October came--the month of birds, the month when a dog scents the air
and feels a quickening in his blood and watches to see his master oil
the gun and break out a box of shells and fetch down the bell from the
attic. And on the third day of the season, a crisp day, frost upon the
ground and the sun bright in the sky, Chet decided to go down toward the
river and try to find a bird.
When the bell tinkled Mac came from the barn at a gallop and danced on
tiptoe round his master so that Chet had difficulty in making him stand
quietly for as long as it took to adjust the bell on his collar. Old
Tantrybogus had been asleep in the barn, and he was as near deaf as he
was blind by this time, so that he heard nothing. But the stir of Mac’s
rush past him roused the old dog and he climbed unsteadily to his feet
and came weaving like a drunken man to where Chet stood. And he barked
his shrill, senile, pitiful bark and he tried in his poor old way to
dance as Mac was dancing.
Chet looked down at the old dog and because there were tears in his eyes
he spoke harshly.
“Tantry, you old fool,” he said, “go lie down. You’re not going. You
couldn’t walk from here to the woods. Go lie down and rest, Tantry.”
Tantry paid not the least attention; he barked more shrilly than ever.
He pretended that it was a matter of course that Chet would bell him and
take him along. This is one of the favorite ruses of the dog--to pretend
to be sure of the treat in store for him until his master must have a
heart of iron to deny him.
Tantry continued to dance until Chet walked to the kennel and pointed in
and said sternly, “Get in there, Tantry!”
Then and only then the old dog obeyed. He did not sulk; he went in with
a certain dignity, and once inside he turned and lay with his head in
the door, watching Chet and Mac prepare to go. Chet did not chain him.
There was no need, he thought. Tantry could scarce walk at all, much
less follow him to the fringe of woodland down the hill.
When he was ready he and Mac went through the barn and across the
garden into the meadow and across this meadow and the wall beyond till
the hill dropped steeply toward the river. Repeated commands kept Mac to
heel, though the dog was fretting with impatience. Not till they were at
the edge of the wood did Chet wave his hand and bid the dog go on.
“Now find a bird, Mac,” Chet commanded. “Go find a bird.”
And Mac responded, moving into the cover at a trot, nosing to and fro.
They began to work along the fringe down toward the river, where in an
alder run or two Chet hoped to find a woodcock. Neither of them looked
back toward the farm and so it was that neither of them saw Old
Tantrybogus like a shadow of white slip through the barn and come
lumbering unsteadily along their trail. That was a hard journey for
Tantry. He was old and weak and he could not see and the lump upon his
side was more painful than it had ever been before. He passed through
the barn without mishap, for that was familiar ground. Between the barn
and the garden he brushed an apple tree that his old eyes saw too late.
In the garden he blundered among the dead tops of the carrots and
turnips, which Chet had not yet harvested. He was traveling by scent
alone, his nose to the ground, picking out Chet’s footsteps. He had not
been so far away from the farm for months; it was an adventure and a
stiff one. The wall between the garden and the meadow seemed intolerably
high and a rock rolled under him so that he fell painfully. The old dog
only whimpered a little and tried again and passed the wall and started
along Chet’s trail across the meadow.
Midway of this open his strength failed him so that he fell forward and
lay still for a considerable time, tongue out, panting heavily. But when
he was rested he climbed to his feet again--it was a terrible effort,
even this--and took up his progress.
The second wall, which inclosed Chet’s pasture, was higher and there was
a single strand of barbed wire atop it. Tantry failed twice in his
effort to leap to the top of the unsteady rank of stones and after that
he turned aside and moved along the wall looking for an easier passage.
He came to a bowlder that helped him, scrambled to the top, cut his nose
on the barbed wire, slid under it and half jumped, half fell to the
ground. He was across the wall.
Even in the trembling elation of this victory the old dog’s sagacity did
not fail him. Another dog might have blundered down into the wood on a
blind search for his master. Tantrybogus did not do this. He worked back
along the wall until he picked up the trail, then followed it as
painstakingly as before. He was increasingly weary, however, and more
than once he stopped to rest. But always when a thin trickle of strength
flowed back into his legs he rose and followed on.
Chet and Mac had found no partridges in the fringe of the woods, so at
the river they turned to the right, pushed through some evergreens and
came into a little alder run where woodcock were accustomed to nest and
where Chet expected to find birds lying on this day. Almost at once Mac
began to mark game, standing motionless for seconds on end, moving
forward with care, making little side casts to and fro. Chet’s attention
was all on the dog; his gun was ready; he was alert for the whistle of
the woodcock’s wings, every nerve strung in readiness to fling up his
gun and pull.
If Mac had not found game in this run, if Chet and the dog had kept up
their swift hunter’s gait, Old Tantrybogus would never have overtaken
them, for the old dog’s strength was almost utterly gone. But Chet
halted for perhaps five minutes in the little run, following slowly as
Mac worked uphill, and this halt gave Old Tantry time to come up with
them. He lumbered out of the cover of the evergreens and saw Chet, and
the old dog barked aloud with joy and scrambled and tottered to where
Chet stood. He was so manifestly exhausted that Chet’s eyes filled with
frank tears--they flowed down his cheeks. He had not the heart to scold
Tantry for breaking orders and following them.
He reached down and patted the grizzled old head and said huskily: “You
damned old fool, Tantry! What are you doing down here?”
Tantry looked up at him and barked again and again and there was a
rending ring of triumph in the old dog’s cackling voice.
Chet said gently: “There now, be still. You’ll scare the birds, Tantry.
Behave yourself. Mac’s got a bird here somewhere. Be still--you’ll scare
the birds.”
For answer, as though his deaf old ears had caught the familiar word
and read it as an order, Tantry shuffled past his master and worked in
among the alders toward where Mac was casting slowly to and fro. Chet
watched him for a minute through eyes so blurred he could hardly see and
he brushed his tears away with the back of his hand.
“The poor old fool,” he said. “Hell, let him have his fun!”
He took one step forward to follow the dogs--and stopped. For old
Tantrybogus, a dog of dogs in his day, had proved that he was not yet
too old to know his craft. Unerringly, where Mac had blundered for a
minute or more, he had located the woodcock--he was on point. And Mac,
turning, saw him and stiffened to back the other dog.
Tantrybogus’ last point was not beautiful; it would have taken no prize
in field trials. His splayfeet were spread, the better to support his
body on his tottering legs. His tail drooped to the ground instead of
being stiffened out behind. His head was on one side, cocked knowingly,
and it was still as still. When Chet, frankly weeping, worked in behind
him he saw that the old dog was trembling like a leaf and he knew this
was no tremor of weakness but a shivering ecstacy of joy in finding game
again.
Chet came up close behind Old Tantry and stopped and looked down at the
dog. He paid no heed to Mac. Mac was young, unproved. But he and Tantry,
they were old friends and tried; they knew each the other.
“You’re happier now than you’ve been for a long time, Tantry,” said
Chet softly, as much to himself as to the dog. “Happy old boy! It’s a
shame to make you stay at home.”
And of a sudden, without thought or plan but on the unconsidered impulse
of the moment, Chet dropped his gun till the muzzle was just behind Old
Tantry’s head. At the roar of it a woodcock rose on shrilling
wings--rose and flew swiftly up the run with never a charge of shot
pursuing. Chet had not even seen it go.
The man was on his knees, cradling the old dog in his arms, crying out
as though Tantry still could hear: “Tantry! Tantry! Why did I have to go
and--I’m a murderer, Tantry! Plain murderer! That’s what I am, old dog!”
He sat back on his heels, laid the white body down and folded his arms
across his face as a boy does, weeping. In the still crisp air a sound
seemed still ringing--the sound of a dog’s bark--the bark of Old
Tantrybogus, yet strangely different too. Stronger, richer, with a new
and youthful timbre in its tones; like the bark of a young strong dog
setting forth on an eternal hunt with a well-loved master through alder
runs where woodcock were as thick as autumn leaves.