Two Dogs and a Horse

by Jim Kjelgaard

  A far cry from the efficient killing machine which any wild carnivore must become if it expects to survive, the dog was equally far from the woebegone waif that had been cast adrift in the wilderness. No longer completely helpless, he was able to sustain himself in the lavish abundance of summer’s stores.

  He could not possibly live through a winter and the crippled gander was inevitably doomed when the lake froze. That was the future, but, since humans are the only creatures cursed with the ability to look ahead, the dog did not worry. It was enough to provide for the moment, and to give every minute not vital for something else to basking in the warm glow of friendship with the wild goose.

  Passing time had ripened the bonds between them, so that even the gander had a double reason for feeding as quickly as possible. He wanted to hide in the rushes and to return to the dog. Incapable of reasoning or analysis, and indifferent as to how it was brought about, the dog represented security more certain and powerful than any hiding place the tules offered. The bird had seen for himself that undesirable prowlers, including a big bear that came striding from the forest, feared the dog and always ran from him.

  At first rarely, then more often and now invariably, when night removed the need for hiding, the gander left the rushes and slept on shore beside the dog. It was untroubled sleep, often with his head beneath his wing as the season advanced and the nights turned cold. Under no other conceivable circumstances would he have placed his own security so completely in the care of anything else. But he never doubted he was safe when the dog was near.

  Among other things, the dog had discovered for himself that he needn’t shrink from anything else and thus was never in danger. Creatures that had seemed the incarnation of ferocity considered him vastly more formidable than he had once thought them.

  He had no want of the security which the gander always wanted, but he needed the gander even more than the bird needed him. Without a friend, the dog had nothing. At no time did it occur to him that he had anything to give. He was incapable of supposing that he had earned, or deserved, gratitude. When the otter had seized and would have killed the gander, the dog rushed in for precisely the same reason he would have rushed a raider among the farm’s tame geese. They were his to protect and he would be shamefully negligent of duty if he failed to do so.

  So the oddly assorted pair lived together, each bolstering the other and both so concerned with the moment that neither had a second thought for the ending summer and the beginning autumn, with nights so cold that each morning’s sun glanced in dazzling brilliance from the filigreed jewel work that bedecked every exposed leaf, twig, boulder, and withered grass stalk. Neither could know that a vision of what must follow on the heels of autumn frost sent a reluctant Johnny Warner from his snug room in an outbuilding to the luxurious splendor of Ravenswing’s office.

  Only a matter of life and death could have forced Johnny to do such a thing. He was always uneasy in the office and felt he did not belong there. With a brief nod to Harry Trull, a licensed guide idling away his time until the first elk hunters arrived, the day after tomorrow, he addressed Ravenswing’s owner, “I’d like to have tomorrow off.”

  “Why, Johnny?”

  “There’s a gander, a big one, on Lost Lake. He’s crippled and can’t fly. I’ll try to catch him, but if I can’t I must shoot him. I’ll leave no gander to the death he’ll find in the ice.”

  “Go ahead.” For a moment Johnny forgot that he was in the August Presence and remembered only that The Supreme Chief of Ravenswing loved all the things he loved. “Go ahead, Johnny.”

  * * *

  Famous for never making a fast move if a slow one would serve, Adolph Hitler was capable of astonishing speed and he was using all of it now. It wasn’t his idea, but there was no denying the maniac who sat his saddle and exhorted him to go even faster. Johnny Warner was indeed both maniacal and raging.

  He should have known better, he accused himself bitterly. Since discovering the gander, he had halted his visits to Lost Lake at the final belt of pines, and confined his looking to whatever could be seen with binoculars. He had sacrificed so vastly because he would not frighten the gander.

  Then he had been stupid enough to tell all about him with Harry Trull both in hearing and in idleness. As he leaned over Adolph’s skinny neck and implored still more speed, Johnny could think only that both Harry and a shotgun had been missing since dawn. In imagination, he saw the guide going down to the lake, searching the rushes—no difficult job since the frost had withered them—and shooting the crippled gander where he found it. Although he himself planned to shoot it if he was unable to catch it, somehow his shot wouldn’t be murder and Harry’s would. The wild goose deserved better than that.

  What Johnny saw in imagination, the dog scented, then saw, in fact. He was at once alert and alarmed. Since Johnny Warner had not come near enough to let the dog catch his scent, he knew of no human who had visited Lost Lake all summer long. One was coming now, and although the mere smell of a man roused a whole array of thoughts and desires that were never absent, bitter experience advised caution.

  Glancing at his friend, the dog saw that the gander was also alert. The frost-shriveled tules were a pathetic remnant of what they had been. Seared and crisp, some were broken and some lay flat on the water. The best of the few that remained standing offered an inadequate hiding place, but the wild goose was swimming toward some of these. He had no other refuge.

  The dog slunk up the hill and hid in a grassy depression. Worried and very nervous, he would have run away if he could have brought himself to leave the gander. He saw Harry Trull working around the lake. Shotgun in hand, he stooped to pick up stones or clods and hurled them into the few clusters of withered tules too thick for the eyes to penetrate.

  The dog whined anxiously and flattened himself a bit more. As the guide came on, the dog followed him with mesmerized eyes.

  Slowly but surely, Harry Trull came nearer. Still throwing anything he could lay his hands on to flush out whatever might be hiding in the thickest rushes, he was already on the dog’s side of the lake and then directly beneath him, on a line with the dog and the gander. Trembling, but hoping to escape notice by lying very still, the dog continued to watch.

  Harry Trull stooped for another stone. He threw it into the tules where the gander was hiding. The bird swam desperately into open water and the guide leveled his shotgun. Haunted by memories of the blasts which had been directed at him and that burning furrow across his shoulder, the dog was tempted to run, but he did not. Instead, he leaped on the man, who spun sideways at the impact.

  Angrily, the guide raised his weapon once more. This time, it was aimed directly at the dog, which crouched warily a short distance away, making no further attempt to attack.

  Suddenly, struck a powerful blow, the shotgun spun out of the guide’s hands and bounced on the lake shore.

  Rifle in hand, Johnny Warner came from behind the dog and ran down the hill, so close to the animal that they might have touched each other. Knowing the gander had always stayed on this side of the lake, Johnny had hoped he would still be there and he spared Adolph Hitler nothing. Shooting the gun out of Harry Trull’s hands was kindergarten marksmanship for one who couldn’t remember when he’d missed a racing buck.

  The men met. There was a sharp exchange of angry words, then a distraction that halted even the hot argument.

  The wild goose was skimming across the lake, beating both strong wings and rising on them. Made small by distance, he turned to bank into a stronger wind current and whirled so high that the dog could no longer see him. After that, he listened to a defiant honking as the gander winged south.

  The next time he thought of the men and glanced toward them, Harry Trull was walking toward his horse and Johnny Warner was looking squarely at the dog. The animal shivered. He had been so fascinated in watching the gander fly away that, almost without realizing it, he had sat up, the better to observe. Now he was in full view of a man an
d no more than thirty feet from him.

  Johnny spoke quietly. “Hi, fella!”

  The dog shivered again, still feeling a wild urge to run but somehow unable to do so. Something in Johnny’s voice was more powerful than fear. It was a gentle, understanding quality the dog heard before and yearned to hear once more.

  Johnny knelt and spoke again. “Come here, fella. I’d like a partner your cut and size. We’ll keep each other company this winter.”

  The dog took one step and halted. Then, no more able to deny the voice that called him than the gander could resist the voice that beckoned him southward, he started again and did not stop until his head was resting on Johnny Warner’s knee.

  THE END

  JIM KJELGAARD was born in New York City. Happily enough, he was still in the pre-school age when his father decided to move the family to the Pennsylvania mountains. There young Jim grew up among some of the best hunting and fishing in the United States. He commented: “If I had pursued my scholastic duties as diligently as I did deer, trout, grouse, squirrel, etc., I might have had better report cards!”

  Jim Kjelgaard worked at various jobs—trapper, teamster, guide, surveyor, factory worker and laborer. When he was in his late twenties he decided to become a full-time writer. He succeeded in his wish. Several hundred of his short stories and articles and quite a few books for young people have been published.

  He indicated his favorite hobbies were hunting, fishing, lifelong interest in conservation, dogs and questing for new stories. He described some of these searches in this way: “Story hunts have led me from the Atlantic to the Pacific and from the Arctic Circle to Mexico City. Stories, like gold, are where you find them. You may discover one three thousand miles from home or, as in The Spell of the White Sturgeon and Hi Jolly!, right on your own door step.”