With a week of October left, Proutt took Reck home to Westley. Westley
was not there, but Mrs. Westley marked Proutt’s lowering eye, and was
frightened of the man, and told Westley so when he came. But Westley was
well enough pleased to have Reck back again; and he bade her forget
Proutt.
Proutt had been, thus far, somewhat favored by fortune. The business of
his office had taken Westley away from Fraternity for two weeks at a
time, so that Proutt had had full time to do with Reck as he chose.
Fraternity knew nothing of what had happened, though Jim Saladine may
have guessed. There was one night at Will’s store when Jim and Proutt
were near fisticuffs. Proutt had brought Dan with him to the store; and
Jim, studying the surly dog, asked:
“Dan ever notice a deer, Proutt?”
Proutt exclaimed profanely. “No,” he said.
“I was over in the Sheepscot, t’other day,” said Jim evenly. “See
tracks where a dog had been after a deer.”
“More like it was one of these setters,” Proutt declared, watching them
all from beneath lowered lids. “They’ll kill a deer, or a sheep, give
’em a chance.”
“It was hound’s tracks,” Jim persisted mildly; and something in Jim’s
tone, or in Proutt’s own heart, made the trainer boil into fury, so that
he strode toward Saladine. But Will Bissell came between, and the matter
passed.
Proutt, before this, had taken Reck home; and the Westleys made much of
the dog. Reck had affable and endearing little tricks of his own. He had
a way of giving welcome, drawing back his upper lip so that his teeth
showed as though in a snarl, yet panting with dog laughter all the time;
and he had a way of talking, with high whines of delight, or throaty
growls that ran the scale. And he would lie beside Westley, or beside
Westley’s wife, and paw at them until they held his paw in their hands,
when he would go contentedly enough to sleep.
They thought the dog was unhappy when he came home to them. He had a
slinking, shamed way about him. At first Westley supposed Proutt had
whipped him; but Reck showed no fear of a whip in Westley’s hands. After
two or three days this furtiveness passed away and Reck was the joyously
affectionate creature he had always been. So the Westleys forgot his
first attitude of guilt, and loved him ardently as men and women will
love a dog.
Westley had opportunity for one day’s hunting with him, and Reck never
faltered at the task to which he had been born and bred.
He had one fault. Chained, he would bark at the least alarm, in a manner
to wake the neighborhood. So Westley had never kept him chained. It was
not the way of Fraternity to keep dogs in the house of nights; so Reck
slept in the woodshed, and Westley knocked a plank loose and propped it,
leaving Reck an easy avenue to go out or in. It was this custom of
Westley’s which gave Proutt the chance for which he had laid his plans.
October had gone; November had come. This was in the days when woodcock
might be shot in November if you could find them. But most men who went
into the woods bore rifles; for it was open season for deer. Now and
then you might hear the snapping crash of a thirty-thirty in Whitcher
Swamp, or at one of the crossings, or--if you went so far--in the alder
vales along the Sheepscot. And one day in the middle of the month, when
the ground was frozen hard, Proutt came to Nick Westley’s home.
He came at noon, driving his old buggy. Westley was at dinner when he
heard Proutt drive into the yard; and he went to the door and bade the
dog trainer come in. But Proutt shook his head, and his eyes were
somber.
“You come out, Westley,” he said. “I’ve a word for you.”
There was something in Proutt’s tone which disturbed Westley. He put on
his mackinaw, and drew his cap down about his ears, and went out into
the yard. Reck had been asleep on the doorstep when Proutt appeared; he
had barked a single bark. But now he was gone into the shed, out of
sight; and when Westley came near Proutt’s buggy, the dog trainer asked:
“Did you see Reck sneak away?”
Westley was angry; and he was also shaken by a sudden tremor of alarm.
He said hotly enough: “Reck never sneaks. He did not sneak away.”
“He knows I saw him,” said Proutt. “He heard me yell.”
Westley asked, with narrowing eyes: “What are you talking about? Where
did you see him?”
“This morning,” Proutt declared. “Scant daylight. Down in the Swamp.”
Westley stood very still, trying to remember whether he had seen Reck
early that morning. And he could only remember, with a shocking
certainty, that Reck had not been at home when he came out of the house
to do his chores. He had called and got no answer; and it may have been
half an hour before the dog appeared. It had disturbed Westley at the
time; and he scolded Reck for self-hunting. But any dog will range the
home farm in the morning hours, and Westley had not taken the matter
seriously.
Proutt’s words, and his tone more than his words, made the matter very
serious indeed. Westley forced himself to ask: “What were you doing in
the Swamp?”
“I was after a deer,” said Proutt; and when Westley remained silent,
Proutt added huskily: “So was Reck.”
Westley cried: “That’s a lie.” But his own voice sounded strange and
unnatural in his ears. He would not believe. Yet he knew that other
dogs had chased deer in the past, and would again. He had himself shot
half a dozen. It was the law; and he was the instrument of the law. And
this was the very bitterness of Proutt’s accusation; for if it were
true, then he must shoot Reck. And Westley would as soon have shot one
of his own blood as the dog he loved.
In the little instant of silence that followed upon his word, he saw all
this, too clearly. And in spite of his love for Reck, and in spite of
his ardent longing to believe that Proutt had lied, he feared
desperately that the man spoke truth. Westley’s wife would never have
believed; for a woman refuses to believe any evil of those she loves.
She is loyal by refusing to believe; a man may believe and be loyal
still.
Westley did not know whether to believe or not; but he knew that he was
terribly afraid. He told Proutt: “That’s a lie!” And Proutt, after a
long moment, clucked to his horse and started on. Westley called after
him: “Wait!”
Proutt stopped his horse; and Westley asked: “What are you going to do?”
“You’re game warden,” Proutt told him sullenly. “Nobody around here can
make you do anything, less’n you’re a mind to. But I’ve told you what’s
going on.”
Westley was sweating in the cold, and said pitifully: “Proutt, are you
sure?”
“Yes,” said Proutt; and Westley cried: “What did you see?”
“I had a deer marked,” said Proutt slowly. “He’d been feeding under an
old apple tree down there. I was there before day this morning,
figuring to get a shot at him. Crep’ in quiet. Come day, I couldn’t see
him. But after a spell I heard a smashing in the brush, and he come out
through an open, and was away before I could shoot. And hot after him
came Reck.”
“How far away?” Westley asked.
“Not more’n ten rod.”
“You couldn’t be sure.”
“Damn it, man, I know Reck. Besides, I wouldn’t want to say it was him,
would I? He’s a grand dog.”
“What did you do?” Westley asked.
“Yelled at him to come in.”
“Did he stop?”
“Stopped for one look, and then one jump into the brush and away he
went.”
Westley was almost convinced; he turned to call Reck, with some curious
and half-formed notion that he might catechize the dog himself. But when
he turned, he found Reck at his side; and the setter was standing
steadily, legs stiff and proud like a dog on show, eyes fixed on Proutt.
There was no guilt in his attitude; nor was there accusation. There was
only steady pride and self-respect; and Westley, at sight of him, could
not believe this damning thing.
He said slowly: “Look at him, Proutt. If this were true, he’d be
ashamed, and crawling. You saw some other dog.”
Proutt shook his head. “He’s a wise, bold dog, is Reck. Wise as you and
me. He’ll face it out if he can.”
Westley pulled himself together, dropping one hand on Reck’s head. “I
don’t believe it, Proutt,” he said. “But I’m going to make sure.”
“I am sure,” said Proutt. “You can do as you please. But don’t ask me to
keep my mouth shut. You was quick enough to shoot Jackson’s dog when you
caught her on that doe.”
“I know,” said Westley; and his face was white. “I’ll be as quick with
Reck, when I’m sure.”
“You’ll take pains not to get sure.”
Westley held his voice steady. “Did you ever have to call Reck off deer
tracks?”
“No.”
“Then he’s never been taught not to run them?”
“Neither had Jackson’s dog.”
“What I mean,” said Westley, “is this. He doesn’t know it’s wrong to run
deer.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“I’m not excusing him.”
Proutt swore. “Well, what are you doing?”
“I’m going to take him into the swamp and find a deer,” said Westley
slowly. “See what he does. He’s never been taught not to run them. So
he’ll run any that we find. If it’s in him to do it, he’ll take after
them--”
Proutt nodded; and there was a certain triumph in his eyes. “You take
your gun along,” he said. “You’re going to need that gun.”
Westley, white and steady, said: “I’ll take the gun. Will you come
along?”
“Sure.”
“Do you know where we can find a deer?”
“No; not this time o’ day.”
Westley turned toward the house. “Wait,” he said. “I’ll get my gun; and
we’ll go pick up Jim Saladine. He’ll know.”
Proutt nodded. “I’ll wait,” he agreed.
Westley went into the house. Reck stood on the doorstep. Proutt,
waiting, watched Reck with a flickering, deadly light in his sullen
eyes.