Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 18, 1925 — page 152: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

302 his father was a collie with an interbreed- ing 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 ma- ternal grandsire, the wolf. What wonder, with such varying warlike strains, that vio- lent passions fought ceaselessly for pos- session 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 be- fore he had escaped murder by a hair’s breadth. Each time it had been on ac- count of the master. , His. allegiance to Hardin knew no bounds. Once he gave way to the blood- lust and the master would be lost to him forever. Well he knew. The sheep be- longed 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 num- ber 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 bur- lap bags behind the stove where he slept through the cold winter nights. This con- crete reminder of the master’s nearness ban- ished the last shreds of wildness. He barked once, sharply, joyously, then cir- cled the herd slowly, majestically, a se- date, aloof being, competent and ready pro- tector 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 influ- ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, ence 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 in- terbreeding had merged. As—in some peo- ple—an admixture of several races will pro- duce 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 form- ing 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 lit- tle ef the wolf about him. On the sur- face 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 Har- din 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 blood lust 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 guardian- ship 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 en- counter which the dog enjoyed beyond all else. But the man did not come. Puzzle- DOOKS COMEIE (EO)