himself, listen to the mysterious sounds of the night, then drop back to sleep. He couldn’t get away from a recurring dream that some terrible Foe was lurking in the shadows just beyond his vision, ready to swoop down on one who was very weak and helpless; yet he wouldn’t stay to fight it off.

Once or twice he got up to mind the fire, and at such times the night noises reached him with startling vividness. Dawn was nearing; the sheep were stirring and uneasy. Once more he went to sleep. For a little while all his dreams departed. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Get up,” a voice said in his ear. “We got start now⁠—make it down by night.”

He opened his eyes. The forest world was still lost in darkness. True, a faint grayness had spread over the east, but the moon still rode vividly in the sky. And, yes, the sheep had got up and were feeding in the grass.

Hugh leaped to his feet. The guide had already rebuilt the fire; and the two of them went about the tasks that were necessary before departure. Pete caught the horse, Hugh himself completed the cooking of breakfast that the guide had already started. He watched with an extraordinary fascination the grim, certain motions of the Indian as he prepared the herder’s body for the day’s journey. The animal was saddled, the stiffening form tied on. Hugh helped put out the fire⁠—the last act of a real woodsman when he breaks camp⁠—and laid out food for the dog. A few moments more and they were ready to go.

“You’re sure you won’t stay⁠—and take a job as sheep herder?” Hugh asked.

“Not me,” the Indian replied. “Herder shot⁠—me shot next.”

“There’s no reason for thinking you would be shot.”

“You don’t know cattlemen⁠—Landy Fargo⁠—José Mertos⁠—Besides⁠—Pete got other work to do.”

Perhaps it was true. The guide had other work to do. Hugh glanced toward the flock. The animals were not bunched so closely now, and some of the lambs were feeding at the very margin of the river. Their numbers, now that they were widely spread, seemed greater than ever.

The shepherd dog came running to him, and Hugh bent to caress him for the last time. He held the head in his hands and looked into the brown eyes. The dog’s gaze did not flinch as is usual when his majesty, man, looks into the eyes of one of the lower creatures. Instead, Hugh couldn’t get away from a haunting idea that the dog’s expression was one of pathetic appeal. It was almost as if the animal had spoken in words, and Hugh could not laugh at his own discomfort. “Aid me,” the dog seemed to say. “Help me keep my trust. The odds are long against me, so give me your aid.”

The dog leaped from his arms; then ran forward a little way, barking, toward the sheep. But Hugh laughed and called him back again.

“Goodbye, old fellow,” he said. “Mind the sheep!”

The dog whined softly, and Hugh tried not to understand.

“There’ll be a herder up here in a day or two, if the owner can procure one. And I’ve left out food for you. Goodbye again, for the last time.”

But the concluding words of that farewell the animal did not seem to hear. Hugh felt him stiffen in his arms and saw that the intelligent eyes were gazing away, over the flock toward the river. Hugh followed the line of sight, but all he could see was the shadows, bleached here and there by the bodies of the sheep. Then the dog leaped frantically from his arms.

Hugh watched him till the shadows hid him, saw him encircle the wing of the flock, and race at top speed toward the river. It was as if a message had come to him to which Hugh was deaf, that the dog’s eyes had discerned some occurrence on the distant river bank that Hugh himself could not see, and, obedient to a great law within himself, true to a deathless trust that had been bestowed upon him, had dashed forth to give aid.

And the miracle was no less than Hugh thought. The dog had gone to give aid, and no man may say by what avenue of sense, by what inscrutable means he knew that aid was needed. The distance seemed too far for eyesight. There was no actual voice in the air that Hugh could hear. On the green bank of the river one of the ewes raced up and down, bleating pitifully, evidently in great distress. Hundreds of sheep were bleating at the same time, and it seemed hard to believe that the dog could have distinguished a note of distress, unheard in the others, in her voice. She seemed to be gazing in frantic terror down into the wild and seething cataract.

Far across the meadow Hugh did not hear and he did not heed. He turned to the guide, waiting at the horse’s head. “Lead the way,” he ordered. “There’s no use of our waiting any longer.”


Broken Fang, the cougar, had had a discouraging night. Never in his long years could he remember a time of darkness when the hunting had been so barren of results. Now the dawn was coming out, and not even a rabbit had been caught to appease the gnawing hunger within him.

He wouldn’t have liked to admit the true explanation: that he had seen his best days. The cougar shares with all living things a resistless propensity to grow old, and already his years were many. He had had his day. The deer that had died in his talons, even the elk that he had laid low with one lightning, terrible bite to the throat would make a number not pleasing to contemplate by lovers of the wild game. It is to be remembered that an ordinary cougar will kill two deer a week, year on year, until the buzzards come to feed upon him. Broken Fang was

Вы читаете Shepherds of the Wild
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату