CHAPTER XII
IN THE DAY OF BATTLE
Now, this is the true tale of Lad's last great adventure.
For more years than he could remember, Lad had been king. He had ruledat The Place, from boundary-fence to boundary-fence, from highway toLake. He had had, as subjects, many a thoroughbred collie; and many alesser animal and bird among the Little Folk of The Place. His rule ofthem all had been lofty and beneficent.
The other dogs at The Place recognized Lad's rulership--recognized itwithout demur. It would no more have occurred to any of them, forexample, to pass in or out through a doorway ahead of Lad than itwould occur to a courtier to shoulder his way into the throne-roomahead of his sovereign. Nor would one of them intrude on the "cave"under the living-room piano which for more than a decade had beenLad's favorite resting-place.
Great was Lad. And now he was old--very old.
He was thirteen--which is equivalent to the human age of seventy. Hislong, clean lines had become blurred with flesh. He was undeniablystout. When he ran fast, he rolled slightly in his stride. Nor couldhe run as rapidly or as long as of yore. While he was not wheezy orasthmatic, yet a brisk five-mile walk would make him strangely anxiousfor an hour's rest.
He would not confess, even to himself, that age was beginning tohamper him so cruelly. And he sought to do all the things he had oncedone--if the Mistress or the Master were looking. But when he wasalone, or with the other dogs, he spared himself every needlessstep. And he slept a great deal.
Withal, Lad's was a hale old age. His spirit and his almost uncannyintelligence had not faltered. Save for the silvered muzzle--firstoutward sign of age in a dog--his face and head were as classicallyyoung as ever. So were the absurdly small fore-paws--his one grossvanity--on which he spent hours of care each day, to keep them cleanand snowy.
He would still dash out of the house as of old--with the wildtrumpeting bark which he reserved as greeting to his two deitiesalone--when the Mistress or the Master returned home after an absence.He would still frisk excitedly around either of them at hint of aromp. But the exertion _was_ an exertion. And despite Lad's valiantefforts at youthfulness, everyone could see it was.
No longer did he lead the other dogs in their headlong rushes throughthe forest in quest of rabbits. Since he could not now keep the pace,he let the others go on these breath-and-strength-taking excursionswithout him; and he contented himself with an occasional loneand stately walk through the woods where once he had led therun--strolling along in leisurely fashion, with the benign dignity ofsome plump and ruddy old squire inspecting his estate.
There had been many dogs at The Place during the thirteen years ofLad's reign--dogs of all sorts and conditions, including Lad'sworshiped collie mate, the dainty gold-and-white "Lady." But in thislater day there were but three dogs beside himself.
One of them was Wolf, the only surviving son of Lad and Lady--aslender, powerful young collie, with some of his sire's brain and muchof his mother's appealing grace--an ideal play-dog. Between Lad andWolf there had always been a bond of warmest affection. Lad hadtrained this son of his and had taught him all he knew. He unbent fromhis lofty dignity, with Wolf, as with none of the others.
The second of the remaining dogs was Bruce ("Sunnybank Goldsmith"),tawny as Lad himself, descendant of eleven international champions andwinner of many a ribbon and medal and cup. Bruce was--and is--flawlessin physical perfection and in obedience and intelligence.
The third was Rex--a giant, a freak, a dog oddly out of place among agroup of thoroughbreds. On his father's side Rex was pure collie; onhis mother's, pure bull-terrier. That is an accidental blending of twobreeds which cannot blend. He looked more like a fawn-colored GreatDane than anything else. He was short-haired, full two inches tallerand ten pounds heavier than Lad, and had the bunch-muscled jaws of akiller.
There was not an outlander dog for two miles in either directionthat Rex had not at one time or another met and vanquished. Thebull-terrier strain, which blended so ill with collie blood, made itspossessor a terrific fighter. He was swift as a deer, strong as apuma.
In many ways he was a lovable and affectionate pet; slavishly devotedto the Master and grievously jealous of the latter's love for Lad. Rexwas five years old--in his fullest prime--and, like the rest, he hadever taken Lad's rulership for granted.
I have written at perhaps prosy length, introducing these charactersof my war-story. The rest is action.
March, that last year, was a month of drearily recurrent snows. In theforests beyond The Place, the snow lay light and fluffy at a depth ofsixteen inches.
On a snowy, blowy, bitter cold Sunday--one of those days nobodywants--Rex and Wolf elected to go rabbit-hunting.
Bruce was not in the hunt, sensibly preferring to lie in front of theliving-room fire on so vile a day rather than to flounder throughdust-fine drifts in search of game that was not worth chasing undersuch conditions. Wolf, too, was monstrous comfortable on the old furrug by the fire, at the Mistress' feet.
But Rex, who had waxed oddly restless of late, was bored by the indoorafternoon. The Mistress was reading; the Master was asleep. Thereseemed no chance that either would go for a walk or otherwise amusetheir four-footed friends. The winter forests were calling. Thepowerful crossbred dog would find the snow a scant obstacle to hishunting. And the warmly quivering body of a new-caught rabbit was atremendous lure.
Rex got to his feet, slouched across the living-room to Bruce andtouched his nose. The drowsing collie paid no heed. Next Rex movedover to where Wolf lay. The two dogs' noses touched.
Now, this is no _Mowgli_ tale, but a true narrative. I do not pretendto say whether or not dogs have a language of their own. (Personally,I think they have, and a very comprehensive one, too. But I cannotprove it.) No dog-student, however, will deny that two dogs communicatetheir wishes to each other in some way by (or during) the swiftcontact of noses.
By that touch Wolf understood Rex's hint to join in the foray. Wolfwas not yet four years old--at an age when excitement still outweighslazy comfort. Moreover, he admired and aped Rex, as much as ever theschool's littlest boy models himself on the class bully. He was up atonce and ready to start.
A maid was bringing in an armful of wood from the veranda. The twodogs slipped out through the half-open door. As they went, Wolf cast asidelong glance at Lad, who was snoozing under the piano. Lad notedthe careless invitation. He also noted that Wolf did not hesitate whenhis father refused to join the outing but trotted gayly off in Rex'swake.
Perhaps this defection hurt Lad's abnormally sensitive feelings. Forof old he had always led such forest-runnings. Perhaps the two dogs'departure merely woke in him the memory of the chase's joys andstirred a longing for the snow-clogged woods.
For a minute or two the big living-room was quiet, except for thescratch of dry snow against the panes, the slow breathing of Bruce andthe turning of a page in the book the Mistress was reading. Then Ladgot up heavily and walked forth from his piano-cave.
He stretched himself and crossed to the Mistress' chair. There he satdown on the rug very close beside her and laid one of his ridiculouslytiny white fore-paws in her lap. Absent-mindedly, still absorbed inher book, she put out a hand and patted the soft fur of his ruff andears.
Often, Lad came to her or to the Master for some such caress; and,receiving it, would return to his resting-place. But to-day he wasseeking to attract her notice for something much more important. Ithad occurred to him that it would be jolly to go with her for a trampin the snow. And his mere presence failing to convey the hint, hebegan to "talk."
To the Mistress and the Master alone did Lad condescend to "talk"--andthen only in moments of stress or appeal. No one, hearing him, at sucha time, could doubt the dog was trying to frame human speech. Hisvocal efforts ran the gamut of the entire scale. Wordless, butdecidedly eloquent, this "talking" would continue sometimes forseveral minutes without ceasing; its tones carried whatever emotionthe old dog sought to convey--whether of joy, of grief,
of request orof complaint.
To-day there was merely playful entreaty in the speechless "speech."The Mistress looked up.
"What is it, Laddie?" she asked. "What do you want?"
For answer Lad glanced at the door, then at the Mistress; then hesolemnly went out into the hall--whence presently he returned with oneof her fur gloves in his mouth.
"No, no," she laughed. "Not to-day, Lad. Not in this storm. We'll takea good, long walk to-morrow."
The dog sighed and returned sadly to his lair beneath the piano. Butthe vision of the forests was evidently hard to erase from hismind. And a little later, when the front door was open again by one ofthe servants, he stalked out.
The snow was driving hard, and there was a sting in it. The thermometerwas little above zero; but the snow had been a familiar bedfellow,for centuries, to Lad's Scottish forefathers; and the cold washarmless against the woven thickness of his tawny coat. Pickinghis way in stately fashion along the ill-broken track of the driveway,he strolled toward the woods. To humans there was nothing in theoutdoor day but snow and chill and bluster and bitter loneliness. Tothe trained eye and the miraculous scent-power of a collie itcontained a million things of dramatic interest.
Here a rabbit had crossed the trail--not with leisurely bounds ormincing hops, but stomach to earth, in flight for very life. Here,close at the terrified bunny's heels, had darted a red fox. Yonder,where the piling snow covered a swirl of tracks, the chase had ended.
The little ridge of snow-heaped furrow, to the right, held a basketfulof cowering quail--who heard Lad's slow step and did not reckon on hisflawless gift of smell. On the hemlock tree just ahead a hawk hadlately torn a blue-jay asunder. A fluff of gray feathers still stuckto a bough, and the scent of blood had not been blown out of theair. Underneath, a field-mouse was plowing its way into the frozenearth, its tiny paw-scrapes wholly audible to the ears of the dogabove it.
Here, through the stark and drifted undergrowth, Rex and Wolf hadrecently swept along in pursuit of a half-grown rabbit. Even a humaneye could not have missed their partly-covered tracks; but Lad knewwhose track was whose and which dog had been in the lead.
Yes, to humans, the forest would have seemed a deserted whitewaste. Lad knew it was thick-populated with the Little People of thewoodland, and that all day and all night the seemingly empty andplacid groves were a blend of battlefield, slaughterhouse andrestaurant. Here, as much as in the cities or in the trenches, abodestrenuous life, violent death, struggle, greed and terror.
A partridge rocketed upward through a clump of evergreen, while aweasel, jaws a-quiver, glared after it, baffled. A shaggy owl crouchedat a tree-limb hole and blinked sulkily about in search of prey and inhope of dusk. A crow, its black feet red with a slain snowbird'sblood, flapped clumsily overhead. A poet would have vowed that thestill and white-shrouded wilderness was a shrine sacred to solitudeand severe peace. Lad could have told him better. Nature (beneath thesurface) is never solitary and never at peace.
When a dog is very old and very heavy and a little unwieldy, it ishard to walk through sixteen-inch snow, even if one moves slowly andsedately. Hence Lad was well pleased to come upon a narrow woodlandtrack; made by a laborer who had passed and repassed through that samestrip of forest during the last few hours. To follow in that trampledrut made walking much easier; it was a rut barely wide enough for onewayfarer.
More and more like an elderly squire patrolling his acres, Lad rambledalong, and presently his ears and his nose told him that his twoloving friends Rex and Wolf were coming toward him on their home-boundway. His plumy tail wagged expectantly. He was growing a bit lonely onthis Sunday afternoon walk of his, and a little tired. It would be apleasure to have company--especially Wolf's.
Rex and Wolf had fared ill on their hunt. They had put up tworabbits. One had doubled and completely escaped them; and in the chaseRex had cut his foot nastily on a strip of unseen barbed wire. Thesandlike snow had gotten into the jagged cut in a most irritating way.
The second rabbit had dived under a log. Rex had thrust his headfiercely through a snowbank in quest of the vanished prey; and a longbriar-thorn, hidden there, had plunged its needle point deep into theinside of his left nostril. The inner nostril is a hundred-fold themost agonizingly sensitive part of a dog's body, and the pain wrung ayell of rage and hurt from the big dog.
With a nostril and a foot both hurt, there was no more fun in hunting,and--angry, cross, savagely in pain--Rex loped homeward, Wolfpattering along behind him. Like Lad, they came upon the laborer'strampled path and took advantage of the easier going.
Thus it was, at a turn in the track, that they came face to face withLad. Wolf had already smelled him, and his brush began to quiver inwelcome. Rex, his nose in anguish, could smell nothing; not untilthat turn did he know of Lad's presence. He halted, sulky, andill-tempered. The queer restlessness, the pre-springtime savagery thathad obsessed him of late had been brought to a head by his hurts. Hewas not himself. His mind was sick.
There was not room for two large dogs to pass each other in thatnarrow trail. One or the other must flounder out into the deep snow tothe side. Ordinarily, there would be no question about any other dogon The Place turning out for Lad. It would have been a matter ofcourse, and so, to-day, Lad expected it to be. Onward he moved, atthat same dignified walk, until he was not a yard away from Rex.
The latter, his brain fevered and his hurts torturing him, suddenlyflamed into rebellion. Even as a younger buck sooner or later assailsfor mastery the leader of the herd, so the brain-sick Rex went back,all at once, to primal instincts, a maniac rage mastered him--the rageof the angry underling, the primitive lust for mastery.
With not so much as a growl or warning, he launched himself uponLad. Straight at the tired old dog's throat he flew. Lad, allunprepared for such unheard-of mutiny, was caught clean off hisguard. He had not even time enough to lower his head to protect histhroat or to rear and meet his erstwhile subject's attack halfway. Atone moment he had been plodding gravely toward his two supposedlyloyal friends; the next, Rex's ninety pounds of whale-bone muscle hadsmitten him violently to earth, and Rex's fearsome jaws--capable ofcracking a beef-bone as a man cracks a filbert--had found a vise-gripin the soft fur of his throat.
Down amid a flurry of high-tossed snow, crashed Lad, his snarlingenemy upon him, pinning him to the ground, the huge jaws tearing andrending at his ruff--the silken ruff that the Mistress daily combedwith such loving care to keep it fluffy and beautiful.
It was a grip and a leverage that would have made the average opponenthelpless. With a short-haired dog it would have meant the end, but theprovidence that gave collies a mattress of fur--to stave off the cold,in their herding work amid the snowy moors--has made that fur thickestabout the lower neck.
Rex had struck in crazy rage and had not gauged his mark as truly asthough he had been cooler. He had missed the jugular and found himselfgrinding at an enormous mouthful of matted hair--and at very littleelse; and Lad belonged to the breed that is never to be taken whollyby surprise and that acts by the swiftest instinct or reason known todogdom. Even as he fell, he instinctively threw his body sideways toavoid the full jar of Rex's impact--and gathered his feet under him.
With a heave that wrenched his every unaccustomed muscle, Lad shookoff the living weight and scrambled upright. To prevent this, Rexthrew his entire body forward to reinforce his throat-grip. As aresult, a double handful of ruff-hair and a patch of skin came away inhis jaws. And Lad was free.
He was free--to turn tail and run for his life from the unequalcombat--and that his hero-heart would not let him do. He was free,also, to stand his ground and fight there in the snowbound forestuntil he should be slain by his younger and larger and stronger foe,and this folly his almost-human intelligence would not permit.
There was one chance and only one--one compromise alone between sanityand honor. And this chance Lad took.
He _would_ not run. He _could_ not save his life by fighting where hestood. His only ho
pe was to keep his face to his enemy, battling asbest he could, and all the time keep backing toward home. If he couldlast until he came within sight or sound of the folk at the house, heknew he would be saved. Home was a full half-mile away and the snowwas almost chest-deep. Yet, on the instant, he laid out his plan ofcampaign and put it into action.
Rex cleared his mouth of the impeding hair and flew at Lad oncemore--before the old dog had fairly gotten to his feet, but not beforethe line of defense had been thought out. Lad half wheeled, dodgingthe snapping jaws by an inch and taking the impact of the charge onhis left shoulder, at the same time burying his teeth in the rightside of Rex's face.
At the same time Lad gave ground, moving backward three or four yards,helped along by the impetus of his opponent. Home was a half-milebehind him, in an oblique line, and he could not turn to gauge hisdirection. Yet he moved in precisely the correct angle.
(Indeed, a passer-by who witnessed the fight, and the Master, who wentcarefully over the ground afterward, proved that at no point in thebattle did Lad swerve or mistake his exact direction. Yet notonce could he have been able to look around to judge it, and hisfoot-prints showed that not once had he turned his back on the foe.)
The hold Lad secured on Rex's cheek was good, but it was not goodenough. At thirteen, a dog's "biting teeth" are worn short and dull,and his yellowed fangs are blunted; nor is the jaw by any means aspowerful as once it was. Rex writhed and pitched in the fierce grip,and presently tore free from it and to the attack again, seeking nowto lunge over the top of Lad's lowered head to the vital spot at thenape of the neck, where sharp teeth may pierce through to the spinalcord.
Thrice Rex lunged, and thrice Lad reared on his hind legs, meeting theshock with his deep, shaggy breast, snapping and slashing at his enemyand every time receding a few steps between charges. They had leftthe path now, and were plowing a course through deep snow. The snowwas scant barrier to Rex's full strength, but it terribly impeded thesteadily backing Lad. Lad's extra flesh, too, was a bad handicap; hiswind was not at all what it should have been, and the unwontedexertion began to tell sharply on him.
Under the lead-hued skies and the drive of the snow the fight swirledand eddied. The great dogs reared, clashed, tore, battered againsttree-trunks, lost footing and rolled, staggered up again and renewedthe onslaught. Ever Lad manoeuvered his way backward, waging adesperate "rear-guard action." In the battle's wake was an irregularbut mathematically straight line of trampled and blood-spattered snow.
Oh, but it was slow going, this ever-fighting retreat of Lad's,through the deep drifts, with his mightier foe pressing him andrending at his throat and shoulders at every backward step! The olddog's wind was gone; his once-superb strength was going, but he foughton with blazing fury--the fury of a dying king who _will_ not bedeposed.
In sheer skill and brain-work and generalship, Lad was wholly Rex'ssuperior, but these served him ill in a death-grapple. With dogs, aswith human pugilists, mere science and strategy avail little againstsuperior size and strength and youth. Again and again Lad found ormade an opening. Again and again his weakening jaws secured the rightgrip only to be shaken off with more and more ease by the youngercombatant.
Again and again Lad "slashed" as do his wolf cousins and as doesalmost no civilized dog but the collie. But the slashes had lost theirone-time lightning speed and prowess. And the blunt "rending fangs"scored only superficial furrows in Rex's fawn-colored hide.
There was meager hope of reaching home alive. Lad must have knownthat. His strength was gone. It was his heart and his gloriousancestry now that were doing his fighting--not his fat and age-depletedbody. From Lad's mental vocabulary the word _quit_ had ever beenabsent. Wherefore--dizzy, gasping, feebler every minute--he battledfearlessly on in the dying day; never losing his sense of direction,never turning tail, never dreaming of surrender, taking direwounds, inflicting light ones.
There are many forms of dog-fight. Two strange dogs, meeting, will flyat each other because their wild forbears used to do so. Jealous dogswill battle even more fiercely. But the deadliest of all canineconflicts is the "murder-fight." This is a struggle wherein one orboth contestants have decided to give no quarter, where the victorwill fight on until his antagonist is dead and will then tear his bodyto pieces. It is a recognized form of canine mania.
And it was a murder-fight that Rex was waging, for he had gone quiteinsane. (This is wholly different, by the way, from "going mad.")
Down went Lad, for perhaps the tenth time, and once more--though nowwith an effort that was all but too much for him--he writhed to hisfeet, gaining three yards of ground by the move. Rex was upon him withone leap, the frothing and bloody jaws striking for his mangledthroat. Lad reared to block the attack. Then suddenly, overbalanced,he crashed backward into the snowdrift.
Rex had not reached him, but young Wolf had.
Wolf had watched the battle with a growing excitement that at lasthad broken all bounds. The instinct, which makes a fluff-headedcollege-boy mix into a scrimmage that is no concern of his, hadsuddenly possessed Lad's dearly loved son.
Now, if this were a fiction yarn, it would be edifying to tell howWolf sprang to the aid of his grand old sire and how he therebysaved Lad's life. But the shameful truth is that Wolf did nothingof the sort. Rex was his model, the bully he had so long andso enthusiastically imitated. And now Rex was fighting a mostentertaining bout, fighting it with a maniac fury that infected hisyoung disciple and made him yearn to share in the glory.
Wherefore, as Lad reared to meet Rex's lunge, Wolf hurled himself likea furry whirlwind upon the old dog's flank, burying his white teeth inthe muscles of the lower leg.
The flank attack bowled Lad completely over. There was no chance nowfor such a fall as would enable him to spring up again unscathed. Hewas thrown heavily upon his back, and both his murderers plunged athis unguarded throat and lower body.
But a collie thrown is not a collie beaten, as perhaps I have saidonce before. For thirty seconds or more the three thrashed about inthe snow in a growling, snarling, right unloving embrace. Then, bysome miracle, Lad was on his feet again.
His throat had a new and deep wound, perilously close to thejugular. His stomach and left side were slashed as with razor-blades.But he was up. And even in that moment of dire stress--with bothdogs flinging themselves upon him afresh--he gained another yardor two in his line of retreat.
He might have gained still more ground. For his assailants, leaping atthe same instant, collided and impeded each other's charge. But, forthe first time the wise old brain clouded, and the hero-heart wentsick; as Lad saw his own loved and spoiled son ranged against him inthe murder-fray. He could not understand. Loyalty was as much a partof himself as were his sorrowful brown eyes or his tiny whitefore-paws. And Wolf's amazing treachery seemed to numb the oldwarrior, body and mind.
But the second of dumfounded wonder passed quickly--too quickly foreither of the other dogs to take advantage of it. In its place surgeda righteous wrath that, for the instant, brought back youth andstrength to the aged fighter.
With a yell that echoed far through the forest's sinister silence, Ladwhizzed forward at the advancing Rex. Wolf, who was nearer, struck forhis father's throat--missed and rolled in the snow from the forceof his own momentum. Lad did not heed him. Straight for Rex heleaped. Rex, bounding at him, was already in midair. The two met, andunder the Berserk onset Rex fell back into the snow.
Lad was upon him at once. The worn-down teeth found their goal abovethe jugular. Deep and raggedly they drove, impelled by the brief flashof power that upbore their owner.
Almost did that grip end the fight and leave Rex gasping out his lifein the drift. But the access of false strength faded. Rex, roaringlike a hurt tiger, twisted and tore himself free. Lad realizing hisown bolt was shot, gave ground, backing away from two assailantsinstead of one.
It was easier now to retreat. For Wolf, unskilled in practicalwarfare, at first hindered Rex almost as much as he helped him, againand ag
ain getting in the bigger dog's way and marring a rush. HadWolf understood "teamwork," Lad must have been pulled down andslaughtered in less than a minute.
But soon Wolf grasped the fact that he could do worse damage bykeeping out of his ally's way and attacking from a different quarter,and thereafter he fought to more deadly purpose. His favorite ruse wasto dive for Lad's forelegs and attempt to break one of them. That is acollie manoeuver inherited direct from Wolf's namesake ancestors.
Several times his jaws reached the slender white forelegs, cutting andslashing them and throwing Lad off his balance. Once he found a holdon the left haunch and held it until his victim shook loose byrolling.
Lad defended himself from this new foe as well as he might, by dodgingor by brushing him to one side, but never once did he attack Wolf, orso much as snap at him. (Rex after the encounter, was plentifullyscarred. Wolf had not so much as a scratch.)
Backward, with ever-increasing difficulty, the old dog fought his way,often borne down to earth and always staggering up more feebly thanbefore. But ever he was warring with the same fierce courage; despitean ache and bewilderment in his honest heart at his son's treason.
The forest lay behind the fighters. The deserted highroad waspassed. Under Lad's clawing and reeling feet was the dear ground ofThe Place--The Place where for thirteen happy years he had reigned asking, where he had benevolently ruled his kind and had givenworshipful service to his gods.
But the house was still nearly a furlong off, and Lad was well-nighdead. His body was one mass of wounds. His strength was turned towater. His breath was gone. His bloodshot eyes were dim. His brainwas dizzy and refused its office. Loss of blood had weakened him fullas much as had the tremendous exertion of the battle.
Yet--uselessly now--he continued to fight. It was a grotesquely futileresistance. The other dogs were all over him--tearing, slashing,gripping, at will--unhindered by his puny effort to fend them off. Theslaughter-time had come. Drunk with blood and fury, the assailantsplunged at him for the last time.
Down went Lad, helpless beneath the murderous avalanche thatoverwhelmed him. And this time his body flatly refused to obey thegrim command of his will. The fight was over--the good, _good_ fightof a white-souled Paladin against hopeless odds.
The living-room fire crackled cheerily. The snow hissed and slitheredagainst the glass. A sheet of frost on every pane shut out the stormytwilit world. The screech of the wind was music to the comfortableshut-ins.
The Mistress drowsed over her book by the fire. Bruce snored snuglyin front of the blaze. The Master had awakened from his nap and was inthe adjoining study, sorting fishing-tackle and scouring a rustedhunting-knife.
Then came a second's lull in the gale, and all at once Bruce was wideawake. Growling, he ran to the front door and scratched imperativelyat the panel. This is not the way a well-bred dog makes known hisdesire to leave the house. And Bruce was decidedly a well-bred dog.
The Mistress, thinking some guest might be arriving whose scentor tread displeased the collie, called to the Master to shutBruce in the study, lest he insult the supposed visitor by barking.Reluctantly--very reluctantly--Bruce obeyed the order. The Mastershut the study door behind him and came into the living-room,still carrying the half-cleaned knife.
As no summons at bell or knocker followed Bruce's announcement, theMistress opened the front door and looked out. The dusk was falling,but it was not too dark for her to have seen the approach of anyone,nor was it too dark for the Mistress to see two dogs tearing atsomething that lay hidden from her view in the deep snow a hundredyards away. She recognized Rex and Wolf at once and amusedly wonderedwith what they were playing.
Then from the depth of snow beneath them she saw a feeble head rearitself--a glorious head, though torn and bleeding--a head thatwaveringly lunged toward Rex's throat.
"They're--they're killing--_Lad!_" she cried in stark, unbelievinghorror. Forgetful of thin dress and thinner slippers, she ran towardthe trio. Halfway to the battlefield the Master passed by her,running and lurching through the knee-high snow at something likerecord speed.
She heard his shout. And at sound of it she saw Wolf slink away fromthe slaughter like a scared schoolboy. But Rex was too far gone inmurder-lust to heed the shout. The Master seized him by the studdedcollar and tossed him ten feet or more to one side. Rage-blind, Rexcame flying back to the kill. The Master stood astride his prey, andin his blind mania the cross-breed sprang at the man.
The Master's hunting-knife caught him squarely behind the leftfore-leg. And with a grunt like the sound of an exhausted soda-siphon,the huge dog passed out of this story and out of life as well.
There would be ample time, later, for the Master to mourn his enforcedslaying of the pet dog that had loved and served him so long. Atpresent he had eyes only for the torn and senseless body of Lad lyinghuddled in the red-blotched snow.
In his arms he lifted Lad and carried him tenderly into the house.There the Mistress' light fingers dressed his hideous injuries.Not less than thirty-six deep wounds scored the worn-out oldbody. Several of these were past the skill of home treatment.
A grumbling veterinary was summoned on the telephone and was lured bypledge of a triple fee to chug through ten miles of storm in a balkycar to the rescue.
Lad was lying with his head in the Mistress' lap. The vet' looked theunconscious dog over and then said tersely:
"I wish I'd stayed at home. He's as good as dead."
"He's a million times better than dead," denied the Master. "I knowLad. You don't. He's got into the habit of living, and he's not goingto break that habit, not if the best nursing and surgery in the Statecan keep him from doing it. Get busy!"
"There's nothing to keep me here," objected the vet'. "He's----"
"There's everything to keep you here," gently contradicted theMaster. "You'll stay here till Lad's out of danger--if I have to stealyour trousers and your car. You're going to cure him. And if you do,you can write your bill on a Liberty Bond."
Two hours later Lad opened his eyes. He was swathed in smelly bandagesand he was soaked in liniments. Patches of hair had been shavedaway from his worst wounds. Digitalis was reinforcing his faintheart-action.
He looked up at the Mistress with his only available eye. By aherculean struggle he wagged his tail--just once. And he essayed thetrumpeting bark wherewith he always welcomed her return after anabsence. The bark was a total failure.
After which Lad tried to tell the Mistress the story of the battle.Very weakly, but very persistently he "talked." His tones droppednow and then to the shadow of a ferocious growl as he relatedhis exploits and then scaled again to a puppy-like whimper.
He had done a grand day's work, had Lad, and he wanted applause. Hehad suffered much and he was still in racking pain, and he wantedsympathy and petting. Presently he fell asleep.
* * * * *
It was two weeks before Lad could stand upright, and two more beforehe could go out of doors unhelped. Then on a warm, early springmorning, the vet' declared him out of all danger.
Very thin was the invalid, very shaky, snow-white of muzzle and withthe air of an old, old man whose too-fragile body is sustained only bya regal dignity. But he was _alive_.
Slowly he marched from his piano cave toward the open front door.Wolf--in black disgrace for the past month--chanced to be crossingthe living-room toward the veranda at the same time. The twodogs reached the door-way simultaneously.
Very respectfully, almost cringingly, Wolf stood aside for Lad to passout.
His sire walked by with never a look. But his step was all at oncestronger and springier, and he held his splendid head high.
For Lad knew he was still king!
THE END.
Lad: A Dog Page 12