DOMESTIC LIFE IN THE MOUNTAIN DEN
If a man succeeded in getting himself as much chopped about as Finn
had been since the evening of his departure from the boundary-rider's
gunyah and the severance of his connection with the world of men-folk, he
would require weeks of careful nursing and doctoring before he could be
said to have recovered. Fortunately for the people of the wild, who have
neither nurses nor doctors, and whose ways of life do not permit of
prolonged periods of rest, recovery from wounds is not so serious a
business with them as it is with us.
When the Wolfhound and his admiring mate between them had
thoroughly licked and cleansed his numerous wounds, he stretched
himself deliberately across the rear corner of the den, and there
lay, sleeping soundly, until the next morning was well advanced.
His body was lacerated by the wounds of three considerable fights:
the fight with Black-tip and his friend; the sufficiently violent
struggle with the mother-kangaroo; and lastly, the most serious
fight of the Wolfhound's life, which had ended in the death of
Lupus. But even the ten hours which Finn gave to sleep--he opened
his eyes two or three times during that period, but did not
move--brought a wonderful change in the aspect of these numerous
wounds. They had advanced some distance in the direction of healing
already. Now they were submitted to another thorough licking. Then
Finn crept out into the sunlight beside the cave's mouth, and slept
again, fitfully, till evening came. Then he sat up and licked all
his wounds over again with painstaking and scrupulous care. They
were healing nicely, and the healing process made Finn as stiff and
sore as though he had had rheumatics in every joint in his body. So
he crept painfully into the den again, and lay down to sleep once
more, while Warrigal, with a friendly, wifely look at her lord,
went out hunting.
In this way three full days and nights passed, and on the fourth
night Finn killed for himself--a small kill, and not far from home,
but a kill, none the less, that required a certain agility, of
which he already found himself quite capable. In the matter of
strength and vital energy the Wolfhound had immense reserves to
draw upon--greater reserves, really, than any of the wild folk
possessed; for, in his youth, he had never known scarcity of food,
or lack of warmth, or undue exposure; and, on the contrary, his
system had been deliberately built up and fortified by the best
sort of diet that the skill and science of man could devise. Finn
could not have stood as much killing as a dingo, and still have
lived; for the dingo is as hard an animal to kill as any that walks
upon four legs. But, as against that, the Wolfhound could have
stood a far greater living strain than any dingo. He had more to
feed upon in himself. For actual toughness under murderous assault
a dingo could have beaten Finn; yet in a test of staying power, an
ordeal of long endurance, the Wolfhound would have won easily, by
reason of his greater reserve of strength and vitality.
From this point onward, Finn's wounds troubled him but very little,
and in the healing air of that countryside they soon ceased to be
apparent to the eye. An ordinary dingo would assuredly have been
obliged to fight many fights before obtaining ascendancy over the
Mount Desolation pack; but the mastery fell naturally to Finn
without calling for any effort upon his part. He had slain the
redoubtable old leader and tyrant of the pack. He had soundly
trounced one of the strongest among the fully-grown young dingoes,
Black-tip, and killed another in single-handed fight against two.
Now, he administered condign punishment to two or three young bucks
who ventured to attempt familiarity with Warrigal, but for fighting
he was not called upon. Most of the pack had taken good measure of
his prowess on the night of the slaying of Lupus, and that was
enough for them, so far as mastery went. Further, the pack found
Finn a generous leader, a kingly sort of friend; slow to anger, and
merciful even in wrath; open as the day, and never, in any
circumstances, tyrannical or aggressive. Then in the matter of his
kills, Finn was generosity itself. As a hunter of big game he was
more formidable than any three dingoes, and, withal, never
rapacious. Three portions he would take from his kill; one to
satisfy his own hunger, one for Warrigal to satisfy her hunger
upon, and a third to be set aside and taken back to the den against
the time when Warrigal should care to dispose of it. For the rest,
be his kill what it might, Finn made the pack free of it.
But no sort of temptation seemed strong enough to take the
Wolfhound near to the haunts of men. It came to be understood that
Finn would not touch sheep, and, reasoning it out amongst
themselves, the rest of the pack accepted this as a prohibition
meant to apply to all of them; so that Finn's mastership was an
exceedingly good thing for the squatters and their flocks all
through the Tinnaburra. But a full-grown kangaroo, no matter how
heavy and strong in the leg, never seemed too much for Finn; and
so, all dingoes liking big game better than small, it came about
that every night saw the Mount Desolation dingoes hunting in pack
formation at the heels of the great Wolfhound. They scorned the
lesser creatures whose flesh had fed them hitherto, and expected to
taste wallaby or kangaroo flesh every night. Finn thoroughly
enjoyed the hunting, and did not care how many fed at his kill, so
that his mate and he had ample.
Once, the two youngest members of the pack, puppies quite new to
the trail, were attacked and driven from the remains of a big kill
the leader had made by an outlier, a strange dingo from some other
range. The youngsters, bleeding and yelping, carried their woes to
the scrub below the mountain, and within the hour Finn learned of
it. Followed by Black-tip and one or two others of the more
adventurous sort, he set out upon the trail of the outlier, now
full fed, ran it down at the end of four or five miles' hard
galloping, pinned the unfortunate creature to the earth and shook
it into the long sleep, almost before they had come to a standstill
together. This was true leadership the pack felt, a thing Lupus
would never have done; something to be placed to the great
Wolfhound's credit, and not forgotten. The mother of the whelps
that were attacked, a big, light-coloured dingo, with sharp, prick
ears, was particularly grateful to Finn.
During this time a subtle change crept over Finn's appearance. In
its details the change was so slight that the casual observer would
have said it did not exist at all; yet, in truth, it was radical.
It would be impossible to put this change precisely into words. An
Irish Wolfhound is never sleek; at least, that is never a
characteristic of the breed. Yet, as compared with the wild folk,
every sort of animal which lives with men has a certain kind of
sleekness or softness about it. It may be imagined that Finn did
not have much of this when he escaped from the Southern Cross
Circus. And in the period which followed that escape, although he
had, in a sense, associated with a man and a man's dog, yet there
had not been much in the life of the boundary-rider's camp to make
for sleekness. Nevertheless, when Finn first met his mate,
Warrigal, there had lingered about him still a kind of trimness, a
suggestion of softness, far different, indeed, from that of the
ordinary domesticated house-dog; but yet, in its own way, a sort of
sleekness. Not a vestige of this remained now. Though he fed well
and plentifully, and his life was not a hard one, since he only did
that which pleased him, yet Finn had acquired now the hard, spare
look of the creatures of the wild. In his alertness, in the blaze
of his eyes, and the gleam of his fangs when hunting, in his
extreme wariness and in the silence of his movements, and his
deadly swiftness in attack, Finn had become one of his mate's own
kindred. He differed from them in his great bulk, his essentially
commanding appearance, in his dignity, and in a certain lordly
generosity which always characterized him. He never disputed; he
never indulged in threats or recrimination. He gave warning, when
warning was needed; he punished, when punishment was needed; and he
killed, if killing was desirable; making no sort of fuss about
either process. Also, upon occasion, though not often, he barked.
Otherwise, he was thoroughly of the wild kindred, and the
unquestioned master of the Mount Desolation range.
Some six or seven weeks after his arrival upon that range, Finn
began to notice that Warrigal was changing in some way, and he did
not like the change. It seemed to him that his mate no longer cared
for him so much as she had cared. She spent more time in lying
about in or near the den, and showed no eagerness to accompany him
in his excursions, or to gambol with him, or even to lie with him
on the warm, flat ledge outside the den. She seemed to prefer her
own company, and Finn thought her temper was getting unaccountably
short, too. However, life was very full of independent interest
for the Wolfhound, and it was only in odd moments that he noticed
these things. One night he was thoroughly surprised when Warrigal
snarled at him in a surly manner, without any apparent cause at
all, unless because he had touched her with his nose in a friendly
way, by way of inviting her to accompany him, he being bound for
the killing trail in quest of that night's supper.
Finn walked out of the den, carrying his nose as high as he could,
in view of the stoop necessary at the entrance, and feeling rather
put out. A dingo in his place would have snarled back at Warrigal
and, it may be, have wrangled about it for half an hour. Finn's
dignity would not permit of this, but he was hurt, and decided that
his spouse needed a lesson in courtesy. Since she responded so
rudely to his invitation to join him in the hunt, she might go
supperless for him; he would eat where he killed, and bring home
nothing.
Finn killed a half-grown kangaroo, a lusty red-coated youngster,
that night, and he, with Black-tip and two or three others of the
pack, fed full upon this before going down to the creek together to
drink. Finn even spent an hour in trifling with a pair of sister
dingoes who generally hunted together, and ranged the trails with
Black-tip, in more or less sportive mood, till long after midnight.
In the small hours the Wolfhound parted with Black-tip and the
sportive sisters among the scrub at the mountain's foot, and wended
his way alone to his den on the first spur, prepared, as many a
male human has been in like case, to seek his rest without taking
any notice of his mate, unless, perchance, he found her in a
repentant mood. At the mouth of the cave he stooped low, as he was
bound to do, to gain admittance, and in that moment he was brought
to a halt by a long, angry, threatening snarl from within. Warrigal
was very plainly telling her mate to remain outside, unless he was
looking for trouble. This was unprecedented, and he was a very
angry and outraged Wolfhound, who withdrew slowly with as much
dignity as might be in walking backward with lowered head and
shoulders.
"You will think better of this before morning, my dear!" was the
sort of thought that Finn had in his mind, as he selected a
comfortable sleeping-place in the shadow of a bush some half-dozen
paces away from the mouth of the den. And then, being well fed and
rather tired, he fell into a sound sleep until just after daybreak,
when he woke to the sound of an unfamiliar small cry. With head
slightly on one side and ears cocked sharply, Finn listened. The
small cry was repeated. It certainly was not Warrigal's voice,
though it came from the inside of the den. Also, there were a
number of other small sounds that were strange--weak, quaint,
gurgling sounds. Finn inclined his head a little farther to one
side. Yes, his mate was licking something. Could she have been out
and hunted alone? Even that would hardly account for the queer
little, weak, strange voices within the den. The dingo people are
not cats, and when they kill they kill outright. It was extremely
puzzling and interesting, and Finn decided to investigate. After
all, this was his own home and, however rude she may have been,
Warrigal was his own mate, for whom he had fought and bled in the
past; the mate who had lovingly dressed his wounds and shared his
kills for nine weeks now--nine long, eventful weeks, which were
more than equal to nine months in human folk's lives.
Finn stooped low in the entrance and Warrigal snarled. But this
time there was no note of aggression in her snarl. Indeed, to her
mate, there was a hint of appeal in the salutation, which said
clearly: "Be careful! Please be careful!" He advanced with extreme
caution into the den, and saw his spouse lying full at length on
her side, her bushy tail curled round to form a background for the
smallest of four sleek puppies, of a yellowish grey colour, whom
she was nursing assiduously. Moving with the utmost delicacy and
care, Finn sniffed all round his mate, refraining from touching the
puppies by way of humouring Warrigal, in whose throat a low growl
sounded whenever his nose approached the little strangers. Then
Finn stood and stared at the domestic group with hanging head and
parted jaws, his tongue lolling, and his eyes saying plainly--
"Well, well, well! Who'd have thought of this! They are really very
nice little creatures, in their insignificant way, though I don't
quite see why their presence should make you snarl at your own
lawful mate."
Seeing that her lord manifestly entertained no shadow of a hostile
intention toward the family (the history of the male dingo is not
altogether free from blame in the matter of infanticide), Warrigal
raised her nose in friendly fashion to the Wolfhound and permitted
him to lick her, which he did in the most affectionate manner, and
with no further thought of her previous harshness. Then she gave a
little whine and glanced round the walls of the den. Finn barked
quietly, bidding his mate rest assured that all would be well, and
ten minutes later he was descending upon a rabbit-earth that he
knew of, a moving shadow of death among young bunnies assembled to
welcome the dewy warmth of the new day. On the way home he dropped
his rabbit to stalk a half-grown bandicoot; and finally, after less
than an hour's absence, he returned to the den carrying a rabbit
and a bandicoot, so that Warrigal might have variety in her
breakfast. Being parched with thirst, Warrigal gratefully accepted
both kills, and without actually eating either drew some sustenance
from both. Then with an anxious look at the family she nudged Finn
out of the den with her nose, and, leaving him outside on the
ledge, turned and raced for the creek, like an arrow from a bow.
She was back again inside of two minutes with bright drops clinging
to her fur. Finn had sat patiently beside the mouth of the den
waiting, and for this Warrigal gave him a grateful glance of
appreciation before gliding into her puppies, who already were
beginning to whimper for warmth and nourishment.
Finn took very naturally to the part of father and bread-winner. He
lounged about the mouth of the den through the day, creeping in
occasionally to see how things went with his mate, and returning
then to keep guard outside. She allowed him now to touch the odd
little creatures who were his children; but they did not like the
feeling of his tongue, and wriggled away from it in their blind,
helpless way. "There, there!" said Finn low down in his throat, and
withdrew, marvelling afresh at the mysteries of life and the
cleverness of femininity. As for Warrigal, she seemed absurdly
happy and proud about it all now, and assumed considerable airs of
importance. She took her food in brief snatches a dozen times
during the day, and when Finn left her in the early night for the
trails, she looked at him in a meaning way which said plainly that
she attached importance to the matter of food supply, though she
could not take to the trails herself, being otherwise and fully
occupied. Finn licked her muzzle reassuringly and went out.
The pack had to forage for itself that night, for when Finn made
his kill--a fat rock wallaby--he announced in the most unmistakable
manner that there was nothing to spare for followers that night,
and marched off mountain-wards, trailing the whole heavy kill over
his right shoulder. In the course of the night it became known to
all the wild people of that range that the mate of the leader of
the pack had other mouths than her own to feed, and that for the
time Finn would do all the hunting for the den on the first spur.
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