For the first dozen paces up the trail Hugh tried to shut his ears to
the frenzied barking of the dog. He found it hard to believe that the
animal was merely rounding up the sheep, keeping them in a compact herd
as he had been trained to do. It wasn’t the same cry that he had
listened to before. It had an angry, warning quality, a threatening note
as if it were trying to intimidate some enemy of the sheep. Then Hugh
began to believe that his own fancy was carrying him away. For it seemed
to him that the animal’s voice had an actual undertone addressed to
himself,—an appeal for aid before it was too late.
But, after all, he was not responsible for the flock. They were not his
sheep. He had not been employed by the flock owner to care for them; and
the idea of Hugh Gaylord, member of the Greenwood Club, acting as sheep
herder was simply laughable. It was not his war,—that in which the
herder had been struck down. He was anxious to go back to his own kind,
to take up anew his old carefree life in his home city.
The dog’s bark rose to a veritable clamor. Then he came racing back
toward Hugh.
He approached within twenty feet of him, barking, then started back
toward the river. Still Hugh did not follow. The dog rushed forward
again and again turned. He didn’t seem to be able to understand. Always
before the men that he knew hurried to his aid at a time like this. Hugh
felt a sudden rush of blood to his face.
“Good Lord, Pete,” he exclaimed. “I’ve got to see what’s the matter with
that dog.”
He caught up his rifle, then followed the dog to the water’s edge. The
river itself was a thing to stir the fancies. The dawn had not yet
broken and in the dim, eerie grayness the stream had lost all quality of
reality, all semblance to the sheet of sparkling water flowing between
green banks that Hugh had beheld the previous night. He felt a sense of
deepening awe. Rather, it seemed like some river of a Beyond, a sinister
and terrible cataract in a twilight land of souls, a Lethe flowing
darkly at the edge of a Hereafter. To a poet it might have seemed the
River of Life itself, deep, fretful, full of peril and tragedy, and
flowing from the beginning of the world to its end.
When the waters struck the great bowlders of the river bed the foam
gleamed a curious, pale white in the twilight,—otherwise the waters
would have seemed like a dark void. The dog raced up and down the bank
in excitement, then half-entered the water. Hugh saw his difficulty at
once. He could not make headway in that raging torrent, and was trusting
to Hugh for aid.
“What is it, old man?” he asked quietly, just loud enough to be heard
above the noise of the waters. “What do you want me to do?”
The old ewe brushed close to him, as if she too looked to him for aid.
If the light had been better, he could have seen the despair and agony
in her quiet eyes. He studied closely the white patches on the river. He
did not have the feline’s eyes, to see plain in the half-dark, and the
dog’s were better able to penetrate the gloom than his. But slowly he
grew accustomed to the half-darkness, and he knew the truth.
The lamb still struggled in the driftwood. And for one fraction of a
second he thought that he saw something else.
It seemed to him that two strange, sinister lights suddenly glowed from
the thickets on the opposite bank; then went out. They were close
together, and they were round, and they were just alike. They were not
twinkling lights: but rather were a strange blue-green like the flame
that plays about an alcohol burner. No human being could have seen those
dreadful blue disks and ignored them: their terror went too deep for
that. Man knows the terror of lightning, the dread (as well as the love)
of fire, the fear of flooding waters, but he knows those two twin
circles best of all. They carry him back to the first great Terror; they
waken memories from the depths of the germ plasm; they recall the sight
of other such fiery spheres, gleaming in the darkness at the mouth of
the cave. Hugh’s heart seemed to pump an icy stream through his veins.
But he forced his growing terror from him and made a swift study of the
currents. The lamb seemed doomed. There was no wading that frightful
stream. A log sloped down into the water from the opposite bank, but
there was no way to cross. The only hope lay in hurling himself into the
torrent, fighting his way to the middle of the stream, seizing the lamb,
and swimming with it to safety.
The dog could not give aid. The river was a succession of great rocks
and treacherous whirlpools, the water was icy cold, and in the darkness
a swimmer might easily be swept downstream to his death. Hugh saw all
these things plainly. In his own heart he sensed an equal menace in some
dim form that waited on the opposite bank to combat him for those few
pounds of living flesh. And in that dim light he saw that only a few
seconds remained in which to attempt a rescue. The wild waters broke
against the rocks between which the lamb lay; and in a few seconds more
it would cease its struggles.
It was only an animal, a baby sheep that was one of three thousand, a
little armful of warm flesh that would never be missed. To rescue it
would tax the last ounce of strength in Hugh’s body. It might very
easily cost him his life. It wasn’t worth it. By all the dictates of
good sense, the thing to do was to turn back, to leave the dog barking
at the water’s edge and the ewe mourning on the shore. There were no
human spectators to praise him for the deed or condemn him for its
omission. He knew that even if he were put on trial no sensible man on
the broad earth would hold it against him if he left the lamb to its
fate.
Yet in that moment of inner trial a great and a serene knowledge came to
him. He knew—in one instant of vision—that it did not lay with the
shepherd to consider abstract issues of life and death. It was not for
him to try to balance the value of a lamb’s life with his own. His
business was to watch the flock. His work was to guard the sheep.
Nothing could come between.
All the voices of prudence and good sense were stilled before the voice
of his own soul. He was afraid, but his fear could not come between the
shepherd and his work. He wanted to turn away; but a power greater than
his own will made him stand fast. The laws of his own being had given
their decree,—and they could not be denied.
“All right, old fellow,” he said simply to the dog. “We’ll get the
little devil.”
The dog plunged in. It was the voice he had awaited. The man dropped his
coat, his gun, and the small pack that he wore on his back, then ran a
short distance up the stream. And the muscles of his body seemed to
shiver and vibrate with strength as he plunged into the dark waters.
Broken Fang, the cougar, had seen the dog and the man on the opposite
bank, and at first he had been afraid. He retained enough of his natural
caution not to wish to reveal himself at once. “Most of all, fear men,”
was one of the first of the long scroll of forest laws, and time had
been when he had shivered and skulked with fear at just the human smell
on the wind. But to-night he was very hungry. And the game was almost in
his claws.
He hadn’t forgotten that he was the master of the forest, who had felled
even the horned steer. What were these slight figures to stand against
him? Many of the forest laws he had already broken; he might even yet
break the law that forbade the death-feast,—and why should he obey now?
A slow, terrible anger began to overcome him.
He had missed his kill too many times that night. He felt a blind desire
not to run away but to stay and fight. He crept down nearer the water’s
edge, his glaring eyes on the two figures on the opposite bank. At that
instant he saw both of them plunge into the torrent.
This was the action of the deer when the wolves pressed them close,—to
jump into the river to escape. These creatures were like the deer, a
breed known to him of old. Little Death the mink had done the same
thing, the night he had been so hungry and in which the miniature slayer
had slipped between his talons. The river was always a place of refuge
for those that were afraid. Thus it was plain that if the dog and the
man feared him there was no further cause for him to be afraid of them.
He crept out boldly, a magnificent, tawny figure in the dim light, on to
the log that led down into the water. His eyes shone with blue fire.
Perhaps the dog saw him first. He swam with wide-open eyes. He had
jumped in almost opposite the little pile of driftwood where the lamb
lay and was immediately swept downstream. Hugh, however, had leaped in
farther up, and he had had a chance to work into the middle of the
current as he was carried down.
He had always been a strong swimmer, and he needed that strength now.
The water was icy cold; it gripped him with resistless strength. He
fought it with powerful strokes, but it seemed to him that he was tossed
about like a straw. Even he headed upstream and out, not hoping to make
headway but only to offset, in some degree, the incredible power of the
current. He had never done such swimming as this before. Silver Creek
was not at all like the swimming tank in his athletic club. He gave his
whole strength; and it seemed to him that he was fighting for his life.
His plan was to seize the log that extended down into the water, brace
himself while he rescued the lamb, and either climb up the log or be
carried on down and swim to the bank. He didn’t know that the log was
already occupied: that a great forest creature had come down to contest
the lamb’s life with him. He was full in the middle of the current, by
now; and then, with a powerful lunge of his body, his arms swept about
the log.
He braced himself, then turned in order to reach the lamb. He reached
for a hold higher on the log. Something brown, with extended talons,
rested upon the rough bark within a few inches of his hand, and at first
he did not understand. Then the spray cleared from his eyes, and he knew
the truth.
It was not a thing to forget: that wilderness scene in mid-stream in
which Broken Fang and this man of cities came face to face for the first
time. It made a grim and moving picture: the magnificent outline of the
great cat in silhouette against the slowly brightening eastern sky; the
lamb, struggling in the little patch of driftwood; the watching forest,
the dark river with its ivory foam; and the gray half-light of dawn
casting dimness over all. Yet there was no such folly as mistaking its
reality. The form on the log was not just a shadow, an image, a drunken
fancy. It was as real as the icy touch of the river and so near that he
could see the creature’s ears, lying flat against the savage head.
Hugh’s head, shoulders and one arm were clear of the water: a few inches
distant gleamed the white fangs of the puma. The fight for the life of
the lamb was at close quarters at last. And Broken Fang had all the
advantage. He was above and had room in plenty to strike; he had only to
tap down with his paw or lash out with his deadly fangs. Hugh, on the
other hand, had braced himself against the log and had only one arm
free.
It came to Hugh that he might give up his attempt to save the lamb, slip
back into the water, and be carried down out of the reach of the rending
fangs. But even before the thought went fully home he had taken the
opposite course. Perhaps it was because he was the shepherd—for the
moment at least forgetting and ignoring all things but his guardianship
of the sheep—and Broken Fang was an ancient enemy. Perhaps he
instinctively realized that if he turned even for an instant those
terrible talons would lash down at him. His instincts came sure and
true, and he knew he must make no sudden motions. He began to pull
himself upward toward the great cat.
He knew one single moment of blighting terror when he thought that the
cougar was going to stand its ground. The animal crouched, his lips drew
in a snarl, he raised one foot with extended claws. He was the great
Broken Fang; and this creature that rose up from the waters was but a
fawn in strength compared to him. The lamb was almost in his grasp. His
sinuous tail twitched at the tip.
It was the most terrible moment in Hugh’s life, a moment of test in
which the basic metal within the man was tried in the fire. He could not
turn back now. He shouted with the full power of his lungs; but on the
might of his own eye and will, on the old elemental superiority of man
over the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air rested life or
death. He was of the dominant breed, and if he forgot that fact for one
instant—in this moment of stress—those white fangs would lash out.
For the first time in his life Hugh Gaylord had to rely on his own
manhood for success or failure. His wealth, his influential social
connections, breeding and birth and class could not aid him here. It was
simply the trial of man against beast, the power of man’s will against
resistless physical might. If he flinched, if he turned for an instant,
all was lost.
His face was white as white foam, the lines cut deep like brands, the
heart of the man was like ice. Yet the eyes didn’t flinch. They burned
steady and straight,—into the glowing twin circles of blue fire just
above him.
There was a long, strange moment of silence in which it seemed that the
river flowed like a soft wind. All the power and strength of his being
was at test. And slowly—snarling at every step—the puma began to back
away up the log into the thickets.
Still Hugh held firm. He waited until the great cougar was ten feet
distant, then his arm shot out like a serpent’s head toward the lamb. He
seized it in a strong grasp, released the log, and yielded himself to
the full force of the current. As he swept down he saw the cougar—his
courage come back to him now that the masterful eyes no longer glared
into his—spring out with a savage snarl to the end of the log. But he
was out of reach now, and safe, struggling once more against the might
of the current.
He fought with all his strength and slowly worked his way into the
shore. The guide came running toward him: the dog—fifty feet farther
down—pulled himself up, dripping and exhausted, on the rocky margin.
Hugh caught at the overhanging bushes and slowly he gained the bank. And
with a queer, dim smile he set the lamb down beside the ewe.
It seemed endless moments before he felt able to speak. His breath
seemed gone, he felt weak as a child, his muscles ached and his wet
clothes chilled him, yet he felt strangely, deeply happy. He didn’t know
why. He was too tired for introspection. He only knew a great,
unfamiliar joy, an inner peace.
“Don’t wait any longer for me,” he said at last when he got his breath.
Pete looked down at him in amazement. Hugh smiled into his dark eyes.
“What you mean?” Pete asked in bewilderment.
Hugh smiled again but felt too tired to explain. There was no use of
explanations: he didn’t know that he could find words for them. For the
moment he had lost faith in words: only deeds mattered now. He didn’t
seem to be able to tell why Hugh Gaylord, the son of wealth and of
cities, should yield himself to such folly. The body of the dead herder
still lay across the horse’s back: the fact that another week might find
himself in the same position could not matter either.
“You’re to go on alone,” he explained quite clearly. “I’m going to stay
here—until some one comes up and takes my place—and watch the sheep.”
For Hugh knew the truth at last. A new power, a greater strength had
risen within him. His eyes saw clear at last. In that wild moment in the
heart of the stream he had given service, he had risked all for a cause.
None of his old, soft delights had yielded one part of the pleasure that
had been his as his strong strokes braved the current; no false flattery
had ever been so satisfying as his victory over Broken Fang. It was
service, it was conquest, it was manhood at last.
He had no sense of self-sacrifice as he made his decision to stay with
the sheep. The joy of strong deeds does not lie in self-pity. Rather it
was an inner knowledge that he had found happiness—at least the
beginnings of it—and only a fool would throw it away. He had no wish to
forego the first pleasure that life had ever given him.
He started away into the forest with his sheep.