The Dog Megapack

by Robert Reginald

  “Too late for the fracas,” remarked Hilton, glancing at these last Foxhounds. Then he proudly petted Dander. “Didn’t need yer purp after all, ye see.”

  “Takes a heap of nerve for ten big Dogs to face one little Coyote,” remarked the father, sarcastically. “Wait till we run onto a Gray.”

  Next day we were out again, for I made up my mind to see it to a finish.

  From a high point we caught sight of a moving speck of gray. A moving white speck stands for Antelope, a red speck for Fox, a gray speck for either Gray-wolf or Coyote, and which of these is determined by its tail. If the glass shows the tail down, it is a Coyote; if up, it is the hated Gray-wolf.

  Dander was shown the game as before and led the motley mixed procession—as he had before—Greyhounds, Wolfhounds, Foxhounds, Danes, Bull-terrier, horsemen. We got a momentary view of the pursuit; a Gray-wolf it surely was, loping away ahead of the Dogs. Somehow I thought the first Dogs were not running so fast now as they had after the Coyote. But no one knew the finish of the hunt. The Dogs came back to us one by one, and we saw no more of that Wolf.

  Sarcastic remarks and recrimination were now freely indulged in by the hunters.

  “Pah—scairt, plumb scairt,” was the father’s disgusted comment on the pack. “They could catch up easy enough, but when he turned on them, they lighted out for home—pah!”

  “Where’s that thar onsurpassable, fearless, scaired-o’-nort Tarrier?” asked Hilton, scornfully.

  “I don’t know,” said I. “I am inclined to think he never saw the Wolf; but if he ever does, I’ll bet he sails in for death or glory.”

  That night several Cows were killed close to the ranch, and we were spurred on to another hunt.

  It opened much like the last. Late in the afternoon we sighted a gray fellow with tail up, not half a mile off. Hilton called Dander up on the saddle. I acted on the idea and called Snap to mine. His legs were so short that he had to leap several times before he made it, scrambling up at last with my foot as a halfway station. I pointed and “sicced” for a minute before he saw the game, and then he started out after the Greyhounds, already gone, with energy that was full of promise.

  The chase this time led us, not to the rough brakes along the river, but toward the high open country, for reasons that appeared later. We were close together as we rose to the upland and sighted the chase half a mile off, just as Dander came up with the Wolf and snapped at his haunch. The Gray-wolf turned round to fight, and we had a fine view. The Dogs came up by twos and threes, barking at him in a ring, till last the little white one rushed up. He wasted no time barking, but rushed straight at the Wolf’s throat and missed it, yet seemed to get him by the nose; then the ten big Dogs closed in, and in two minutes the Wolf was dead. We had ridden hard to be in at the finish, and though our view was distant, we saw at least that Snap had lived up to the telegram, as well as to my promises for him.

  Now it was my turn to crow, and I did not lose the chance. Snap had shown them how, and at last the Mendoza pack had killed a Gray-wolf without help from the men.

  There were two things to mar the victory somewhat: first, it was a young Wolf, a mere Cub, hence his foolish choice of country; second, Snap was wounded—the Wolf had given him a bad cut in the shoulder.

  As we rode in proud procession home, I saw he limped a little. “Here,” I cried, “come up, Snap.” He tried once or twice to jump to the saddle, but could not. “Here, Hilton, lift him up to me.”

  “Thanks; I’ll let you handle your own rattlesnakes,” was the reply, for all knew now that it was not safe to meddle with his person. “Here, Snap, take hold,” I said, and held my quirt to him. He seized it, and by that I lifted him to the front of my saddle and so carried him home. I cared for him as though he had been a baby. He had shown those Cattle-men how to fill the weak place in their pack; the Foxhounds may be good and the Greyhounds swift and the Russians and Danes fighters, but they are no use at all without the crowning moral force of grit, that none can supply so well as a Bull-terrier. On that day the Cattlemen learned how to manage the Wolf question, as you will find if ever you are at Mendoza; for every successful Wolf pack there has with it a Bull-terrier, preferably of the Snap-Mendoza breed.

  IV.

  Next day was Halloween, the anniversary of Snap’s advent. The weather was clear, bright, not too cold, and there was no snow on the ground. The men usually celebrated the day with a hunt of some sort, and now, of course, Wolves were the one object. To the disappointment of all, Snap was in bad shape with his wound. He slept, as usual, at my feet, and bloody stains now marked the place. He was not in condition to fight, but we were bound to have a Wolf-hunt, so he was beguiled to an outhouse and locked up, while we went off, I, at least, with a sense of impending disaster. I knew we should fail without my Dog, but I did not realize how bad a failure it was to be.

  Afar among the buttes of Skull Creek we had roamed when a white ball appeared bounding through the sage-brush, and in a minute more Snap came, growling and stump-waggling, up to my Horse’s side. I could not send him back; he would take no such orders, not even from me. His wound was looking bad, so I called him, held down the quirt, and jumped him to my saddle.

  “There,” I thought, “I’ll keep you safe till we get home.” Yes, I thought; but I reckoned not with Snap. The voice of Hilton, “Hu, hu,” announced that he had sighted a Wolf. Dander and Riley, his rival, both sprang to the point of observation, with the result that they collided and fell together, sprawling, in the sage. But Snap, gazing hard, had sighted the Wolf, not so very far off, and before I knew it, he leaped from the saddle and bounded zigzag, high, low, in and under the sage, straight for the enemy, leading the whole pack for a few minutes. Not far, of course. The great Greyhounds sighted the moving speck, and the usual procession strung out on the plain. It promised to be a fine hunt, for the Wolf had less than half a mile start and all the Dogs were fully interested.

  “They’ve turned up Grizzly Gully,” cried Garvin. “This way, and we can head them off.”

  So we turned and rode hard around the north side of Hulmer’s Butte, while the chase seemed to go round the south.

  We galloped to the top of Cedar Ridge and were about to ride down, when Hilton shouted, “By George, here he is! We’re right onto him.” He leaped from his Horse, dropped the bridle, and ran forward. I did the same. A great Gray-wolf came lumbering across an open plain toward us. His head was low, his tail out level, and fifty yards behind him was Dander, sailing like a Hawk over the ground, going twice as fast as the Wolf. In a minute the Hound was alongside and snapped, but bounded back, as the Wolf turned on him. They were just below us now and not fifty feet away. Garvin drew his revolver, but in a fateful moment Hilton interfered: “No; no; let’s see it out.” In a few seconds the next Greyhound arrived, then the rest in order of swiftness. Each came up full of fight and fury, determined to go right in and tear the Gray-wolf to pieces; but each in turn swerved aside, and leaped and barked around at a safe distance. After a minute or so the Russians appeared—fine big Dogs they were. Their distant intention no doubt was to dash right at the old Wolf; but his fearless front, his sinewy frame and death-dealing jaws, awed them long before they were near him, and they also joined the ring, while the desperado in the middle faced this way and that, ready for any or all.

  Now the Danes came up, huge-limbed creatures, any one of them as heavy as the Wolf. I heard their heavy breathing tighten into a threatening sound as they plunged ahead; eager to tear the foe to pieces; but when they saw him there, grim fearless, mighty of jaw, tireless of limb, ready to die if need be, but sure of this, he would not die alone—well, those great Danes—all three of them—were stricken, as the rest had been, with a sudden bashfulness. Yes, they would go right in presently—not now, but as soon as they had got their breath; they were not afraid of a Wolf, oh, no. I could read their courage in their voices. They knew perfectly well that the first Dog to go in was going to get hurt, but never mind that—pre
sently; they would bark a little more to get up enthusiasm.

  And as the ten big Dogs were leaping round the silent Wolf at bay, there was a rustling in the sage at the far side of place; then a snow-white rubber ball, it seemed, came bounding, but grew into a little Bull-terrier, and Snap, slowest of the pack, and last, came panting hard, so hard he seemed gasping. Over the level open he made, straight to the changing ring around the Cattle-killer whom none dared face. Did he hesitate? Not for an instant; through the ring of the yelping pack, straight for the old despot of range, right for his throat he sprang; and the Gray-wolf struck with his twenty scimitars. But the little one, if fooled at all, sprang again, and then what came I hardly knew. There was a whirling mass of Dogs. I thought I saw the little White One clinched on the Gray-wolf’s nose. The pack was all around; we could not help them now. But they did not need us; they had a leader of dauntless mettle, and when in a little while the final scene was done, there on the ground lay the Gray-wolf, a giant of his kind, and clinched on his nose was the little white Dog.

  We were standing around within fifteen feet, ready to help, but had no chance till were not needed.

  The Wolf was dead, and I hallooed to Snap, but he did not move. I bent over him. “Snap—Snap, it’s all over; you’ve killed him.” But the Dog was very still, and now I saw two deep wounds in his body. I tried to lift him. “Let go, old fellow; it’s all over.” He growled feebly, and at last go of the Wolf. The rough cattle-men were kneeling around him now; old Penroof’s voice was trembling as he muttered, “I wouldn’t had him hurt for twenty steers.” I lifted him in my arms, called to him and stroked his head. He snarled a little, a farewell as it proved, for he licked my hand as he did so, then never snarled again.

  That was a sad ride home for me. There was the skin of a monstrous Wolf, but no other hint of triumph. We buried the fearless one on a butte back of the Ranch-house. Penroof, as he stood by, was heard to grumble: “By jingo, that was grit—cl’ar grit! Ye can’t raise Cattle without grit.”

  DOGS QUESTING, by John Gregory Betancourt

  By the time the last of the knights had padded in for evening conclave, a great central fire already burned bright and hot. A stag hung over the flames, and grease dripped onto the embers, sizzling and hissing away to nothing. The scent of roasting meat filled the air.

  Jerek, the greatest warhound from Farthest Brittany, carved the meat himself that night, and between lapping ale and eating venison, the knights had their usual wild time.

  At last, as talk wound down and the fire died to embers, a wise old bard rose, stretched, and moved forward with deliberate solemnity. All grew silent with respect.

  “This is the time,” the bard said slowly, “to hear the tale of Uthor’s Sin and how we came to our great quest.”

  As all the knights settled into their usual places, the bard hunkered down and sketched a circle in the earth with one sharp nail.

  “In the beginning there was only Man.…”

  * * * *

  In the beginning there was only Man (the bard said), and Man’s dogs. Man owned home, and food, and fire. Peaceful days running the fields and flushing game for Man’s pleasure, and dreamful nights on the hearth with bellies full and the snap-crackle warmth of fire at your back: this was a dog’s life, and it was good.

  Season blended into season, year following year, each moment a joy of motion and freedom. Then one day Uthor, who is also called Uthor the First, and sometimes Uthor the Snake, looked at Man and said to himself, “My eyes are sharper than Man’s eyes. My nose is keener than Man’s nose. My claws are sharper than Man’s claws. Why then must I serve him?”

  Uthor did not go into the fields with the other dogs the next morning. Instead, Uthor lay under bushes and peered out snakelike, watching Man as Man went about his duties. Thus Uthor learned the secret way in which Man created fire.

  That night Uthor showed the other dogs the trick of fire, too. The young dogs marveled at his daring. The older ones shook their heads sadly.

  At last the oldest and wisest dog came forward and said: “This is not our way, Uthor. You will anger Man, and we will all be punished. No more shall you steal from our master.”

  Uthor was filled with shame. The next day he went with the other dogs to the fields, and there they played in the sun and grass until Man summoned them back to his house for dinner.

  So it went for several weeks. Yet a fierce urge to know all that Man knew continued to grow in Uthor, until he could no longer contain himself. Once more he strayed from the fields to spy on Man. Once more he learned one of Man’s great secrets: how to make the winds blow at his command. Then, remembering the words of the oldest and wisest dog, Uthor did not share his learning with the other dogs.

  Over the following months Uthor managed to steal all of Man’s secrets. Uthor practiced until he too could pull water from the depths of the Earth, and make the grass grow tall, and cause the sun to rise and set.

  When he had learned all he thought there was to learn, Uthor went into the private chamber of Man, where dogs are forbidden, and rose up on his hind legs to look Man in the eye. Uthor said: “I know all that you know.”

  Man smiled and said, “What do you know, little dog?”

  Uthor replied: “Dogs are Man’s equal, and you keep us in slavery only to serve you.” Then Uthor showed Man that he too could make fire, and bring water to the earth, and cause the sun to rise and set just as Man could.

  If Man grew angry or afraid, he did not show it. Man merely rose, patted Uthor upon the head, scratched once behind Uthor’s ears, and gave a soft sigh. Throwing open the doors and windows of his house to all the beasts, Man strode from his ancient home and started down the long pebble path. At the gates of his land, Man paused to gaze around one last time. There were tears in his eyes.

  “I guess you truly have no need for me,” Man said. Then Man strode out into the world without a backward glance.

  Uthor watched all this from a window in Man’s house, alone for the first time, and very afraid. Uthor had not expected Man to leave. In his pride, he expected Man to embrace him, so that they could live together as equals.

  When the other dogs returned from the fields that night, they found Uthor hiding under Man’s bed. Of Man, there was no sign. The dogs dragged Uthor out and made him tell what had happened.

  When Uthor finished his story, the other dogs gave howls of dismay and fell on Uthor in a great savage pack, ripping open Uthor’s throat and laying bare Uthor’s flesh to the bone. Perhaps they thought Man would forgive them if they punished Uthor. Perhaps the anger and fear and loneliness of that moment drove them mad for a time. Whatever, despite their howls and pleadings, despite their pitiful whimpers into the dark and empty night, and despite even Uthor’s murder: none of it brought Man back.

  Thus did Uthor, first and least of all dogs, die.

  Thus was Man lost to the wilderness.

  Thus do all dogs even now roam the world, in search of Man, in search of a home, in search of all that they have lost.

  * * * *

  When the bard finished his tale, the knights all laid their heads upon their paws, sighed a sad sigh, and felt the pack’s emptiness rise around them like a thing alive. They felt Uthor’s sin in their hearts and their bones.

  To a one, all vowed to continue the quest until Man was found and returned to his place. Then the fields would bloom again, and the breezes blow, and the sun rise up to drive darkness from the land in a frenzy of light.

  Only with Man, they knew, would they be whole once more.

  THE WIDOW’S DOG, by Mary Russell Mitford

  One of the most beautiful spots in the north of Hampshire—a part of the country which, from its winding green lanes, with the trees meeting over head-like a cradle, its winding roads between coppices, with wide turfy margents on either side, as if left on purpose for the picturesque and frequent gipsy camp, its abundance of hedgerow timber, and its extensive tracts of woodland, seems as if the fields were just du
g out of the forest, as might have happened in the days of William Rufus—one of the loveliest scenes in this lovely county is the Great Pond at Ashley End.

  Ashley End is itself a romantic and beautiful village, struggling down a steep hill to a clear and narrow running stream, which crosses the road in the bottom, crossed in its turn by a picturesque wooden bridge, and then winding with equal abruptness up the opposite acclivity, so that the scattered cottages, separated from each other by long strips of garden ground, the little country inn, and two or three old-fashioned tenements of somewhat higher pretensions, surrounded by their own moss-grown orchards, seemed to be completely shut out from this bustling world, buried in the sloping meadows so deeply green, and the hanging woods so rich in their various tinting, along which the slender wreaths of smoke from the old clustered chimneys went smiling peacefully in the pleasant autumn air. So profound was the tranquility that the slender streamlet which gushed along the valley, following its natural windings, and glittering in the noonday sun like a thread of silver, seemed to the unfrequent visitors of that remote hamlet the only trace of life and motion in the picture.

  The source of this pretty brook was undoubtedly the Great Pond, although there was no other road to it than by climbing the steep hill beyond the village, and then turning suddenly to the right, and descending by a deep cart-track, which led between wild banks covered with heath and feathery broom, garlanded with bramble and briar roses, and gay with the purple heath-flower and the delicate harebell, to a scene even more beautiful and more solitary than the hamlet itself.

  It was a small clear lake almost enfolded in trees, across which an embankment, formed for the purpose of a decoy for the wildfowl with which it abounded, led into a wood which covered the opposite hill; an old, forest-like wood, where the noble oaks, whose boughs almost dipped into the water, were surrounded by their sylvan accompaniments of birch and holly and hawthorn, where the tall trees met over the straggling paths, and waved across the grassy dells and turfy brakes with which it was interspersed. One low-browed cottage stood in a little meadow—it might almost be called a little orchard—just at the bottom of the winding road that led to the Great Pond: the cottage of the widow King.