Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 18, 1925 — page 154: what you’re looking at

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

304 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 ap- peared 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-ac- count 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, Ill 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 ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, 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—” Il, In the days that followed, the dog ‘and the man were inseparable, made much of each other, like friends reunited after a serious misunderstanding. Under these pleasant conditions Bill experienced no re- currence of the wild streak. In constant touch with the man, the dog in him was always uppermost. His thoughts revolved about the man, followed interestedly his every action. Con- struction of the little pond seemed to him a foolish thing, but he knew that there was some good reason for it. The man appar- ently wasted his time on many foolish things, but always, sooner or later, an ade- quate reason for them developed. So it would be with the pond. And one hot day in early summer, the 9A Eomicbooks (E©@)