That day the sheep were kept in on account of the snow and Wully, without his usual occupation, was lying on some planks in the sun. As the hunters drew near the house, he growled savagely and sneaked around to where the sheep were. Jo Greatorex walked up to where Wully had crossed the fresh snow, gave a glance, looked dumbfounded, then pointing to the retreating sheepdog, he said, with emphasis:
“Lads, we’re off the track of the Fox. But there’s the killer of the Widder’s yowes.”
Some agreed with Jo, others recalled the doubt in the trail and were for going back to make a fresh follow. At this juncture, Dorley himself came out of the house.
“Tom,” said Jo, “that dog o’ thine ’as killed twenty of Widder Gelt’s sheep, last night. An’ ah fur one don’t believe as its ’is first killin.’ ”
“Why, mon, thou art crazy,” said Tom. “Ah never ’ad a better sheepdog—’e fair loves the sheep.”
“Aye! We’s seen summat o’ that in las’ night’s work,” replied Jo.
In vain the company related the history of the morning. Tom swore that it was nothing but a jealous conspiracy to rob him of Wully.
“Wully sleeps i’ the kitchen every night. Never is oot till he’s let to bide wi’ the yowes. Why, mon, he’s wi’ oor sheep the year round, and never a hoof have ah lost.”
Tom became much excited over this abominable attempt against Wully’s reputation and life. Jo and his partisans got equally angry, and it was a wise suggestion of Huldah’s that quieted them.
“Feyther,” said she, “ah’ll sleep i’ the kitchen the night. If Wully ’as ae way of gettin’ oot ah’ll see it, an’ if he’s no oot an’ sheep’s killed on the countryside, we’ll ha’ proof it’s na Wully.”
That night Huldah stretched herself on the settee and Wully slept as usual underneath the table. As night wore on the dog became restless. He turned on his bed and once or twice got up, stretched, looked at Huldah and lay down again. About two o’clock he seemed no longer able to resist some strange impulse. He arose quietly, looked toward the low window, then at the motionless girl. Huldah lay still and breathed as though sleeping. Wully slowly came near and sniffed and breathed his doggy breath in her face. She made no move. He nudged her gently with his nose. Then, with his sharp ears forward and his head on one side he studied her calm face. Still no sign. He walked quietly to the window, mounted the table without noise, placed his nose under the sash-bar and raised the light frame until he could put one paw underneath. Then changing, he put his nose under the sash and raised it high enough to slip out, easing down the frame finally on his rump and tail with an adroitness that told of long practice. Then he disappeared into the darkness.
From her couch Huldah watched in amazement. After waiting for some time to make sure that he was gone, she arose, intending to call her father at once, but on second thought she decided to await more conclusive proof. She peered into the darkness, but no sign of Wully was to be seen. She put more wood on the fire, and lay down again. For over an hour she lay wide awake listening to the kitchen clock, and starting at each trifling sound, and wondering what the dog was doing. Could it be possible that he had really killed the widow’s sheep? Then the recollection of his gentleness to their own sheep came, and completed her perplexity.
Another hour slowly tick-tocked. She heard a slight sound at the window that made her heart jump. The scratching sound was soon followed by the lifting of the sash, and in a short time Wully was back in the kitchen with the window closed behind him.
By the flickering firelight Huldah could see a strange, wild gleam in his eye, and his jaws and snowy breast were dashed with fresh blood. The dog ceased his slight panting as he scrutinized the girl. Then, as she did not move, he lay down, and began to lick his paws and muzzle, growling lowly once or twice as though at the remembrance of some recent occurrence.
Huldah had seen enough. There could no longer be any doubt that Jo was right and more—a new thought flashed into her quick brain, she realized that the weird fox of Monsal was before her. Raising herself, she looked straight at Wully, and exclaimed:
“Wully! Wully! so it’s a’ true—oh, Wully, ye terrible brute.”
Her voice was fiercely reproachful, it rang in the quiet kitchen, and Wully recoiled as though shot. He gave a desperate glance toward the closed window. His eye gleamed, and his mane bristled. But he cowered under her gaze, and grovelled on the floor as though begging for mercy. Slowly he crawled nearer and nearer, as if to lick her feet, until quite close, then, with the fury of a tiger, but without a sound, he sprang for her throat.
The girl was taken unawares, but she threw up her arm in time, and Wully’s long, gleaming tusks sank into her flesh, and grated on the bone.
“Help! help! feyther! feyther!” she shrieked.
Wully was a light weight, and for a moment she flung him off. But there could be no mistaking his purpose. The game was up, it was his life or hers now.
“Feyther! feyther!” she screamed, as the yellow fury, striving to kill her, bit and tore the unprotected hands that had so often fed him.
In vain she fought to hold him off, he would soon have had her by the throat, when in rushed Dorley.
Straight at him, now in the same horrid silence sprang Wully, and savagely tore him again and again before a deadly blow from the fagot-hook disabled him, dashing him, gasping and writhing, on the stone floor, desperate, and done for, but game and defiant to the last. Another quick blow scattered
