Outlaw Red

by Jim Kjelgaard

  The knock was repeated, louder, and Billy Dash swung from his bunk. He slipped into his clothing, thrust his feet into unlaced boots, and looked around the cabin. The window was too small for him to climb through, and the cabin had only one door. Like Sean, he had been caught in a trap.

  Billy walked to the door, opened it, and stood face to face with Crosby Marlett and Danny Pickett.

  For a moment he stood in shocked surprise. He had expected the Police. Instead, he saw two of the very few human beings whom he had ever trusted completely. Danny broke the silence.

  “Hello, Billy.”

  “Hi.”

  “Are you going to ask us in?”

  “Uh-shuah. Come on in.”

  They entered, and Billy closed the door against the frigid air. There was another awkward silence.

  “I brought him here, Billy,” Crosby Marlett said.

  “That’s right,” Danny seconded. “Crosby brought me. But he didn’t really give you away; he just slipped. I met him in Cedar Run last night and he started telling me about a trap-line outlaw. ‘Billy Dash,’ Crosby said, ‘thinks it’s a dog.’ So I told him about Hat Dash, and how there’s no sense in your hiding out now, and he brought me over here.”

  “You mean Uncle Hat isn’t-”

  “No, Hat’s not dead; guess he’s too ornery to kill.” Danny grinned. “When Hat got out of the hospital, he swore up and down that you asked him to come see you and, as soon as he came, you grabbed the .45 and let him have it.”

  “Sounds like Uncle Hat.”

  “It is like him, but there are others who know better. Both Dad and I know where your pay was found; the State Police have figured out for themselves what happened. They had long talks with Hat. You’ll have to face trial, maybe, but Mr. Haggin said he’ll have his own lawyers defend you and there’ll be nothing to it. You can have your old job back, too. How about it?”

  In spite of his relief, all the old doubts and fears welled up in Billy at mention of a trial. Any Dash who mixed with the law always came out second best. Promises, even promises from Danny Pickett, meant little when you were a Dash and in trouble. Billy wavered uncertainly. It would be mighty nice to be back with Danny, but.

  Seeing Billy’s troubled face, Danny abruptly changed the subject.

  “Now about this trap-line robber you think is a dog. Did you know Sean was gone?”

  “Uh-Sean?”

  Danny spoke meaningly. “You remember him?”

  “Oh, shuah! Shuah! I’ll nevah fo’get Sean!”

  “I didn’t think you would. We sent him over to Tom Jordan’s last summer. He spilled out the back end of the truck and-”

  “And you nevah found him.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Would you be heah lookin’ fo’ him if you had?”

  “One for you, Billy. I found his crate and looked all over the place for him. I couldn’t find him. Then I got word of a big red outlaw raiding Jake Busher’s sheep.”

  Crosby Marlett said, “They all turn outlaw when they go wild. There’s no good in ‘em any more.”

  Billy Dash gave the trapper a glance. “How come you didn’t know about this outlaw dog, Crosby?”

  “I got no sheep and I mind my own business. But now I think you’re right and it is a dog. I had him in the trap on Fordyce Crick, but he pulled out before we got there.”

  Billy said nothing. Obviously Crosby Marlett hadn’t studied the sign very carefully or he would have known that Sean had not pulled out of the trap by himself. Well, Crosby might and might not go back for a second and closer look.

  “I figured he’d be hanging around Jake Busher’s,” Danny said, “or else close to Jordan’s. Never thought he’d come this far. He’s got a mate in here some where.”

  “How do you know?” Billy challenged.

  Danny asked, “Do you know that one of Tom Jordan’s prize Irish Setters, Penny, was lured away last fall?”

  This time Billy was really surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

  “You know it now. How long have you been here?”

  “All wintah.”

  “And you never saw any sign of an outlaw dog?”

  Billy Dash said forcefully, “So help me, I nevah even saw the footprint of an outlaw dog!”

  “That’s an odd thing; maybe he hasn’t crossed into your territory. Still, I think this is Sean, Billy. If he’d been bad hurt in the fall he wouldn’t have gone very far from the crate; I’d have found some sign. Besides, it all adds up. I should have figured it before. Sean’s turned outlaw, he’s here, and he’s got Penny with him.”

  “That’s a lot to guess at.”

  “I’d still bet on it. Sean didn’t bring Penny directly here. As long as they could track him on the snow, he swung clear away. That’s where they’ve been hunting him, far to the south. And that’s one more reason why I’m sure that it’s Sean. He planned to outsmart any trackers and he did. Why, he got away from the best hound pack Jake Busher could round up.”

  Billy Dash bit his lower lip in sudden anger. He, too, knew what it was like to be hunted. “Why don’t you let him be?” he said fiercely.

  Danny faced him squarely, and Billy looked nervously away. It seemed, in that moment, that Danny Pickett knew a lot, or had guessed a lot, that he was not telling Crosby Marlett. And maybe Danny understood a great deal more than Billy thought he did.

  Danny said, “There’s a lot of dog there, Billy, and a lot of money and hope tied up in him.”

  “Youah tellin’ me he’s a lot of dog!”

  “I’ll change that. He used to be a lot of dog.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “He’s an outlaw now. You know the usual end of outlaws.”

  Billy Dash’s voice was cold. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.”

  “There’s one thing sure; Sean and Penny have a family somewhere. That adds up too; no dog raids a trap line and drags off what he finds there for himself alone. The least we aim to do is get Penny and the pups, and we can do that right now.”

  Crosby Marlett nodded. “They won’t be too far off. If we pick up that dog’s tracks where he crossed Fordyce Crick, they should take us some’ere.”

  Danny was too casual. “We’ll catch Sean, too, if we can. If we can’t, if he tries to protect Penny and the pups, we may have to get rough. I don’t aim to have my throat ripped out by any dog, not even Sean.”

  “You can’t shoot him!” Billy cried.

  “I wouldn’t like to.” Danny paused. “Why don’t you come along with us? He was always your dog more than he was anyone else’s. He might listen to you.”

  “Suppose he won’t?”

  “Billy, I promise, if you can get Sean back, he’s yours.”

  “Mine!”

  “That’s right. All Mr. Haggin asks are the pups.”

  Billy’s head whirled. That he should come even close to owning Sean! It was far too much to imagine all at once. But first they had to find the big Setter.

  “All right,” he said. “If you really mean it.” He threw what cooked food he had into his pack sack, added a blanket, and picked up his old lumberman’s jacket. “Let’s go.”

  They picked up Sean’s trail on the far side of Fordyce Creek. It was hard to follow, and it could not have been followed except by men who knew all about trails. Guiding themselves by faint marks in the snow, bent or broken twigs, a scuffed mark on a moss-covered boulder, Danny and Crosby Marlett led off. Billy followed, hating himself for having any part in this raid on Sean’s family, but knowing it would be made whether he came along or not.

  Two hours after they left Fordyce Creek, they stood on the ridge above the pine grove. Silverwing and his mate, seeing men approach, took hasty flight. Penny’s subdued snarl rolled from the cave and, when they came near, she rushed out. Bristling, fangs bared, she took a ready stance in front of the den.

  But never in her whole life had Penny been hurt by any man; had Sean not prevented her she would have go
ne back to Jordan’s long ago. And Danny Pickett had a way with Irish Setters. He advanced steadily, talking to Penny as he did so, while her threatening snarls subsided to a rumbling growl.

  Then, suddenly, the transformation was complete. Penny was again a man’s dog. She stood anxiously, but proudly, while Danny crawled into the den and caught the wriggling pups. He held up a big, strong pup in one hand and grinned at Billy Dash.

  “Look. Still think Sean had nothing to do with it?”

  “Wondeh wheah he is?”

  “He’s an outlaw,” Crosby Marlett grunted. “He’s run away.”

  Danny made a cradle of his coat, laid all the pups in it, and gathered them in his arms. Penny stood near, her silken head raised toward the pups as she crowded anxiously at Danny’s side.

  “Coming, Billy?” Danny asked.

  Billy Dash scuffed the snow with the toe of his pac. “No. I’m goin’ to look for Sean.”

  “Don’t be a fool!” Crosby snorted. “The only way you’ll get that dog is with a trap or a gun.”

  Danny smiled to himself, but nodded soberly. “You may be right. Good luck, anyway, Billy. And don’t forget there’s a place at the Picketts’ for a reformed outlaw—or even two of ‘em.”

  13. The Battle

  OVER THE RIDGE and down the other side Sean raced. Slasher was running straight away from the den; the wily killer knew that he was pursued. He had not yet made up his mind whether or not to fight. When and if he did, the battle would take place in an arena of Slasher’s choice.

  The afternoon waned into night. Pale stars glittered, and a thin moon climbed slowly into the sky. Sean ran swiftly, nose to the snow. They were in broken country now, a wild and weird place of narrow little gullies and cliffs. Black rocks that had never been snow-covered because fierce winds whipped all snow away from them, were irregularly spaced, like a parade of frozen mummies.

  Sean stretched his legs harder, for Slasher’s scent was now hot in his nostrils. Fierce anger burned within the big Setter. Tongue lolling, he dashed through the mouth of a narrow little gully that was flanked on both sides by sheer rock walls. Too late, he whirled to defend himself.

  Like a grotesque bird in the night, Slasher rose from the top of the rock wall and hurled himself out and down. His aim was perfect. Squarely on top of Sean he landed, and as he did his jaws snaked toward the place where Sean’s neck met his skull.

  Slasher, who had doubled back for an ambush, had every intention of ending this fight before it fairly began.

  Sean had no time to think. Only the fact that he was running, and that Slasher misjudged his speed a hair’s breadth, saved his life. Sean spilled forward on his chin, and instead of biting through the spine, Slasher’s fangs sliced through Sean’s shoulder.

  The big Setter’s breath left him in a great, whooshing gasp. His chin collided sharply with the crust and his hindquarters flew into the air. The advantage remained with Slasher. He had missed the first time, but he had a second chance. With deadly purpose he lunged in to strike again at Sean’s neck. Once more he misjudged.

  Slasher had never run with a pack, but his strongest instincts and his most dependable methods were pack methods. In a pack hunt, any quarry that went down and stayed down was immediately overwhelmed by a whole tangle of furry bodies and literally ripped apart by razor-sharp teeth. Slasher had based his second strike on the assumption that Sean would immediately get to his feet.

  Instead, the big Setter rolled over on his back and folded his paws so that they would not make a good target. It was a planned move, a fighter’s ruse, but only the trickiest and most intelligent dog or wolf would have dared try it. To do so incorrectly was to put one s self at the mercy of the enemy. To do it correctly was to find one of the best possible positions for striking back.

  When Slasher came in, Sean used his supple back as a focal point, and rolled. At the same time he raised his big head, snapped, and felt his teeth meet through the fleshy part of Slasher’s left shoulder. Almost at once he relinquished the hold, and never stopped his rolling motion. When Sean ended up he was back on his feet.

  In the narrow little gully, scarcely six feet at its widest, the dog and the half-dog faced each other, tense and strangely silent. Their paws were braced, their jaws ready. Neither knew any fear and neither thought of running. This was to be a finish fight.

  Like a gliding snake Slasher came forward. He did not move fast and he uttered no sound. Slasher had had all the initial advantage. He had been unable to keep it and now, if possible, he must regain the upper hand.

  As Sean met him unflinchingly, out of that earlier time when he had fought this same enemy certain memories came to his aid. Slasher’s style of fighting was never to close unless he could see some definite opening, and before he risked hurt to himself he must be fairly certain that he could inflict greater hurt on his enemy. Sean remembered that.

  Slasher was a yard away when Sean lunged forward. The first time he met Slasher he had been soft-muscled, a kennel dog that had no real opportunity for the exercise he needed. Running in the forest had removed the last trace of fat and flabbiness. Sean had kept his weight, but now it was hard flesh and supple muscle. The constant practice which he had had in the bitter struggle just to survive had given him superb control.

  But Slasher was as big and as strong as Sean, and definitely no amateur when it came to fighting. Incredibly fast, lithe as a dancer, he twisted away from Sean’s attack and whirled to see if there was an opportunity to launch one of his own. Slasher, too, remembered their former battle and knew something about Sean’s style of fighting. Now he waited patiently for Sean to make a mistake. Then would come Slasher’s time to kill.

  Like trained boxers they circled and shifted, each watching the other and each trying to catch the other unguarded. Then they came together, two furred, fierce beasts that were blind to everything except the battle. They parted with almost no damage done. Both had striven for a killing blow. Both were so expert at parrying and thrusting that neither had found anything except a mouthful of hair.

  Slasher leaped in, straight at Sean’s chest, and Sean braced to meet him. But at the final second Slasher swerved aside. His shearing teeth left long wounds on Sean’s ribs, and then the coy-dog was gone. Sean, counter-slashing, got only another mouthful of gray fur.

  Sean gave a little ground, and was ready when Slasher repeated the maneuver. He swerved at the same time, and their heads met. Muzzle to muzzle they stood, their wildly gnashing teeth sounding like a series of steel traps snapping in fast succession. Both were torn and bleeding now, although neither had a crippling wound.

  For the space of two minutes they circled each other while the pale moon waned under the half light of early dawn. Again they met in a writhing tangle of furred bodies and snapping teeth.

  The dog and the coy-dog were panting now, jaws wide open and tongues lolling full length as they continued their ferocious duel. Sean dipped his head briefly to soothe his hot tongue against cold snow. Seeing his enemy off guard, Slasher undulated across the space that separated them.

  As Sean side-stepped to repel the attack, Slasher crowded him against the gully’s wall. Sean fought back, giving blow for blow, until Slasher dived suddenly. So low that he had to spread both front paws on the snow, he pushed himself along with his hind legs while his wolfish head went in fast. His jaws found Sean’s right front leg, and there was the sound of cracking bone as they closed on it.

  Slasher leaped back, and everything was over; Sean limped on three legs. None knew better than Slasher that the strike might as well have been the fatal one. A three-legged creature cannot possibly fight as hard or maneuver as fast as one that has free use of all four legs. Now it was only a matter of time.

  The coy-dog danced a bit to one side, made a lunge at Sean’s left front foot, and withdrew. Again he feinted, and again withdrew. Certain of victory now, he began a slow, determined attack.

  Sean gave ground, his muscles limp and his body loose. With o
nly three usable legs he could not parry and slash with the lightning speed that this fight demanded. Nor could he run even if he had wanted to.

  The coy-dog’s advance was steady and unwavering. His purpose was to rush in at the proper second and, in rushing, to overwhelm Sean. He needed only one more good opportunity. With all the power of his hard muscles and sinewy body he went in for the finish.

  This was what Sean had expected and what he had been looking for. He knew the rush was coming and timed it precisely, but he did not try to meet Slasher on his feet. Instead, with the killer’s jaws within an inch of his throat, Sean threw himself down and rolled over on his back. His timing could not have been more perfect.

  Slasher had expected to meet a solidly braced body. He met no resistance whatever, and his own momentum carried him on and over. He missed his strike at Sean’s throat and, instead of bearing Sean down, he straddled him.

  Sean raised his head and clamped his mighty jaws over Slasher’s lean belly. His teeth sliced through muscle and sinew to Slasher’s vital organs. The big Setter slashed again, swifter than any eye could follow, and a split second later he rolled sideways, rose on three legs, and faced Slasher.

  His face a snarling mark of hate, Slasher gave voice to his rage for the first time. But they were bubbly growls that had nothing in them except a threat that Slasher could no longer carry out. In that one brief second when he had been able to do so, Sean had bitten deeply and hard. His hindquarters sagging, Slasher could no longer move at anything except a dragging walk. His strength was ebbing fast.

  For two seconds more, when Sean went in, Slasher tried to meet him with strike for strike. Then he went down, and when Sean moved away Slasher stayed down. His front paws twitched spasmodically, but other than that he did not move. Slasher, the killer, was dead.

  Sean looked at him for a long moment, wanting to assure himself that his enemy would not get up again. When he did not, Sean turned and limped toward the mouth of the gully. His task was finished. He was free to return to Penny and the pups.