Hugh Gaylord had never known a more mysterious hour than that in which
the darkness fell over the sheep camp. At the end of it he felt as if he
had lost himself in a dim and eerie dream and only the eternal reality
of the sheep, bedding down and bleating in the falling shadows, made it
credible to him. But the mystery did not lie in the qualities of the
scene itself. Rather it was in his own attitude toward them: a feeling
of familiarity and long acquaintance that he could not understand.
It all seemed so natural and real. Even the dim twilight and the glow of
the dying fire seemed something vividly remembered from long ago. Yet
there was nothing here of the world he knew, the world of cities and
gaieties and throngs. There was nothing in his past life to explain the
intimacy he felt. At the edge of the little meadow the dusk deepened
between the trees. The strong profiles of the pines dimmed and blurred,
the distant peaks receded—with a curious effect of actual motion—into
the further recesses of the twilight. Here and there the stars were
pushing through, and he suddenly regarded them with some wonder. He
couldn’t ever remember noticing them in particular before. Perhaps the
smoke that ever hung over his city mostly obscured them; possibly he had
never had occasion to think about them. Now he was startled by the same
curious sense of familiarity,—as if he had lain beneath them a
thousand-thousand years and they were old friends come back to talk to
him again.
They grew inexpressively bright. Their numbers increased, they filled
the sky, they grouped themselves in geometrical patterns and designs,
dropping down as if on invisible threads to the spires of the distant
pines. For one little instant, as he raised his eyes aloft, he was an
astrologer of old, and a knowledge of the ages was upon him. He felt
stirred to the depths of his being.
He dropped his eyes to regard the sheep. The outline of the separate
animals was altogether lost by now: they were just a dim, white mass in
the faint glow of the fire. It was the same as always: they had all
bedded down for the night. He saw the light spring up in the herder’s
tent as the guide lighted a candle, and this was familiar too.
The Indian came out and with strong, steady strokes began to break wood
for the fire. The swarthy face looked unusually dusky in the red glow of
the coals. As yet the two men had not discussed the grim find in the
tent. There had been scarcely nothing to say in regard to it. Hugh felt
no especial excitement or awe: he had been almost as cold and impassive
in regard to the tragedy as Pete himself.
Such an attitude might have been expected in the guide, but it caused
some self-wonder to see it in himself. Pete was a wilderness man, and if
there is one lesson to be learned in the primeval forest it is the
reality and the inevitability of death. He was used to death. He had
seen it every day. All night long the ancient war of the wilderness
waged on, and many were its casualties. The night shuddered with them:
the agony of the deer in the cougar’s claws; the crunch of fangs when
the wolves tracked down their game; even the shrill, terrible death-cry
of the birds when the climbing marten overtook them on their perches.
Not for nothing does the buzzard watch all day from the clouds. _He
knows_; and whoever listens to the wilderness voices knows too. The
wild, despairing song of the pack, the wail of the coyote, even the
murmur of the pines is a song of death, immutable and dark, at the end
of their little days. But what did Hugh know of these things? He had
always lived a sheltered life. Yet now he felt no horror, no excitement,
only the realization that he was face to face with reality at last.
The guide had heaped fuel on the fire and it threw a bright glare over
the whole camp. Hugh could even make out the dark border of the forest
at the extremities of its glow. Then the Indian turning back into the
tent, Hugh entered also.
“Then the shot we heard was the one that killed this man?” he asked.
“Yes. Pistol killed dog. Maybe we too far to hear shot.”
“And you haven’t any idea—what could have been the motive, the reason
for killing him.”
“Yes——” The Indian paused and stared down at the still form.
“What do you think it was?” Hugh spoke very quietly.
“Big fight—over the range,” Pete explained with difficulty. “This big
cattle country—cattlemen always try to keep out sheep. Maybe other
reasons too, but that began it. Always shooting—cattlemen and sheepmen.
This first flock anywhere near—first in this part of Smoky Land.”
“Then it was just cold-blooded murder.”
“Yes. No signs of a fight. Maybe shot him through tent door, then tried
to kill dogs. Killed one, wounded other. Now I cook supper.”
The Indian, wholly without emotion, began to take stores from the dead
herder’s grub-box. He noted that the man’s supplies seemed almost gone,
only a few potatoes, a small piece of bacon in an oiled paper, and a
little flour remaining. The guide saw his look of question and made
explanation.
“Camp-tender come soon,” he said.
“And who is the camp-tender?”
“Each sheep camp has two men. One herder. The other packs in
supplies—food for herder, salt for sheep. Come every two weeks, maybe
sooner, and camp-tender due here pretty soon. But he’ll find—plenty
sheep dead.”
For once Hugh did not have to ask questions. The guide’s last few words
explained, in a measure, the motive for the murder. Without a herder and
with only one dog left to care for the flocks, the beasts of prey would
find easy hunting. “But we’ll stop that game,” Hugh said decidedly.
“To-morrow morning—to-night, if you think we can make the trail, we’ll
go in and take this man’s body to the coroner. Then the sheep owner can
send up another herder.”
Hugh looked up to find an odd, grim little smile at the guide’s lips. It
was a thing to notice: this dark savage was not given to smiling. “You
don’t know sheep,” he explained. “You don’t know Running Feet—what he
can do in one night.”
By intuition more than by actual interpretation of the words Hugh
understood. He studied his guide with growing wonder. For the second
time that day Pete had dropped back into his own speech. True, in this
case the language itself was Hugh’s own, but the idiom was, beyond all
denial, savage. He had revealed for an instant something of the strange
poetry of the Indian, as well as the Indian’s imaginative interpretation
of the wilderness. Running Feet, past all doubt, referred to some of the
predatory animals that habitually preyed on the sheep.
“In other words—if we hadn’t discovered this murder, the flock would be
practically wiped out by the time the camp-tender got here?”
“Maybe all gone.”
“Even if they send up a man right away there will be some losses.”
“We start to-morrow,” Pete explained laboriously. “To-morrow sunset
before we reach tel—tel—talk-over-wire? Another sunset, maybe another
sunrise, before herder can come all long way. Plenty likely can’t get no
one. Cattlemen rich—mighty—many. Maybe no one want the job.”
“And we can’t start to-night?”
“Trail too dark. Maybe couldn’t catch the horse. Run fast in the dark.”
Hugh turned quickly. “What horse do you mean?”
Pete smiled again, very dimly. “Eyes maybe half blind. Horse grazing
just inside the forest, just outside meadow. Herders always have one
horse, maybe two.”
Hugh had not noticed: his eyes were not trained to penetrate the
thickets as those of the Indian. And at once he made up his mind as to
the morning’s work. After all, it was only decent to get word to the
owner of the flock as soon as possible. He would not permit his own
hunting trip to stand in the way. It was true that he had been looking
for a good excuse to return to civilization, and now he had it; but it
was not without some unexpected regrets. He had received a new point of
view in this visit to the camp, and he felt that he would enjoy a few
more days in the evergreen forest. But even the Old Colonel would
understand why it was necessary that he change his plans. In the morning
they would catch the horse, place the herder’s body upon it, and go down
with their story to the settlements. He wondered if there would be a
bereaved family to face; he hoped that this, at least, would be spared
him. The murdered man looked like a South-European, evidently of the
class of shiftless and uneducated men from which most flock owners have
to recruit their herders.
His mind flew back to the Old Colonel, sitting in the Greenwood Club.
Some way, the memory of the old man was more clear than any time since
he had come. It seemed to him that he could remember, word for word, all
that the old sportsman had told him. Curiously he had not remembered
being so impressed at the time. In some dim under-consciousness he
realized that there would be further instructions for him now; but just
what they were he did not permit himself to guess. He was eager to
return,—go back to God’s country.
After the simple meal, the guide prepared to go back to the camp after
some of the more valuable of the camp supplies and Hugh’s bedding. “And
where do you expect to sleep yourself?” Hugh asked.
The Indian pointed to the herder’s bed, as if that explained the matter
completely. And, after all, why not? This was no time for nonsense and
hysteria. For once in his life, there in that far sheep camp, Hugh felt
that he was down to facts.
He heard the departing footsteps of the Indian fading slowly to a dim
whisper infinitely distant. He was alone. He awoke with a start to the
fact that he was really alone for the first time in his life. At this
hour, in his own city, he would be either at his club or at dinner, in
each case surrounded by his fellow human beings. Servants slept within a
few doors of his room at his own house; his pleasures had always been of
a sociable nature. On previous nights in the wild he had his guide: what
loneliness he might have felt was forgotten in the fumes of strong
drink. For the first time in his life, it seemed to him, Hugh had a
chance to become acquainted with himself.
His thoughts were singularly clear as he sat beside the camp fire. He
looked back over his past life, and it seemed to him that he was looking
for something in it that he could not find. He didn’t know quite what it
was. He wasn’t sure why he felt such a sudden, overpowering need for it.
Perhaps the name of it was _justification_,—and yet he could not have
told what was the high offense he wanted to justify. There beside the
sleeping flock new knowledge came to him, a realization of the great
themes and purposes of existence never known before. He felt vaguely
uneasy about his wasted days, wishing that he could see some
destination, some height, some star to which they were pointing. He had
an obscure feeling that all his life he had shirked responsibility; and
stranger still,—that in the deep realms of his spirit he was shirking
it now.
The great shepherd dog came and crouched beside him, and the man held
the soft head in his hands. His thought went back to the pedigreed,
savage, characterless dog that he himself owned, and unconsciously he
compared the animals. The thought returned to him again and again, try
as he might to repel it. It haunted and disturbed him, and he didn’t
know why. His own dog had won numerous ribbons at the dog shows, he had
been bought at a fabulous price, and his pedigree went back many
generations. Yet by what fairness could the two animals be named in the
same breath? One was a slacker: the other a brave and faithful servant
of a great cause. One was an ornament in a dog show: the other
guarded—with his life if necessary—the grazing flocks. From dawn till
dark he was at his toil, through the blasting heat of summer and the
bitter winter cold, watching through the night and running through the
day. Hugh was not blind to the fact of his present fidelity: that
although his master lay murdered and he himself had been slightly
wounded, the brave animal still kept his watch over the sheep. He had
been busy at it when the two men had come, and even now his intelligent
eyes studied the shadows of the encroaching forest. Hugh felt a sudden
glow in his heart. His hands pressed tighter at the soft ears.
A word came to Hugh’s lips and he spoke it in the silence. “Service,” he
said softly. “Old fellow, you give _service_.” Suddenly he knew that
this was the great debt that all living things owed: service in the
great cause of existence that no man fully understands. He tried to
remember what service he himself had given. Dim regrets swept over him.
He rose to throw more wood upon the fire; then stood listening to the
voices of the forest. They were so faint and obscure that he had to
strain to hear them. It was strange that he had been deaf to them
before. They came whispering through the mighty silences, and they
filled him with haunting memories. At first the crackle of the fire had
obscured them, but as he waited the separate tones became more distinct
and permitted some measure of interpretation. He heard the rustling of
the thickets, the noise of flicking leaves dim as eyelids winking
against a pillow, the sad murmur of the pine limbs, scraping together.
Behind them all was the faint murmur of the wind,—a little wind that
had sprung up in the snow fields and was making a secret march down
through the thickets.
Something of the same sense of familiarity that had come to him on first
observing the sheep returned to him now. It seemed wholly natural that
he should be sitting here in the silence, beside the flocks.—Throughout
the ages men of his breed had sat the same way, the firelight playing on
them, the faithful dog beside them. The wind whispered and stirred in
the wilderness just the same, the white sheep slept. Watching the
flocks,—the phrase was as old as the mountains themselves.
Yet for a moment he found it hard to believe in the dangers of which the
guide had spoken: dangers that would soon exterminate the flock except
for the protection of herders and dogs. No scene could be more peaceful:
the dark forest so lightly stirred by the wind, the river singing past,
the soft firelight, the stars in the sky. The breath of the night was
sweet and cool; surely there would be no hurry about notifying the flock
owner of the herder’s death. He turned again to the dog. “You can take
care of them, can’t you, boy?” he asked.
He glanced down, then stiffened with excitement. For once the dog did
not seem to hear him. The animal had got up and now was standing braced,
every nerve and muscle alert, gazing into the shadows beyond the river.
Hugh’s hand fell on the shaggy neck, but the animal didn’t start. And
the hair stood stiff like quills at the shoulders.
“What is it, boy?” Hugh asked.
The dog made no answer. Instead, a strange and terrible reply came from
the wilderness. It was a dreadful, a commanding voice, and it seemed to
freeze the whole forest world with horror. It obliterated the wind and
silenced all the little voices to which Hugh had listened with such
delight a moment before. It was a long, wild scream, beginning low in
the scale and rising to an incredible height.
For innumerable seconds, it seemed to Hugh, the same crescendo note was
maintained. The air seemed to shudder. Then, with great soaring leaps,
the scream dropped away into a long, singsong whine. Slowly this faded,
growing dim and more dim, until it was just a dying whimper in the air.
Hugh couldn’t tell exactly when the voice ceased. He had a strange
impression that it still continued, only so dim and fine that human ears
were not tuned to receive it. Then the wilderness silence closed down
again.
The dog leaped forward, barking, and Hugh found himself erect, with his
rifle in his hands. In his own heart he knew this wilderness voice. If
he did not know the breed that uttered it, at least he realized its
savagery, its age-old menace. There is no utterance that pen can
describe more wild and weird than some of the twilight cries of the
coyotes; yet Hugh was inclined to think that another, more deadly animal
had spoken in this case. On a few occasions he had heard members of his
club—back from hunting trips in the West—describe the cries of the
cougars or pumas: one of the most distinctive and awe-inspiring of all
the wilderness voices. It is not heard often. Many men have lived years
in the forest without ever hearing it at all. But once heard it is never
forgotten. Hugh believed that he had heard it now.
And it had meant more to him than the mere night cry of an animal. It
typified to him the very spirit of the wilderness. It was the voice not
alone of a hungry creature, stalking in the shadows, but—in his
thought—it expressed all the ancient terror of the darkness, the
primeval forces that war with man.
Nothing had changed. Still the sheep slept in the meadow and a great
beast of prey menaced them from the shadowed forest. The long conflicts
against the powers of the wilderness had not yet been won: the shepherds
of Judea might have known the same cry. The fire burned low, and it
seemed to Hugh that the shadows gathered menacingly about the sheep.
Perhaps Broken Fang himself had spoken. Besides its menace and savagery
the voice had been also a living expression of power and pride that only
one of the greatest of wilderness creatures would possess. No craven
coyote, he believed, could utter such a ringing challenge. The dog raced
around the flock, seemingly ready to protect them with his life. No
wilderness voice was so terrible as to frighten him from his watch.
And then, at the most wonderful thought of all, Hugh’s heart gave a
great leap in his breast. Watching the flock! That was it,—he was
watching the flock himself. True, the dog was still on guard, fearless
and constant in his vigil, but he could not claim all the guardianship
of the sheep. It was his own presence as much as the growlings of the
dog that kept the puma at a distance. Except for him, white fangs even
now would be tearing at the throats of the lambs.
For the first time in his life he was _serving_. Was not his gun resting
in his hands? For once in his life he was bearing arms in the oldest war
that mankind knows,—the war against the menace of the wild. The blood
leaped and sang in his veins.