every eye was on the yellow cur. He sniffed the air once or twice, gave
two or three peculiar low growls, and all those dogs except Satan lost
the civilization of centuries and went back suddenly to the time when
they were wolves and were looking for a leader. The cur was Lobo for
that little pack, and after a short parley, he lifted his nose high and
started away without looking back, while the other dogs silently trotted
after him. With a mystified yelp, Satan ran after them. The cur did not
take the turnpike, but jumped the fence into a field, making his way by
the rear of houses, from which now and then another dog would slink out
and silently join the band. Every one of them Satan nosed most
friendlily, and to his great joy the funeral dog, on the edge of the
town, leaped into their midst. Ten minutes later the cur stopped in the
midst of some woods, as though he would inspect his followers. Plainly,
he disapproved of Satan, and Satan kept out of his way. Then he sprang
into the turnpike and the band trotted down it, under flying black
clouds and shifting bands of brilliant moonlight. Once, a buggy swept
past them. A familiar odor struck Satan's nose, and he stopped for a
moment to smell the horse's tracks; and right he was, too, for out at
her grandmother's Dinnie refused to be comforted, and in that buggy was
Uncle Billy going back to town after him.
Snow was falling. It was a great lark for Satan. Once or twice, as he
trotted along, he had to bark his joy aloud, and each time the big cur
gave him such a fierce growl that he feared thereafter to open his
jaws. But he was happy for all that, to be running out into the night
with such a lot of funny friends and not to know or care where he was
going. He got pretty tired presently, for over hill and down hill they
went, at that unceasing trot, trot, trot! Satan's tongue began to hang
out. Once he stopped to rest, but the loneliness frightened him and he
ran on after them with his heart almost bursting. He was about to lie
right down and die, when the cur stopped, sniffed the air once or twice,
and with those same low growls, led the marauders through a rail fence
into the woods, and lay quietly down. How Satan loved that soft, thick
grass, all snowy that it was! It was almost as good as his own bed at
home. And there they lay--how long, Satan never knew, for he went to
sleep and dreamed that he was after a rat in the barn at home; and he
yelped in his sleep, which made the cur lift his big yellow head and
show his fangs. The moving of the half-breed shepherd and the funeral
dog waked him at last, and Satan got up. Half crouching, the cur was
leading the way toward the dark, still woods on top of the hill, over
which the Star of Bethlehem was lowly sinking, and under which lay a
flock of the gentle creatures that seemed to have been almost sacred to
the Lord of that Star. They were in sore need of a watchful shepherd
now. Satan was stiff and chilled, but he was rested and had had his
sleep, and he was just as ready for fun as he always was. He didn't
understand that sneaking. Why they didn't all jump and race and bark as
he wanted to, he couldn't see; but he was too polite to do otherwise
than as they did, and so he sneaked after them; and one would have
thought he knew, as well as the rest, the hellish mission on which they
were bent.
Out of the woods they went, across a little branch, and there the big
cur lay flat again in the grass. A faint bleat came from the hill-side
beyond, where Satan could see another woods--and then another bleat, and
another. And the cur began to creep again, like a snake in the grass;
and the others crept too, and little Satan crept, though it was all a
sad mystery to him. Again the cur lay still, but only long enough for
Satan to see curious, fat, white shapes above him--and then, with a
blood-curdling growl, the big brute dashed forward. Oh, there was fun in
them after all! Satan barked joyfully. Those were some new
playmates--those fat, white, hairy things up there; and Satan was amazed
when, with frightened snorts, they fled in every direction. But this was
a new game, perhaps, of which he knew nothing, and as did the rest, so
did Satan. He picked out one of the white things and fled barking after
it. It was a little fellow that he was after, but little as he was,
Satan might never have caught up, had not the sheep got tangled in some
brush. Satan danced about him in mad glee, giving him a playful nip at
his wool and springing back to give him another nip, and then away
again. Plainly, he was not going to bite back, and when the sheep
struggled itself tired and sank down in a heap, Satan came close and
licked him, and as he was very warm and woolly, he lay down and snuggled
up against him for awhile, listening to the turmoil that was going on
around him. And as he listened, he got frightened.
If this was a new game it was certainly a very peculiar one--the wild
rush, the bleats of terror, gasps of agony, and the fiendish growls of
attack and the sounds of ravenous gluttony. With every hair bristling,
Satan rose and sprang from the woods--and stopped with a fierce tingling
of the nerves that brought him horror and fascination. One of the white
shapes lay still before him. There was a great steaming red splotch on
the snow, and a strange odor in the air that made him dizzy; but only
for a moment. Another white shape rushed by. A tawny streak followed,
and then, in a patch of moonlight, Satan saw the yellow cur with his
teeth fastened in the throat of his moaning playmate. Like lightning
Satan sprang at the cur, who tossed him ten feet away and went back to
his awful work. Again Satan leaped, but just then a shout rose behind
him, and the cur leaped too as though a bolt of lightning had crashed
over him, and, no longer noticing Satan or sheep, began to quiver with
fright and slink away. Another shout rose from another direction--another
from another.
"Drive 'em into the barn-yard!" was the cry.
Now and then there was a fearful bang and a howl of death-agony, as some
dog tried to break through the encircling men, who yelled and cursed as
they closed in on the trembling brutes that slunk together and crept on;
for it is said, every sheep-killing dog knows his fate if caught, and
will make little effort to escape. With them went Satan, through the
barn-yard gate, where they huddled in a corner--a shamed and terrified
group. A tall overseer stood at the gate.
"Ten of 'em!" he said grimly.
He had been on the lookout for just such a tragedy, for there had
recently been a sheep-killing raid on several farms in that
neighborhood, and for several nights he had had a lantern hung out on
the edge of the woods to scare the dogs away; but a drunken farm-hand
had neglected his duty that Christmas Eve.
"Yassuh, an' dey's jus' sebenteen dead sheep out dar," said a negro.
"Look at the little one," said a tall boy who looked like the overseer;
and Satan knew that he spoke of him.
"Go back to the house, son," said the overseer, "and tell your mother to
give you a Christmas present I got for you yesterday." With a glad whoop
the boy dashed away, and in a moment dashed back with a brand-new .32
Winchester in his hand.
The dark hour before dawn was just breaking on Christmas Day. It was the
hour when Satan usually rushed upstairs to see if his little mistress
was asleep. If he were only at home now, and if he only had known how
his little mistress was weeping for him amid her playthings and his--two
new balls and a brass-studded collar with a silver plate on which was
his name, Satan Dean; and if Dinnie could have seen him now, her heart
would have broken; for the tall boy raised his gun. There was a jet of
smoke, a sharp, clean crack, and the funeral dog started on the right
way at last toward his dead master. Another crack, and the yellow cur
leaped from the ground and fell kicking. Another crack and another, and
with each crack a dog tumbled, until little Satan sat on his haunches
amid the writhing pack, alone. His time was now come. As the rifle was
raised, he heard up at the big house the cries of children; the popping
of fire-crackers; tooting of horns and whistles and loud shouts of
"Christmas Gif', Christmas Gif'!" His little heart beat furiously.
Perhaps he knew just what he was doing; perhaps it was the accident of
habit; most likely Satan simply wanted to go home--but when that gun
rose, Satan rose too, on his haunches, his tongue out, his black eyes
steady and his funny little paws hanging loosely--and begged! The boy
lowered the gun.
"Down, sir!" Satan dropped obediently, but when the gun was lifted
again, Satan rose again, and again he begged.
"Down, I tell you!" This time Satan would not down, but sat begging for
his life. The boy turned.
"Papa, I can't shoot that dog." Perhaps Satan had reached the stern old
overseer's heart. Perhaps he remembered suddenly that it was Christmas.
At any rate, he said gruffly:
"Well, let him go."
"Come here, sir!" Satan bounded toward the tall boy, frisking and
trustful and begged again.
"Go home, sir!"
Satan needed no second command. Without a sound he fled out the
barn-yard, and, as he swept under the front gate, a little girl ran out
of the front door of the big house and dashed down the steps, shrieking:
"Saty! Saty! Oh, Saty!" But Satan never heard. On he fled, across the
crisp fields, leaped the fence and struck the road, lickety-split! for
home, while Dinnie dropped sobbing in the snow.
"Hitch up a horse, quick," said Uncle Carey, rushing after Dinnie and
taking her up in his arms. Ten minutes later, Uncle Carey and Dinnie,
both warmly bundled up, were after flying Satan. They never caught him
until they reached the hill on the outskirts of town, where was the
kennel of the kind-hearted people who were giving painless death to
Satan's four-footed kind, and where they saw him stop and turn from the
road. There was divine providence in Satan's flight for one little dog
that Christmas morning; for Uncle Carey saw the old drunkard staggering
down the road without his little companion, and a moment later, both he
and Dinnie saw Satan nosing a little yellow cur between the palings.
Uncle Carey knew the little cur, and while Dinnie was shrieking for
Satan, he was saying under his breath:
"Well, I swear!--I swear!--I swear!" And while the big man who came to
the door was putting Satan into Dinnie's arms, he said, sharply:
"Who brought that yellow dog here?" The man pointed to the old
drunkard's figure turning a corner at the foot of the hill.
"I thought so; I thought so. He sold him to you for--for a drink of
whiskey."
The man whistled.
"Bring him out. I'll pay his license."
So back went Satan and the little cur to Grandmother Dean's--and Dinnie
cried when Uncle Carey told her why he was taking the little cur along.
With her own hands she put Satan's old collar on the little brute, took
him to the kitchen, and fed him first of all. Then she went into the
breakfast-room.
"Uncle Billy," she said severely, "didn't I tell you not to let Saty
out?"
"Yes, Miss Dinnie," said the old butler.
"Didn't I tell you I was goin' to whoop you if you let Saty out?"
"Yes, Miss Dinnie."
Miss Dinnie pulled forth from her Christmas treasures a toy riding-whip
and the old darky's eyes began to roll in mock terror.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Billy, but I des got to whoop you a little."
"Let Uncle Billy off, Dinnie," said Uncle Carey, "this is Christmas."
"All wite," said Dinnie, and she turned to Satan.
In his shining new collar and innocent as a cherub, Satan sat on the
hearth begging for his breakfast.