IV.

The sultry dog days of August brought distress in varying degrees to all wilderness folk. There had been no rain for weeks. A dry blight struck all green things; the poplar leaves turned prematurely yellow and fell away; the hardy wire grass in the pasture became brown and dry. Unfit even for the sheep. With Stub’s help, Hardin drove the herd a mile farther down the valley where the feed was somewhat better.

The swamp itself, usually a summer paradise for all water-loving animals, was but a morass of tangled roots and tinder-dry bogs, surrounded by odorous pools of fetid green slime. On the upland slopes the rabbits perished by the thousand. The shortage of food and water drove many mountain dwellers to the lowlands. Several gaunt and silent moose visited Kootenai Swamp, searched eternally among the few remaining mudholes for lily roots. Many wolves, lions, bears, caribou, deer, and hosts of lesser animals, all left their footprints in the newly formed runway leading to the man’s pond which was the only running water for miles about.

An ever-growing restless uncertainty, attended by a corresponding shortening of temper, affected all the beasts alike. This unsettled state of mind brought about many bloody quarrels. A caribou bull and a big cougar staged a battle to the death in Kootenai Swamp not a quarter of a mile from the cabin. A black bear and a silver-tip grizzly fought on the ridge top near the old pasture.

As might be expected, the sheep formed an irresistible attraction for the hungry visitors. One and all, singly and in pairs, they investigated with longing eyes. One and all, they gauged the chances involved in breaking through the guard of that confident, competent-appearing beast—that was neither dog nor wolf, yet bigger and more menacing than either—whose watchful eyes seemed never to close.

Each one was duly impressed. The wisest among them decided to devote their efforts for the time being to easier, if less palatable, prey. There were still plenty of rabbits scattered in the neighborhood of the lowlands.

It devolved upon a young cougar, arrogant with the inexperience and optimism of youth, to make the first attempt. For hours he lay well hidden in the crotch of a long-limbed beech tree not a dozen yards from the huddled flock of sheep. Bill knew he was there, had known it from the first, but he made no sign. After waiting half the night for the cougar to declare his intentions he purposely allowed an arbitrary old ram, who could take care of himself if the exigency demanded, to wander near the beech tree.

The cougar sprang. But his claws never so much as touched the ram. Bill was upon him before he struck the ground. Luckily perhaps for the dog, the cougar was young and unskilled in the niceties of mixed warfare. At any rate, the hissing, growling, clutching combatants soon fell apart, disclosing the lion stretched out at full length—quite dead. Outside of a few scratches, Bill was uninjured.

Came a night when the prevailing nervous uncertainty among the wilderness peoples broke out suddenly into frantic hysteria. Great and small, they rushed wildly here and there in apparently aimless, panic-stricken flight. The thickets were filled with strange noises. Flocks of birds, squawking and screaming, shrilled overhead, all tending toward the east.

The gray night air was hazy, stiflingly hot, despite a lively breeze. The western sky reflected a dull pinkish glow. Even Stub, roused from his perpetual nap, sniffed the air and whined querulously up at the heavens. Bill circled the restless herd at a swinging lope, nose high in air, listening intently, striving to learn what it was all about. Something was wrong, he knew. But what? It was that which puzzled him.

A miniature whorl of wind dropping down out of the sky gave him the answer. Fire. Although he had never before been through a forest fire, he realized instinctively its menace. His first thought was of the sheep. It was up to him to protect them. Alone, unencumbered by responsibility, he would have sought out the nearest body of water. This through no conscious mental effort; instinct merely, dictating that this was the thing to do. Every other living thing experienced the same vital urge. So it was that with swift, sure maneuvering, he turned the unwieldy herd of milling sheep toward that spot where lay the cabin—and the man’s pond.

Hardin was awakened by the excited bleating of the sheep. He caught up the rifle and hurried outside, assured that something was wrong.

The sight that met his eyes brought furious curses to his lips. The cabin faced the east and was located at the base of a fifty-foot bank of shale, so that he got no warning of the oncoming wall of fire which already tinged the western sky with coruscant flares of scarlet and yellow. Nor did he at once identify the pungent odor that accompanied the hot breeze. The sum total of his first impression was a bawling, straggling mass of wild-eyed sheep harassed by a savage dog whose jowls and body were streaked with blood. Even as he watched, Bill charged a persistently wayward ewe silently and furiously; she careened wildly to one side, crashed into the oncoming herd. Several sheep piled over her. Bill dived into the struggling mass, growling fiercely, nipping sharply with his great teeth. Speed at that very moment was the principal thing.

Even now the flames were licking along the ridgetop. Bill knew. There was no time to spare. But Hardin did not know. He thought only that the dog had again turned killer. The rifle spat fire, once—twice. At the first shot Bill’s feet flew from under him. He hurtled forward, nose burrowing into the sand. The second shot found its mark as he lay writhing on the ground.

Mumbling incoherently with rage, Hardin hurried after the sheep. And then, abruptly—he felt the hot breath of the fire—caught the vivid reflection in the sky. A dead tree on the near horizon burst suddenly into flames. The man was stunned for a moment. Then understanding came to him.

Bill had not turned killer. Instead, he had saved the sheep. And that, too, strange to say, in the face of the fire. But now—he was dead.

A lump rose in the man’s throat. Remorse filled his heart. The flames were now raging along the ridge top in plain sight and in the sudden glare he made out the big dog hitching painfully along the ground toward the cabin. The man was glad. He cried out happily. Waved his gun. Called encouragingly. Once in the cabin the dog would be safe. Of this he was certain. The flames would split on either side of the cliff, thus avoiding the cabin altogether.

Most of the sheep were already in the water urged by Stub’s lumbering efforts. By the time Hardin had thrust the last reluctant lamb into the pond the flames were sweeping up from the swamp, accompanied by flame-shot billows of acrid smoke.

The heat was stifling. The man sprawled close to the ground. The blistering heat waves seared his body like hot irons. And then—as a smoke cloud lifted—he saw—the unexpected had happened. The cabin was in flames. And—the injured dog was in the cabin.

Without an instant’s hesitation the man sprang into action. He scrambled into the pool, drenched his few clothes thoroughly, then, bending low, ran toward the cabin. Before the door he fell, gasping and coughing. Dropped face down in the sand and with his first full breath, called out encouragingly: “Stay put, old timer—I’m a comin’.”

The cabin door had blown shut and as he kicked it open a gust of flame enveloped him. Again he dropped to the ground and rolled over and over in frantic effort to extinguish his burning clothing. Ignoring his many burns the man pushed on into the cabin.

Bill lay behind the big Yukon stove on his old bed of burlap bags. His beautiful body was smeared with blood from his battle with the cougar and the man’s bullets. His eyes were half closed. He was breathing with difficulty in short, choking gasps. The man crawled to him over the dirt floor. Sank exhausted. Roused as the hungry flames licked his smoke-blackened face, lifted the dog in his arms and stumbled out, almost exhausted, through the flame-filled doorway.

Crouching in the pool, the big dog still in his arms, with no thought of his own hurts Hardin took stock of Bill’s injuries. One of the bullets had broken a foreleg, the other had torn a ragged hole through the thick muscles of the neck. Painful, not necessarily fatal. Hardin was well versed in rough surgery. While the roaring of the fire diminished in the distance and the sheep one by one floundered out of the steaming pool, he prepared splints for the broken leg, and as he worked he talked:

“I didn’t mean t’ do it, ol’ pup. Honest. Don’t know whut I was thinkin’ of—wy, doggone, if I had a mite o’ sense I would of known. But you know me, Bill—I ain’t got no more brains that a—than a—than one o’ them sheep. Yeah, that’s right—I ain’t got no more sense than a sheep—an’ you an’ me knows as how that ain’t much. But this is whut I was goin’ t’ tell you—me an’ you is goin’ away. Yeah, sure enough. I sold these here sheep t’ Sam Dodd. You remember Sam. Kinda wisht I’d sold t’ them lumber fellers now—the skunks—wouldn’t we have the laugh on ’em, after this; serve ’em right, too. Anyhow, you an’ me is goin’ away, like I said—away up yender some place—where they ain’t no sheep. Jest you an’ me—that’s the life, eh, pup—jest you an’ me—”

Some things the man said were a bit confusing. Never before had he made such a long speech; but his words were kind. The gist of it was quite clear. All was forgiven. All was well. And despite his many hurts, Bill was very happy. To show that he was in sympathetic agreement with whatever the master had in mind, he wiggled his tail feebly and reached for the man’s smoke-blackened face with his tongue.

[Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the April 18, 1925 issue of _Argosy-Allstory Weekly_ magazine.]