Lad: A Dog

by Albert Payson Terhune

  At the word the dog paused midway to the embarrassed Maclay’s desk and obediently turned back. The constable was drawing up a chair at the deal table for the Mistress. Lad curled down beside her, resting one snowy little forepaw protestingly on her slippered foot. And the hearing began.

  Romaine repeated his account of the collie’s alleged depredations, starting with Lad’s first view of the sheep. Schwartz methodically retold his own story of twice witnessing the killing of sheep by the dog.

  The Master did not interrupt either narrative, though, on later questioning he forced the sulkily truthful Romaine to admit he had not actually seen Lad chase the sheep flock that morning on Mount Pisgah, but had merely seen the sheep running, and the dog standing at the hill-foot looking upward at their scattering flight. Both the Mistress and the Master swore that the dog, on that occasion, had made no move to pursue or otherwise harass the sheep.

  Thus did Lad win one point in the case. But, in view of the after-crimes wherewith he was charged, the point was of decidedly trivial value. Even if he had not attacked the flock on his first view of them he was accused of killing no less than eight of their number on two later encounters. And Schwartz was an eyewitness to this—Schwartz, whose testimony was as clear and as simple as daylight.

  With a glance of apology at the Mistress, Judge Maclay ordered the sheep carcasses taken from their burlap cerements and laid on the table for court inspection.

  While he and Schwartz arranged the grisly exhibits for the Judge’s view, Titus Romaine expatiated loudly on the value of the murdered sheep and on the brutally useless wastage in their slaying. The Master said nothing, but he bent over each of the sheep, carefully studying the throat wounds. At last he straightened himself up from his task and broke in on Romaine’s Antony-like funeral oration by saying quietly:

  “Your Honor, these sheep’s throats were not cut by a dog. Neither by Lad nor by any ‘killer.’ Look for yourself. I’ve seen dog-killed sheep. The wounds were not at all like these.”

  “Not killed by a dog, hey?” loudly scoffed Romaine. “I s‘pose they was chewed by lightnin’, then? Or, maybe they was bit by a skeeter? Huh!”

  “They were not bitten at all,” countered the Master. “Still less were they chewed. Look! Those gashes are ragged enough, but they are as straight as if they were made by a machine. If ever you have seen a dog worry a piece of meat—”

  “Rubbish!” grunted Titus. “You talk like a fool! The sheep’s throats is torn. Schwartz seen your cur tear ‘em. That’s all there is to it. Whether he tore ’em straight or whether he tore ‘em crooked don’t count in Law. He tore ’em. An’ I got a reli’ble witness to prove it.”

  “Your Honor,” said the Master, suddenly. “May I interrogate the witness?”

  Maclay nodded. The Master turned to Schwartz, who faced him in stolid composure.

  “Schwartz,” began the Master, “you say it was light enough for you to recognize the sheep-killing dog both mornings in Romaine’s barnyard. How near to him did you get?”

  Schwartz pondered for a second, then made careful answer :

  “First time, I ran into the barnyard from the house side and your dog cut and run out of it from the far side when he saw me making for him. That time, I don’t think I got within thirty feet of him. But I was near enough to see him plain, and I’d seen him often enough before on the road or in your car; so I knew him all right. The next time—this morning, Judge—1 was within five feet of him, or even nearer. For I was near enough to hit him with the stick I’d just picked up and to land a kick on his ribs as he started away. I saw him then as plain as I see you. And nearer than I am to you. And the light was ’most good enough to read by, too.”

  “Yes?” queried the Master. “If I remember rightly you told Judge Maclay that you were on watch last night in the cowshed, just alongside the barnyard where the sheep were, and you fell asleep and woke just in time to see a dog—”

  “To see your dog—” corrected Schwartz.

  “To see a dog growling over a squirming and bleating sheep he had pulled down. How far away from you was he when you awoke?”

  “Just outside the cowshed door. Not six feet from me. I ups with the stick I had with me and ran out at him and—”

  “Were he and the sheep making much noise?”

  “Between ’em they was making enough racket to wake a dead man,” replied Schwartz. “What with your dog’s snarling and growling, and the poor sheep’s blats. And all the other sheep—”

  “Yet, you say he had killed three sheep while you slept there—had killed them and carried or dragged their bodies away and come back again; and, presumably started a noisy panic in the flock every time. And none of that racket waked you until the fourth sheep was killed?”

  “I was dog-tired,” declared Schwartz. “I’d been at work in our south-mowing for ten hours the day before, and up since five. Mr. Romaine can tell you I’m a hard man to wake at best. I sleep like the dead.”

  “That’s right! ” assented Titus. “Time an’ again, I have to bang at his door an’ holler myself hoarse, before I can get him to open his eyes. My wife says he’s the sleepin’est sleeper—”

  “You ran out of the shed with your stick,” resumed the Master, “and struck the dog before he could get away? And as he turned to run you kicked him?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s what I did.”

  “How hard did you hit him? ”

  “A pretty good lick,” answered Schwartz, with reminiscent satisfaction. “Then I—”

  “And when you hit him he slunk away like a whipped cur? He made no move to resent it? I mean, he did not try to attack you?”

  “Not him!” asserted Schwartz, “I guess he was glad enough to get out of reach. He slunk away so fast, I hardly had a chance to land fair on him, when I kicked.”

  “Here is my riding crop,” said the Master. “Take it, please, and strike Lad with it just as you struck him—or the sheep-killing dog—with your stick. Just as hard. Lad has never been struck except once, unjustly, by me, years ago. He has never needed it. But if he would slink away like a whipped mongrel when a stranger hits him, the sooner he is beaten to death the better. Hit him exactly as you hit him this morning.”

  Judge Maclay half-opened his lips to protest. He knew the love of the people of The Place for Lad, and he wondered at this invitation to a farmhand to thrash the dog publicly. He glanced at the Mistress. Her face was calm, even a little amused. Evidently the Master’s request did not horrify or surprise her.

  Schwartz’s stubby fingers gripped the crop the Master forced into his hand.

  With true relish for pain-inflicting, he swung the weapon aloft and took a step toward the lazily recumbent collie, striking with all his strength.

  Then, with much-increased speed, Schwartz took three steps backward. For, at the menace, Lad had leaped to his feet with the speed of a fighting wolf, eluding the descending crop as it swished past him and launching himself straight for the wielder’s throat. He did not growl; he did not pause. He merely sprang for his assailant with a deadly ferocity that brought a cry from Maclay.

  The Master caught the huge dog midway in his throat-ward flight.

  “Down, Lad!” he ordered, gently.

  The collie, obedient to the word, stretched himself on the floor at the Mistress’ feet. But he kept a watchful and right unloving eye on the man who had struck him.

  “It’s a bit odd, isn’t it,” suggested the Master, “that he went for you, like that, just now; when, this morning, he slunk away from your blow in cringing fear?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” growled Schwartz, his stolid nerve shaken by the unexpected onslaught. “His folks are here to back him up, and everything. Why wouldn’t he go for me! He was slinky enough when I whaled him, this morning.”

  “H’m!” mused the Master. “You hit a strong blow, Schwartz. I’ll say that for you. You missed Lad, with my crop. But you’ve split the crop. And you scored a visible mark on the wooden fl
oor with it. Did you hit as hard as that when you struck the sheep-killer this morning? ”

  “A sight harder,” responded Schwartz. “My mad was up. I—”

  “A dog’s skin is softer than a pine floor,” said the Master. “Your Honor, such a blow would have raised a weal on Lad’s flesh, an inch high. Would your Honor mind passing your hand over his body and trying to locate such a weal?”

  “This is all outside the p’int!” raged the annoyed Titus Romaine. “You’re a-dodgin’ the issue, I tell ye. I—”

  “If your Honor please!” insisted the Master.

  The Judge left his desk and whistled Lad across to him. The dog looked at his Master, doubtfully. The Master nodded. The collie arose and walked in leisurely fashion over to the waiting judge. Maclay ran an exploring hand through the magnificent tawny coat, from head to haunch, then along the dog’s furry sides. Lad hated to be handled by anyone but the Mistress or the Master. But at a soft word from the Mistress, he stood stock-still and submitted to the inspection.

  “I find no weal or any other mark on him,” presently reported the Judge.

  The Mistress smiled happily. The whole investigation, up to this point, and further, was along eccentric lines she herself had thought out and had suggested to her husband. Lines suggested by her knowledge of Lad.

  “Schwartz,” went on the Master, interrupting another fuming outbreak from Romaine, “I’m afraid you didn’t hit quite as hard as you thought you did, this morning; or else some other dog is carrying around a big welt on his flesh today. Now for the kick you say you gave the collie. I—”

  “I won’t copy that, on your bloodthirsty dog!” vociferated Schwartz. “Not even if the Judge jails me for contempt, I won’t. He’d likely kill me!”

  “And yet he ran from you, this morning,” the Master reminded him. “Well, I won’t insist on your kicking Lad. But you say it was a light kick; because he was running away when it landed. I am curious to know just how hard a kick it was. In fact, I’m so curious about it that I am going to offer myself as a substitute for Lad. My riding boot is a good surface. Will you kindly kick me there, Schwartz; as nearly as possible with the same force—no more, no less—than you kicked the dog?”

  “I protest!” shouted Romaine. “This measly tomfoolishness is—”

  “If your Honor please!” appealed the Master sharply, turning from the bewildered Schwartz to the no less dismayed Judge.

  Maclay was on his feet to overrule so strange a request. But there was keen supplication in the Master’s eye that made the Judge pause. Maclay glanced again at the Mistress. In spite of the prospect of seeing her husband kicked, her face wore a most pleased smile. The Judge noted, though, that she was stroking Lad’s head and that she was unobtrusively turning that head so that the dog faced Schwartz.

  “Now, then!” adjured the Master. “Whenever you’re ready, Schwartz! I’ll promise not to go for your throat as Laddie tried to. Kick away! ”

  Awkwardly, shamblingly, Schwartz stepped forward, not sorry to assail the man whose dog had tried to throttle him—he drew back his broganed left foot and kicked out in the general direction of the calf of the Master’s thick riding boot.

  The kick did not land. Not that the Master dodged or blocked it. He stood moveless, and grinning expectantly.

  But the courtroom shook with a wild-beast yell—a yell of insane fury. And Schwartz drew back his half-extended left foot in sudden terror, as a great furry shape came whizzing through the air at him.

  The sight of the half-delivered kick at his worshiped Master had had precisely the effect on Lad that the Mistress had foreseen when she planned the maneuver. Almost any good dog will attack a man who seeks to strike its owner. And Lad seemed to comprehend that a kick is a more contemptuous affront than is a blow.

  Schwartz’s kick at the Master had thrown the adoring dog into a maniac rage against this defiler of his idol. The memory of Schwartz’s blow at himself was as nothing to it. It aroused in the collie’s heart a deathless blood-feud against the man. As the Mistress had known it would.

  The Mistress’ sharp command and the Master’s hastily outflung arm barely sufficed to deflect Lad’s charge. He writhed in their dual grasp, snarling furiously, his eyes red; his every giant muscle strained to get at the cowering Schwartz.

  “We’ve had enough of this!” imperatively ordained Maclay, above the babel of Titus Romaine’s protests. “In spite of the informality of the hearing, this is a court of law, not a dog-kennel. I—”

  “I crave your Honor’s pardon,” apologized the Master. “I was merely trying to show that Lad is not the sort of dog to let a stranger strike and kick him as this man claims to have done with impunity. I think I have shown, from Lad’s own regrettable actions, that it was some other dog—if any-which cheered Romaine’s barnyard, this morning, and yesterday morning.”

  “It was your dog!” cried Schwartz, getting his breath, in a swirl of anger. “Next time I’ll be on watch with a shotgun and not a stick. I’ll—”

  “There ain’t going to be no ‘next time,’ ” asserted the equally angry Romaine. “Judge, I call on you to order that sheep-killer shot; an’ to order his master to indemnify me for th’ loss of my eight killed sheep!”

  “Your Honor!” suavely protested the Master, “may I ask you to listen to a counter-proposition? A proposition which I think will be agreeable to Mr. Romaine, as well as to myself?”

  “The only prop’sition I’ll agree to, is the shootin’ of that cur and the indemnifyin’ of me for my sheep!” persisted Romaine.

  Maclay waved his hand for order; then, turning to the Master, said:

  “State your proposition.”

  “I propose,” began the Master, “that Lad be paroled, in my custody, for the space of twenty-four hours. I will deposit with the court, here and now, my bond for the sum of one thousand dollars to be paid, on demand, to Titus Romaine, if one or more of his sheep are killed by any dog during that space of time.”

  The crass oddity of the proposal set Titus’ leathery mouth ajar. Even the Judge gasped aloud at its bizarre terms. Schwartz looked blank, until, little by little, the purport of the words sank into his slow mind. Then he permitted himself the rare luxury of a chuckle.

  “Do I und’stand you to say,” demanded Titus Romaine of the Master, “that if I’ll agree to hold up this case for twenty-four hours you’ll give me one thousan’ dollars, cash, for any sheep of mine that gets killed by dogs in that time?”

  “That is my proposition,” returned the Master. “To cinch it, I’ll let you make out the written arrangement, yourself. And I’ll give the court a bond for the money, at once, with instructions that the sum is to be paid to you, if you lose one sheep, through dogs, in the next day. I furthermore agree to shoot Lad, myself, if you lose one or more sheep in that time, and in that way I’ll forfeit another thousand if I fail to keep that part of my contract. How about it?”

  “I agree!” exclaimed Titus.

  Schwartz’s smile, by this time, threatened to split his broad face across. Maclay saw the Mistress’ cheek whiten a little; but her aspect betrayed no worry over the possible loss of a thousand dollars and the far more painful loss of the dog she loved.

  When Romaine and Schwartz had gone, the Master tarried a moment in the courtroom.

  “I can’t make out what you’re driving at,” Maclay told him. “But you seem to me to have done a mighty foolish thing. To get a thousand dollars Romaine is capable of scouring the whole country for a sheep-killing dog. So is Schwartz—if only to get Lad shot. Did you see the way Schwartz looked at Lad as he went out? He hates him.”

  “Yes,” said the Master. “And I saw the way Lad looked at him. Lad will never forget that kick at me. He’ll attack Schwartz for it, if they come together a year from now. That’s why we arranged it. Say, Mac, I want you to do me a big favor. A favor that comes within the square and angle of your work. I want you to go fishing with me, tonight. Better come over to dinner and be prepa
red to spend the night. The fishing won’t start till about twelve o’clock.”

  “Twelve o’clock!” echoed Maclay. “Why, man, nothing but catfish will bite at that hour. And I—”

  “You’re mistaken,” denied the Master. “Much bigger fish will bite. Much bigger. Take my word for that. My wife and I have it all figured out. I’m not asking you in your official capacity; but as a friend. I’ll need you, Mac. It will be a big favor to me. And if I’m not wrong, there’ll be sport in it for you, too. I’m risking a thousand dollars and my dog, on this fishing trip. Won’t you risk a night’s sleep? I ask it as a worthy and distressed—”

  “Certainly,” assented the wholly perplexed Judge, impressed, “but I don’t get your idea at all. I—”

  “I’ll explain it before we start,” promised the Master. “All I want, now, is for you to commit yourself to the scheme. If it fails, you won’t lose anything, except your sleep. Thanks for saying you’ll come.”

  At a little after ten o’clock that night the last light in Titus Romaine’s farmhouse went out. A few moments later the Master got up from a rock on Mount Pisgah’s summit, on which he and Maclay had been sitting for the past hour. Lad, at their feet, rose expectantly with them.

  “Come on, old man,” said the Master. “We’ll drop down there, now. It probably means a long wait for us. But it’s better to be too soon than too late, when I’ve got so much staked. If we’re seen, you can cut and run. Lad and I will cover your retreat and see you aren’t recognized. Steady, there, Lad. Keep at heel.”

  Stealthily the trio made their way down the hill to the farmstead at its farther base. Silently they crept along the outer fringe of the home lot, until they came opposite the black-gabled bulk of the barn. Presently, their slowly cautious progress brought them to the edge of the barnyard, and to the rail fence which surrounds it. There they halted.

  From within the yard, as the huddle of drowsy sheep caught the scent of the dog, came a slight stirring. But, after a moment, the yard was quiet again.

  “Get that?” whispered the Master, his mouth close to Maclay’s ear. “Those sheep are supposed to have been raided by a killer dog, for the past two nights. Yet the smell of a dog doesn’t even make them bleat. If they had been attacked by any dog, last night, the scent of Lad would throw them into a panic.”