I.

Like shoulders of dirty gray rock, irregular, ghostly under the pale moonlight, the sheep spread out over the hillside, dozing contentedly. On the crest of the short slope that was the pasture, a big gray and white dog sat watching the flock. From time to time he started off in a businesslike manner and hurried some blundering ewe back into the moonlit open.

Ordinarily, this close attention was not necessary. Stupid though they were, most of the sheep knew better than to approach the strip of checkered shadow bordering the thicket, that was the dividing line between safety and danger. Just now, however, there were several young lambs among them, newly born, and the mothers seemed to have lost all sense of discretion. So at least Bill thought as for the tenth time he urged an obstinate ewe and her spindle-legged calf away from the forest edge. Each time, this particular ewe had refused to take his fangless proddings seriously and in good part; each time she had resented his interference with her senseless plans, and finally, she charged him, furiously, with lowered head—so quickly that, as he sprang aside, she caught him a glancing blow that almost upset him.

The big dog recovered quickly, circled swiftly about and rushed at her, silently, teeth bared. Not until within half a dozen feet of his intended victim did he realize what he was doing. It was then too late to stop. He sprang clear over the ewe and crouched panting in the shadow of a stump.

Through a necklike opening in the forest came the ring of an ax on wood. That was the man cutting kindlings for his morning fire. The big dog cowered. Whined softly. Once more he had nearly proved unfaithful to the master. For long he lay low, belly to the ground, then came erect slowly and tail between his legs, again took up his sentinellike position on the ridge top.

Bill was a mongrel, a splendid mixture of at least four fine strains; his mother was a sled dog from the Yukon, part chow, part Ungava husky with a dash of wolf blood running strongly near the surface; his father was a collie with an interbreeding of mastiff. Bill's hair was long and thick, like a collie; he was big-boned, broad-chested, like a husky, his mighty jaws, wide, massive, steel-muscled, were from his maternal grandsire, the wolf. What wonder, with such varying warlike strains, that violent passions fought ceaselessly for possession of his mighty body.

For long after his brush with the sheep, the dog crouched on the hilltop, motionless and limp. The wild desire that had urged him to kill, left him slowly and he was forlornly ashamed. However, it was a familiar sensation, quite. Many times before he had escaped murder by a hair’s breadth. Each time it had been on account of the master.

His allegiance to Hardin knew no bounds. Once he gave way to the bloodlust and the master would be lost to him forever. Well he knew. The sheep belonged to the man. It was the man’s wish that they should suffer no harm, that their foolish lives be protected at all costs. Bill had risked his own life times without number in the pursuit of duty as interpreted by his collie instincts. It was the master’s wish. But this particular night, the wild urge in him refused to be readily put aside. From time to time, deep, full-toned growls issued from his great throat.

The tiny scream of a bugle sounded, echoing sharply back from the purple hills. Instantly Bill was on his feet and whining eagerly. It was the man. Hardin had been a soldier. Every night he blew upon the yellow horn, a never-ending source of wonder and awe to all wilderness folk. To Bill it recalled a pile of rags and old burlap bags behind the stove where he slept through the cold winter nights. This concrete reminder of the master’s nearness banished the last shreds of wildness. He barked once, sharply, joyously, then circled the herd slowly, majestically, a sedate, aloof being, competent and ready protector of the weak, a trusted friend of the master.

This streak of the killer in Bill, Hardin had often suspected. He knew dogs. But because he did know them, he trusted Bill implicitly. It was a question of his influence over the wild streak. And he had every confidence in his ability to hold the big dog’s devotion.

Of one thing only was he uncertain, which was—to just what extent Bill’s interbreeding had merged. As—in some people—an admixture of several races will produce an evenly balanced, intelligent whole; and in others, various racial traits will stand out distinctly—good and bad, loyalty and treachery, never merging—veritable Dr. Jekylls and Mr. Hydes; the one at times obliterating the other, the two never forming an evenly balanced, law-abiding whole—so it was with dogs.

Hardin assumed that Bill’s interbreeding had struck the happy medium. Many of the most loyal and intelligent of dogs are mongrels. True Americans. Bill showed no distinctive racial traits. There was little of the wolf about him. On the surface he was dog, all dog. Home-loving. Devoted to the sheep and the master. The only thing was his eyes which at times held a strange, greenish glare.

Not more than half a dozen times Hardin had surprised that wild gleam in the big dog’s eyes. Each time a single word from him had banished it. But it was there, the wild streak in him, the bloodlust of the killer demanding expression. But as time passed, Hardin came to think less and less about it. Bill was the best sheep dog he had ever owned.

This particular night the man did not visit the herd as was his custom. He had worked hard during the day walling up with huge stones a spring that bubbled out of the ground near the cabin—and he was very tired. He reflected pleasurably upon the fact that the little pond would save the lives of many sheep during the hot summer days—and—confident in Bill’s guardianship of the growing herd—he rolled in his blankets and was soon sleeping soundly.

For long after the metallic clatter of the bugle had died away, Bill trotted back and forth along the open ridge top, tensely, joyously expectant, awaiting the arrival of the man. This nightly visit was always the occasion for a rough and tumble encounter which the dog enjoyed beyond all else. But the man did not come. Puzzlement gave way to disappointment, and a great longing, not unmixed with fear, fear that the master might have gone away. Once before the man had left, without him, visiting a distant settlement; had stayed several days and Bill had experienced all the acute sufferings of a sensitive youngster deprived of its mother for the first time.

Finally, he could stand it no longer and after thrice circling the herd, thrice assuring himself that all was well, he rushed down the valley toward the cabin. He came to a sliding stop before the closed door. Cocked his ears inquiringly, listened intently. The man was inside. Asleep. His regular breathing was clearly audible to Bill’s sensitive ears. Reassured, but still vaguely dissatisfied, he trotted slowly back to the herd.

As he drew near, his step quickened. The sheep were downwind, still, a sixth sense warned him of danger. A collie would have rushed wildly forward, barking loudly. Bill advanced silently in a wide half-circle along the ridge top, belly close-hugging the ground, like the wolf.

It was old Graybeard, the coyote. Bill drew close without the unwelcome visitor detecting him. The dog did not really think that the coyote would attack the sheep. It was a time of plenty in the wilderness. Old Graybeard was sleek and well fed. More likely it was just deviltry. Graybeard could outrun the sheep dog.

Well he knew it. Bill knew it too. It was the coyote’s delight to steal upon the unsuspecting sheep, to nip sharply right and left and then to run away, a wraithlike streak into the night; and from a near-by hillock grin down as Bill, with much frantic effort, quieted the milling herd.

Sometimes Bill took this as a joke. Sometimes he went into a rage. Depending upon his state of mind. To-night—deprived of the softening influence of his frolic with the man—he was angry. Graybeard knew Bill was away and took his time. No sport in a practical joke if the jokee is not there to appreciate it.

He nipped tentatively at a gangling white figure that practically fell over him where he crouched in a bed of huckleberry bushes. The lamb, a very young one, bawled frantically. The nip had been as nothing at all. Graybeard was surprised. But his surprise was many times multiplied when a ewe, usually the most timid of creatures, charged him wildly, quite disregarding his menacing front.

At the last moment he danced nimbly aside. Unfortunately for all concerned, however, the ewe’s splay foot slid from off a moss-covered bowlder; she lurched sideways, fell, and in falling, knocked Graybeard neatly off his feet. With a snarl of rage he sprang forward and buried his yellow fangs in her throat.

At the climax of the tragedy, Bill was no more than a dozen yards away. He lay stretched flat to the ground among some low-lying shrubs. His big body was vibrant with righteous rage. Still, he did not move. Well he knew that, at his first motion, the coyote would flee. And he might never catch him. Many times he had tried and failed.

Graybeard raised his bloody muzzle and tested the stilly air. It told him nothing. Bill had worked about downwind. The coyote was not particularly hungry, but having killed he intended to eat. He worried savagely at the dead sheep. Bill stole forward, noiseless as a shadow. The coyote took alarm suddenly. But not quite quickly enough. Even as he sprang away, Bill was upon him.

Wily old battler that he was, Graybeard was no match for this hundred pounds of enraged dogflesh. A single flashing downward stroke of the wolf-like fangs ripped the coyote from shoulder to gullet—and the fight was over.

For long the victor crouched over the dead body of the coyote, growling deep in his throat, the light of battle in his eyes. Then the bleating of the sheep roused him to a sense of duty. The herd had scattered in all directions over the hillside. He rounded them up in his usual efficient manner, but they refused to be quieted. He threatened them savagely. Even nipped them more severely than usual, but all to no avail. They persisted in stampeding wildly, rushing head-on into stumps and bowlders and into each other in their excitement.

Bill finally guessed the reason for this continued panic. The dead coyote. The odor of blood. First, he dragged the body of the coyote to the edge of a gravel-banked coulee at the foot of the slope and pushed it in. Then he caught upon the dead sheep. The ewe’s body was still warm. For the first time in his life he got a taste of fresh, sweet mutton. He licked his jaws pleasurably. Instantly the wolf in him came to the surface. His eyes shone with a strange greenish glare. He looked upon the milling mass of sheep with new eyes, hungry eyes. The dead ewe was not for him. He would make his own kill. Slowly, cautiously, he crept toward the herd.

Suddenly a shrill whistle sounded. The man. The sheep had awakened him with their bawling. Bill froze to the ground. Again the whistle sounded, nearer this time. Bill whined uncertainly. The wild desire left him. And as the man’s tall figure appeared on the naked ridge top, he loped forward slowly to meet him. The man eyed him suspiciously in the half darkness.

“What’s goin’ on here, you big, no-account bum?”

But his voice was not angry. Bill waved his bushy tail and made gruff, loving noises in his throat. But he did not come near the outstretched hand. Instead he turned away abruptly down the hill, ears and tail drooping. The man followed, puzzled.

“Somethin’s wrong here, sure enough. The old pup ain’t hisself—” And then—“Sure, I'll betcha, becuz I didn’t come an’ see him t’night.”

Hardin laughed. But in his assumption, this time, he was not correct. Bill was facing a situation totally unprecedented in his brief existence. He didn’t know just how the man would take it. The fact that he had not killed the sheep did not occur to him as a saving grace. He felt as guilty as though he had actually done the deed. And he was quite sure that the man would know that he had intended to kill. The man knew all things. There was no deceiving him.

Bill was sorry. Thoroughly ashamed. And just a bit frightened. The man would beat him, of course. He might shoot at him as he did at the coyotes. Drive him away from the cabin perhaps. This last was what brought about the dejection.

But he had no thought of evading the issue. He led the way straight to the dead sheep.

After a brief inspection the man swore and shook his head sadly.

“Damn it all. I was afraid of it.”

“C’mere, you worthless houn’ dog.”

Bill drooped in every muscle, but he did not cringe. For long Hardin eyed the big dog.

“Git out, you—I’m through with you. Git—!”

He caught up a loose stone and poised it above his head. The dog did not move. A lump rose in the man’s throat. “Git—Git, I tell you—!” He waved the rock menacingly. He hated to do it, but—

Bill whined and turned suddenly away. He stopped on the edge of the coulee and whined again. The man hesitated, then dropped the rock and caught up a handful of dry grass from a dead bog, lit it and peered down. He saw the body of the coyote.

“Doggone—I should have known, Bill; you didn’t kill that there sheep. The herd wouldn’t have got so wild unless it had been a coyote ’r a bear ’r somethin’. Doggone, now, ain’t I ashamed. Sure enough purty nigh plugged you, too, didn’t I? C’mere, boy—”