There was nothing here to perish or change. It had been the same for uncounted centuries—since the first dim days when the nomads drove their flocks over the plains of Asia. Cities are born, grow great, are cursed with wickedness, and perish. The flocks still wander on the hills. Men catch new fancies, follow new teachings, build new orders, and pursue new ways. The firelight of the herder still glows in the twilight. Civilization rises and falls like the tide. The beasts of prey still lurk in the thickets to slay the sheep. Fashions, hobbies, pleasures, habits and modes of life, faiths and doctrines, even kingdoms and palaces start up, flourish, change and die—and still the shepherd dog keeps his watch.
He was suddenly called from his reverie by the voice of the guide beside him. “Fire’s about out,” the man said. “Time herder put on more fuel.”
It was a commonplace remark, yet it compelled Hugh’s attention. His startled eyes turned to the Indian’s impassive face. “It’s not cold tonight,” he replied. “What’s the need of the fire?”
The Indian made no immediate reply. He did, however, hold up his hand. Hugh listened. Somewhere back of them in the thicket a twig broke with miniature explosion. Then two leaves rustled together.
“That’s why,” the Indian said. “Keep off varmints.”
At that instant the dog discerned them and came barking toward them. He was a beautiful shepherd—from his unusual size evidently a crossed breed—and the light was still good enough for them to see his lustrous coat, his powerful form, his intelligent head, his fine brush that he carried high. The dog slowed to a walk, and Hugh spoke to him. A moment more the animal was at his knees.
Hugh had always been a dog-lover—giving his regard to an ill-mannered, savage German police dog that lived a parasitical life at his city house—and he knelt quickly to caress the shepherd’s head. And for the second time that night he had a series of impressions that he could not trace or name.
They arose from the behavior of the dog. The animal seemed oddly nervous and shaken, and the great, brown, lustrous eyes were full of singular appeal. He ran from them a little way, barking, then returned as if he desired them to follow him. “What’s the matter, old boy?” Gaylord asked. “What’s up?”
The dog barked again, coming to his arms for more petting. Then the Indian dropped to his knees with a curious little cry.
Pete the guide had an exceedingly good command of English for a half-breed. But in that moment of astonishment the use of the language fell away from him, and his only utterance was an exclamation in his own almost-forgotten tongue. He rubbed his hand over the animal’s shoulder.
“What is it, Pete?” Hugh asked quietly.
“He’s creased. Dog’s been shot—bullet took away a little skin.”
“The shot we heard?”
“No. That rifle shot. The dog shot with pistol.”
“And how in the world did you find that out?”
“Not know sure—looks heap like a scratch by small-caliber bullet. Couldn’t hear pistol shot so far.”
“I’ve heard,” Hugh said thoughtfully, “that it isn’t good form—for a herder to shoot at his own dog.”
“Maybe not that,” the Indian went on. His tone was so strange and flat that Hugh whirled to stare at him. “Fire’s burning out too—sheep getting restless. Maybe better see where herder is.”
“Don’t you suppose he’s in his shelter tent?”
“We’ll look and see.”
They started out into the clearing, the dog running in front of them. The sheep, after the manner of their kind, paid no attention to them. They walked swiftly toward the little tent beside the stream.
The dog stopped, sniffing at something that lay in a little clump of thicket. When still a few paces distant, Hugh thought it was one of the black sheep, separated from the flock. The Indian, however, made no such mistake. And he hardly turned to glance at it.
“The herder’s other dog,” he explained. “Knew there ought to be two. Better shooting this time.”
Hugh felt a little stir of excitement. The black dog had been slain by a small-calibered bullet, and his body was still warm. The Indian increased his pace.
A second more, and they were at the door of the tent. It was hard for them to see clearly at first. The shadows were quite deep inside. And at first they were only aware of a heavy, strange silence that seemed to grow and deepen as they stood looking.
The herder was not standing up to greet them. Neither was he busy at any of his late-evening tasks. They made out his figure dimly, sprawled on his blankets in one corner of the tent.
“By Jove!” Hugh exclaimed. “I believe the beggar’s asleep.”
But he didn’t speak quite the truth. In reality, he believed something far different. It is the way of a certain type of man to avoid at all costs any appearance or semblance of hysterics or sensationalism. Hugh was of that type, and he unconsciously shrank from the utterance of his true beliefs.
“Not asleep,” the Indian replied bluntly. He stopped, walked into the tent, and turned the man’s body in his hands. No wonder the camp fire was dying. Its tender—the sheep herder—had been shot and killed a few moments before.
V
Hugh Gaylord had never known a more mysterious hour than that in which the darkness fell over the sheep camp. At the end of it he felt as if he had lost himself in a dim and eerie dream and only
