The story of an act which brought its own extraordinary punishment
By Eleanor Williams Youmans
Illustration by Douglas Duer
WHERE Snakehead Canyon joins the valley, a mile from the lonely ranch, a band of coyotes were yipping at the full moon, long past the zenith, their shrill voices shivering eerily on the cold night wind.
A small dark-eyed woman, sitting on the single doorstep of the shack, drew her ragged shawl closer around her head. With painful slowness, she moved her feet beneath the old horse blanket to restore the circulation and uncurled her stiffened fingers from the rifle resting on a crazy barricade built of a tub with a box on top. She thrust the cold right hand beneath her shawl. A black kitten, that had crept into her arms hours before, embraced it between soft paws, purring sleepily.
The woman sighted along the barrel, bringing the bead to rest upon a certain spot near the pigpen, fifty yards away. She eased her aching back against the rough door frame, sighing heavily. This was the third night she had kept vigil over the pigs, while her husband was gone to town, twenty miles north, for a dog to replace the old collie he had shot in rage over the loss of two shoats within a month.
The old dog had barked a warning each time, but instead of charging the marauder, as his habit had been when coyotes slunk down from the hills, he had cowered beneath the house. And before Dud Forrester could run out with his gun the animal vanished into the night, bearing one of the young pigs.
Zoe Forrester had plead for the life of Rover, all that remained to her of the happy girlhood back East.
"It was a mountain lion, Dud," she sobbed. "No dog would attack a mountain lion. He wouldn't stand a chance."
Tears and pleading so added to his fury that Dud pushed her into the doorway with such violence that she stumbled. Before she could regain her feet the report of the rifle had made further remonstrance useless.
The next day, preparing to go to town, Dud had said: "There's one kind of dogs they say'll attack a mountain lion. I'll git me one."
The grin that widened his thin lips and narrowed his close-set eyes told Zoe more of his intention than he would have had her know. Three years' daily association with Dud Forrester left no phase of his tricky character in doubt.
"You watch the pigpen nights," he ordered, "or there'll be no meat next winter."
Zoe had obeyed him, as always, without question. But the long, silent watches gave her time to think—the first leisure she had known since coming West. The sudden loss of both parents had hurried her into marriage with Dudley Forrester, whom she hardly knew. He had sold her father's farm and had brought her West, promising to settle near the town where she had believed she had relatives. But her letters were unanswered by them, and Dud had bought this ranch and had it deeded to himself. The very chickens she raised were her husband's, who sold the eggs and spent the money. With the passing of old Rover, she realized, had gone the last of her worldly possessions. She had not been to the town since she came, three years before. She thought of how long it had been since she visited her nearest neighbor, three miles away. More than a year, because she was ashamed of her clothes.
HER thoughts circled round, always coming back to Rover's cruel end. Naturally sweet and submissive, a slow bitterness welled up, filling her with despair. Finally, she prayed, not for release —to great a boon was unthinkable. She prayed for strength, and patience to endure.
Her lips moved in this silent prayer until a sense of peace fell upon her. She slipped her chilled left hand into her lap with the kitten, and clasped the trigger with the warmed right. All her elaborate care, all the excessive stealth of her movements arose from a wild hope that she might get a shot at the beast which had three times robbed the pigpen.
Then she heard the cows moving restlessly in the ramshackle old barn, stalks of fodder crackling beneath their feet. One had a young calf. Since Dud had taken both horses she had shut the two cows in the stable, for safety.
She straightened up, straining her eyes to search the shadowy barnyard. Nothing moved. As her gaze returned to the pigpen, a shock went through her. The moment for which she had planned and waited had come. Where the rough shed cast the deepest shadow in the moonlight two green eyes gleamed.
She had rehearsed this very emergency in her mind. She must take slow, careful aim, or she would surely miss. The rifle already was trained on the shadow of the pigpen. She bent her head slightly, drew the bead low in the sight, exactly between the green eyes, and fired.
A dark streak flashed into the moonlight and out. Silence followed.
That she had not missed entirely she knew by the snarl. She guessed that the watching eyes had detected the movement of her head when she aimed, and the animal had crouched as she fired.
She went into the house and lighted a lantern; no need for quiet now, there would be no more visits for weeks, at least. There was still a hope that she might have wounded it seriously, but that hope died when she examined the ground for blood. However, there was something. By the prints of the long claws, where they had dug into the ground when the big cat leaped away, lay a small tuft of fur. She picked it up. It was light-colored. On the under side clung a bit of skin. She had clipped off the tip of an ear.
A WAGON rumbled on the road; Dud was returning. She carried the lantern to the stable and hung it beside the door. The coyotes were still.
Dud drove into the yard and called her out.
"Hold this chain," he said, without greeting, handing her the end of a light chain that was fast to a dark wriggling object in the wagon bed.
'That you shootin'?" he asked, preparing to lift it out. Before she had time to answer, the dog sprang to the ground unassisted, and ran toward the pigpen, straining on the leash with grotesque, hopping jumps until Zoe was forced to run or lose her hold.
He looked stubby and small in the darkness to eyes accustomed to the beauty of the collie; but how incredibly strong!
Dud came and took the chain, laughing as the dog stopped with his nose to the scratches in the ground.
"Been tryin' to jump out ever since he heard that gunshot. What'd you shoot at?"
Zoe explained briefly as they walked back to the house, the dog pulling back, eagerly sniffing the ground. She held the bit of tawny fur near the light of the lamp.
"I marked him, anyway. He'll stay away for a while."
The dog had followed at the end of his chain. Now he reared on his hind legs, forepaws resting against her-, to smell the tuft of hair, nosing her hand over to get the scent of the under side, sniffing long and expelling the breath in short gusts. Satisfied apparently, he returned to all fours, standing perfectly rigid, except his four-inch tail, which wagged furiously; sparkling eyes of brown begging out of a long, bewhiskered face—begging to be led to the rest of that fragment in her hand.
Zoe had to smile. " What a funny dog." she said. "A—a mongrel, isn't he?"
Dud laughed shortly.
"Not much. He's thoroughbred Airedale. Train 'em to hunt anything. This 'un don't know much yet. He's young."
A shifty expression came into his pale blue eyes. He tied the dog outside, under the house, and was careful not to talk overmuch about him for weeks afterward.
advanced into summer. The ^ incessant plowing, days without end, of the dry farmer, kept them both busy. The bean crop promised well; already Dud was bargaining for another forty acres adjoining his own. He took frequent half-holidays to hunt in the hills with the new dog, "Frowzy," he called him, while Zoe plowed, or raked alfalfa. She did a man's work outdoors, besides her own in the house.
At first Zoe disliked the new dog. Grieving for Rover's beautiful head and long, straight coat, the ragged, disheveled appearance of the Airedale was repellent to her; a distaste for his bristly coat with its porcine suggestion kept her from touching him. But he never failed to make her smile, when she went out to feed him, by his ridiculous trick of jumping backward stiff-legged, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a Tyrolean dancer, by way of expressing his pleasure, but never barking or "speaking" for his food.
The first day he was allowed at liberty, he helped her drive the hens away from the garden patch that Dud refused to fence. Only a few repetitions of this hilarious stunt, for him, were needed to make it clear that this particular piece of ground was taboo to hens. He needed no telling thereafter to chase them, squawking and cackling, to the barnyard. One afternoon, when the hens had been unusually determined to return, and he had pulled a few feathers out of one, Zoe talked to him gently. He looked so contrite and apologetic, she involuntarily patted his head, and was surprised to discover the tousled golden-brown hair was soft and silky, wholly unlike the stiff bristles of the grizzly black saddle covering his back.
She felt his ears; they were as velvety as Rover's had been. He stood perfectly still during this inspection, grave brown eyes, in which sparkled a hint of mischief, looking steadily into her face. She had expected him to fawn at her feet, or lick her hand under these caresses. He did neither. He regarded her earnestly while she smoothed the rebellious hairs that seemed to grow in every direction on his head, marveling at the breadth of skull where the brain lay — the length of his jaws had deceived her eye, making his head seem narrow — and when she stood erect, he rose on his hind legs, his paws against her chest, and leaned his head against her shoulder, trying to reach her face with his long, red tongue.
The powerfully hinged jaws at close range were startling, but hers was the instinct of the dog lover. She understood that here was no cringing slave, but a rough and ready comrade, possessing his own sturdy self-respect. The loneliness in her heart lessened somewhat.
She picked up a stick and threw it. He rushed off, scratching his toe nails on the hard ground, retrieved the stick, and laid it at her feet with a hearty snort. This gave her an idea. She handed the stick to him, saying, "Carry it," and
walked toward the house. He paced sedately beside her, carrying the stick proudly, head and tail erect. This was old stuff to him, she saw. In a few days she taught him Rover's former task of bringing in wood; but he always had to be sent after each stick, whereas old Rover would carry in stick after stick until told to stop.
The first time the Airedale met the black kitten, he chased it up a young cherry tree, growling ferociously. Zoe scolded him. The next time they met, he growled but did not chase it. The kitten quickly took advantage of this situation, growing a little bolder each day, in its longing for companionship, until one evening it plucked up courage to rub against his forelegs.
He muttered dire threats in his throat, standing stiffly, but belying the threats with his tail, which oscillated faintly, his eyes rolling comically at Zoe sitting on the doorstep. She stroked his head, murmuring, " Poor Puppy." She never called him "Frowzy," knowing from the manner in which he responded that it was not his real name. The first time she had said "Poor Puppy" he cocked his head in a way that suggested familiarity with it, or with something that sounded like it.
The kitten sprang into her lap on hearing her voice. Like a flash the dog seized it by the scruff of its neck and dropped it on the ground. Zoe gave a little cry of alarm as she visionedthe vicious shake that had snuffed out a gopher that afternoon; then she laughed relievedly. The kitten sat unharmed and unruffled beside him. Accepting her laugh as approval, he stood up with paws on her shoulders, exuberantly licking her ear and hair. He let his paws slide to her knees, grinning and panting his delight in her laughter, a sound he had never before heard. Zoe had almost forgotten how to laugh.
"Goodness, Puppy," she cried, "your head opens back to your shoulders." .
Dud Forrester, coming around the corner of the house, heard and answered.
"That long head's what won him all his prizes."
Zoe hurried in to put the supper on the table. Dud immediately forgot what he had said about the dog, talking about the quarter section he hoped to own in another year. After he was in bed, Zoe looked up the Lost and Found column in the county weekly, wondering, why she had not thought of it before. She ran her finger down a list of strayed or stolen cattle of various brands.
There it was! No, it could not be this dog. Twenty-five dollars reward? Surely he was not worth so much. She read on:
"Wearing a plain leather strap collar with gold plate inside engraved, 'Champion Moore's Duffy'."
E remembered the worn leather strap on the Airedale's neck. Perhaps Dud supposed it had been placed there by his hireling, and had never taken it off. Zoe waited till the snores from the inner room became regular, then she carried the lamp outside and set it on the ground near the corner of the house under which the dog slept. He gave a low " Whuff," at her approach and shook himself so vigorously that his ears beat a rat-tat on the sides of his head. She hesitated, fearing Dud would waken. His snoring reassured her. She unbuckled the shabby, cheap-looking collar and looked inside. There was a narrow gold plate engraved, "Champion Moore's Duffy."
" Poor Puppy," she whispered, patting him. "Puppy—Duffy, what shall I do about you? Do they love you so very much at Moore's Kennels?"
It occurred to her that Dud might be glad to relinquish the dog for the reward. Dud would do anything for money.
The next morning the cow which was about due to calve was missing. Dud saddled a horse and rode in search, without waiting for breakfast. Zoe hurried through the morning chores, her thoughts continually turning to Snakehead Canyon. She had mentioned the place to Dud as he rode away, but he jeered at the idea of a cow, choosing that rocky spot for a nursery, declaring his intention of going down the valley instead.
NOTHING grew in the canyon but yucca stalks and cacti, in scattered spots. Zoe had never been far inside. She knew the general contour from which it derived its name, but the great ledges shelving out from the walls suggested likely dens for mountain lions.
She'called the dog from a gopher hole he had been excavating.
"Poor Puppy," she murmured, in the low tone he had learned to recognize as meant for him alone. "Too bad to spoil your play, but I have to take you. The cow doesn't like you and will chase you, but I'm afraid to go alone."
She found the handle of a broken buggy whip to drive the cow with, and they went through the alfalfa field toward the head of the valley. The morning was hot; "desert weather," the neighbors said, whenever the wind blew from the east, which was rarely.
It was cooler in t'.ie canyon, for the sun had not yet climbed the high walls. It was a quarter of a mile long, its floor covered with boulders, behind any one of which a cow might hide.
She proceeded slowly, calling "Co, Boss," listening to the echoes of her own voice. Champion Moore's Duffy marched beside her, looking alertly from side to side, but seeing nothing worth investigating. When they had advanced perhaps five hundred yards he uttered a low "Whuff," and wagged his tail gently. Zoe listened, but though she could hear nothing she knew that he had heard the cow, and went a hundred yards farther, calling and listening, until a soft moo answered, less than fifty feet away.
It took her several moments to see the black cow, standing in a dim grotto beneath a shelf of dark stone jutting out from the canyon wall. Zoe left the dog behind a rock, where the cow could not see him, hoping to drive her past before she caught sight of him, and then make him follow far behind.
She found Boss pressing her side close to the rocky wall of the grotto, standing directly over the sleeping calf in a singularly awkward position.
Zoe coaxed and scolded, tapping her first gently and then smartly with the whip handle. She refused to move an inch.
"You old simpleton!" Zoe cried with exasperation, "what if you do smell the dog. He won't hurt your calf."
Zoe grasped the calf by the ears and dragged it, from under the mother, to its feet. A deep growl at her back made her whirl in fright which turned to sudden indignation.
"Duffy! Go back! Back, I tell you!" waving the stick at the dog threateningly.
The cow moved promptly, not in the direction of the dog; she merely glanced at him and walked quietly toward home.
Duffy's growl increased in volume and ferocity. He had not heeded her order; she looked at him in surprise. His aspect struck a chill of terror through her heart. Ten feet away he stood, his eyes fixed upon the lodge above her head, spine bristling, fangs bared, his throat swelling with a menacing snarl.
INSTINCT bade her follow the cow. There was something protective and comforting in the low maternal calls it gave to keep the calf close to its side. She had to follow; there was nowhere else to go. She tried to look up at the ledge, to see what deadly thing threatened them; but dared not for fear she might stumble.
Once out from under the shelter of the ledge she hurried the calf along as fast as its wobbly legs could go, waving her stick, trying to shout encouragement to the cow. The only sounds she made were short gasps and low moans.
She could hear the dog a few paces behind, growling unceasingly. Sometimes he seemed to pause and turn, at which times the notes of his voice swelled louder and fiercer than before.
It was a slow pace at first, but the little calf soon loped along at a livelier gait, seeming to gain strength with each frightened jump. The mother broke into a swinging trot. Zoe stumbled after, her feet slipping on the broken rocks, feebly waving her stick, summoning voice enough to call a faint "Hie" occasionally. Her courage rose as they neared the entrance. She looked back.
What she saw tore a shriek from her throat that left her bereft of strength to turn and run. Duffy was a few feet behind, walking sideways, snarling over his shoulder, disputing every step of the retreat. Twenty yards in the rear stalked two mountain lions. They disappeared behind a boulder when Zoe screamed. One peered boldly out again, and in spite of her terror her mind made note of the fact that one of its ears was crumpled.
Zoe found her voice at last, though all the strength in her body was required to raise it. She had never lacked lung power, and now she used it to the utmost. The mountain lions, intent on young calf meat, essayed to venture out from behind their rock, once or twice; but a fresh shriek sent them scurrying to cover. She yelled long and lustily.
A clatter of hoofs on stones answered. The lions leaped out and vanished, Duffy charging after; but one of their leaps
Let your next tire be were as three of his. Dud rode up, cursing the fact that he had not carried a gun. Zoe sank down upon the ground and sobbed weakly.
"Was ridin' up the valley," Dud explained, "saw the cow come out on the run. Rode around to get behind her, and heard your screeches."
He eyed the dog admiringly.
"Two mountain lions! Some dog, I'll say. Get up and go home. I'll drive the cow around tlhe road; it's dinner time."
The dog had come back from chasing the mountain lions and was licking the tears off Zoe's face. He followed her sedately across the alfalfa field, stopping at the spring to drink up the entire contents of the tiny basin; then raced on before, tail flagging gayly.
Zoe went about the dinner preparations without stopping to rest. She was used to hardship. The experience with the mountain lions had not been more nerve-racking than many another episode of her life here. The time, for instance, when Dud had struck her in the face, because she traded three hens to a woman "mover" for a cheap little phonograph, and ten wax cylinder records. He smashed the phonograph and records before she had got to hear but two of the squeaky little tunes.
"DUD FORRESTER was loud in his praise of "Frowzy" while eating his dinner. " Showed his sense by not attacking two mountain lions. Been one, he'd a-whaled him. Yes, sir!"
"He would have been ripped open," shuddered Zoe.
"No such thing!" he blustered. "Whatta you know about Airedales? They're killers, I tell you. Killers!"
That day Dud plowed till dark to make up for the time lost hunting the cow. While he ate his supper by the light of the lamp, Zoe tried to think of some tactful way to mention the advertisement for the dog A chilling breeze sprang up from the west, making the flame in the lamp leap and smoke. Dud shivered in his sweat-soaked shirt and cursed the climate, which he said baked by day and chilled at night. Before going out to make his evening rounds he put on an old coat, turned the collar high and buttoned it up to his chin, still cursing the climate, threatening to sell out and move "back to God's country."
Zoe seized upon this moment to show him the advertisement.
"There's a reward of twenty-five dollars," she suggested timidly.
Dud barely glanced at the paper; but she knew from his face that he had not seen the advertisement before.
"Tain't this dog," he snapped.
"It is, Dud; I looked inside his collar. If he is found here, wouldn't it be grand larceny? Of course you didn't know—"
"Know what?" Dud roared so loudly that Duffy sprang up with a gruff bark. Neither noticed him.
"About the collar," Zoe answered faintly* beginning to be afraid.
An ugly laugh greeted this.
"Grand larceny for dog stealing!" He laughed again and, reaching out, grasped her, shoulder, giving it a rough shake. Duffy growled, but Dud paid no attention. He continued to shout.
"You fool! Dogs ain't property. You think I stole this dog?"
Duffy growled again. The sound awoke something defiant in Zoe. She looked into the evil, distorted features above her head.
"Yes," she replied, "You stole him."
Surprise halted Dud's hand for an instant, giving her a bare second to dodge the blow. In doing so she slipped, and fell upon her knees. He drew back; his foot lifted to kick her. She cried out affrightedly.
A snarl as savage as that which had held oft" the mountain lions that morning warned him, but too late for him to draw back his foot. Iron jaws clamped upon his ankle. He lost his balance and sat sprawling upon the floor.
Like a flash, the dog released his leg and flew at the throat. The white fangs clicked viciously within an inch of the man's face. Dud fought him off with his hands, screaming horribly:
"Take him off"! He's a killer! Take him off"!"
Twice, but for the thick buttoned coat, the long snapping jaws would have found their goal. Centuries before, the dog's ancestors had fought in this same manner —first downing their adversary, then strangling the life out. He was merely obeying hereditary instinct.
Zoe scrambled up and seized Duffy's collar, but her strength was no match for that galvanized bundle of sinew and muscle bent upon destruction. Again, and again, he leaped and snapped at the man, who made no apparent effort to get up but sat and screamed, fighting feebly with his hands, a white froth on his lips, his eyes starting from his bluish face.
Zoe finally blocked the dog's rushes with her knee, clinging to his collar and raising her voice above the clamor of man and dog.
A GURGLING sigh came from Dud. That was all. He slumped over sideways and lay like an empty garment fallen from a hook. In her astonishment, Zoe loosed her hold on the dog; he rushed forward.
"No, Duffy! Stop!"
He stopped in his tracks, tail erect, looking eagerly at her for instruction. She opened the outside door.
"Go out, Duffy!"
She brought a dipper of water from the bucket and sprinkled Dud's face. He did not revive. She unbuttoned the torn coat. 1 here was no mark on his throat. There were even no marks on his hands. The dog had concentrated all his energies upon striving for a strangle hold, which he never got. Dud must have fainted.
An automobile drove into the yard and stopped.
Zoe went to the door. By the glare of the car's headlights she saw Duffy leaping and pawing at a man, who patted and hugged him.
The stranger saw her standing in the doorway and came forward, lifting his hat. Zoe gave a little cry of surprise.
"Why, Davy! David Moore, don't you know me? I'm your cousin, Zoe. Please come in. Dud has fainted—I can't bring him to."
A sudden thought struck her.
"Are you Moore's Kennels?"
"Yes. The Mexican who stole him for Forrester, confessed, to get the reward. I thought ht would. But how do you happen to be here, Zoe?"
"I'm Forrester's wife. He told me you had all gone to Alaska. See, he hasn't come out of it yet. What shall we do?"
David Moore knelt, examining the crumpled form.
"What happened?" he looked up to ask.
Zoe told him in hurried sentences, while Duffy frisked about, pawing his master's coat and turning to nudge her hands, sneezing and wagging his tail in a frenzy of delight.
When she finished, David Moore lifted the hand of the fallen man and again felt the pulse.
"Scared to death," he muttered to himself. "Simply scared to death."
Rising, he said quietly:
"Go put on your warmest things. I'll take you home with me. Then I'll come back with the coroner."
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