a twinge of
remorse stirred his heart. It was right and just to fell trees, but only
when timber was needed for new buildings or wood was required for the
village stoves. It was wrong to destroy so many beautiful birches simply
because one greedy man had the power to gratify his greed.
The land upon which the school was built had belonged to Emil
Gottschalk, the only man in Dornblatt who had managed to acquire any
wealth. It was a foregone conclusion that a site for the schoolhouse
would be bought from Emil--and this was the only location that he
offered. Since practically everybody else in Dornblatt was in Emil's
debt, none had dared protest vehemently even though all knew that the
schoolhouse, at the very foot of a steep and almost forestless mountain,
was directly in the path of an avalanche and, sooner or later, would be
destroyed by one.
Emil had prepared for that, too. After selling the site for a school to
the citizens of Dornblatt, he had proceeded to sell them the birches.
Every man in the village had helped cut and trim the trees, and every
horse and ox team had been pressed into service to drag the trimmed
trunks to the north side of the school. There the men, including
Professor Luttman, had again fallen to and erected a breastwork that
probably would stop anything except a major avalanche.
So Dornblatt had its school, but at three times the cost in money and
labor that would have been necessary had any of a half dozen other sites
that were available--and out of the path of avalanches--been selected.
Franz straightened suddenly and grew tense. A squirrel had emerged from
the far side of the clearing where the birches had been and was crossing
to the near side. Franz's eyes widened, for this promised both stark
drama and excitement. Squirrels lived among the trees, and almost always
they were safe as long as they stayed there. But almost invariably they
were doomed when they left their arboreal haunts.
Obviously not alarmed, for it was not running fast, the squirrel came a
quarter of the way into the clearing. Franz knitted puzzled brows. Latin
was a mystery to him, but almost without exception the creatures of the
forest were an open book. The squirrel presented a puzzle, for the very
fact that it was not running fast proved that it had not been frightened
from the forest. It was no baby but an adult, therefore it was
acquainted with danger. What had prompted it to risk this foolhardy
journey?
As unexpectedly as a sudden wind can whirl a spiral of snow into the
air, the squirrel's leisurely pace changed to wild flight. Franz ceased
pondering whys and wherefores and lost himself in watching.
From the same side of the clearing where the squirrel had first
appeared, a fox emerged from the forest. But rather than choosing a
leisurely pace, the fox was running so furiously that it seemed little
more than a streak of fur. Franz watched with pounding heart as the
animal, whose every leap equalled twenty of the short-legged squirrel's
frantic lunges, overtook its quarry.
There was just one possible end, the fox would catch and kill the
squirrel before the latter was able to reach the safety of the trees on
the other side of the clearing. Then both passed out of Franz's field of
vision and, crane his neck as he would, he could no longer see the
chase.
He felt a pang of disappointment. He could find no life in a Latin text,
but life in its fullest was represented by the fox and squirrel chase.
A split second later, to his vast astonishment, he saw the fox streaking
back toward that part of the forest from which it had emerged. Since no
squirrel dangled from its jaws, it was evident that the fox had failed
to catch its quarry. Then a dog appeared, a half dozen bounds behind the
terrified and madly-racing fox. The dog was light tawny in color, with
no dark markings. About thirty-two inches high at the shoulder and six
feet from tip of its black nose to the end of its tail, it weighed well
over a hundred pounds. It was short-haired, square-faced, long-legged,
and its tail was curled over its back. Lean of paunch, its shoulders
were massive and blocky. Even had it been standing still, instead of
running, its great power and strength would have been evident.
[Illustration: _Then a dog appeared, a half dozen bounds behind the
madly-racing fox_]
Franz smiled. The dog, an Alpine Mastiff, was his own Caesar. Three
years ago he'd found it, a whimpering puppy, on the refuse heap where
Emil Gottschalk had tossed it to die. Inch by inch, he had nursed it
back to health.
He had learned a little of its history, and its roots went very deep.
Originating in Asia, probably Tibet, many thousands of years ago, Alpine
Mastiffs were brought to Asia Minor by silk merchants. Some fell into
the hands of the early Romans, who used them as war dogs. When the
Romans crossed the Alps, they took a number of these mastiffs with them.
Some became hurt, or a female might give birth to puppies. These were
left behind, simply because the marching columns could not afford to be
slowed by them. And so, after thousands of years, the Alpine Mastiff
found in the Swiss Alps a land very like the Tibet of its forefathers.
Caesar had an almost uncanny ability to adapt himself to the mountains.
His huge paws supported him where another dog would have been hopelessly
mired. At the height of winter, with Franz on skis and Caesar trailing
alongside or behind, the two went where they willed and always safely.
Should the snow be soft, Caesar plowed his own path with his tremendous
shoulders and never experienced the least difficulty. Even when all the
rest of his body sank out of sight, Franz could always tell where he was
by looking at the tip of his tail.
Let the wind blow as it might, and alter the outward appearance of the
snow as it would, Caesar still knew the safe trails. He had an inborn
foreknowledge of impending avalanches and a feeling for unsafe ice. When
the brothers Karsmin were caught in an avalanche and buried beneath
seven feet of snow, Caesar found them when all humans failed. Franz was
satisfied that the dog had heard their hearts beating.
For all that, Dornblatt had no extra food for dogs. Franz never would
have been allowed to keep Caesar had the animal not proven his worth.
When the snow lay too deep for any horse or ox to venture forth, it was
Caesar who dragged in the firewood. His back could carry as heavy a
burden as two strong men were able to bear, so, even though Franz was
the only human who could handle him, Caesar earned his way.