A Gentleman From France/Chapter 8
Although the dog is the friend and ally of man, doing much to guard and protect his property, yet he occasionally reverts to his wolf ancestry and becomes destructive. This is true in very rare instances of the faithful sheep dogs. There is something about the stupid sheep that seems to invite destruction.
They are so easily frightened and run so readily that what often begins as boisterous play on the part of the dogs ends as a bloody affair.
Now it happened that poor Pierre had fallen in with a Killer
Not a sheep dog gone bad, but just a natural scallywag among dogs. The enterprise to which he had alluded was nothing more or less than a sheep-killing expedition.
It was a beautiful October evening. The hunter's moon was at its full. The stars were so thick in the heavens and so luminous that it was almost bright as day. The air was clear and crisp, and there was a tang about it that went to the blood like old wine. Both dogs felt it as they trotted away to a distant pasture where the sheep were kept. In the daytime they fed in a large pasture, but each night they came up to a smaller pasture, where the lambs were kept in the early spring. This small lot was well fenced, with wire netting at the bottom to keep the lambs from getting through.
As they approached the lot, the old bull became wary and they crept forward slowly, keeping close to the ground. But even so, the Killer was much more conspicuous than was Pierre. The Airedale was all excitement, for the Killer had told him it was all sorts of fun and had promised him that he might kill a sheep for himself.
Now the Killer knew full well that the sheep were the farmer's property. He knew that it was wrong to kill them and he also knew that it was risky business on which he was taking the Airedale.
But poor Pierre, who was quite ignorant on all these points, thought it just a great lark.
Finally they came in sight of the pasture. They crept along in the shadow of some bushes until they reached a spot that satisfied the Killer. Then they got down on their bellies and started to dig under the wire netting. Half an hour's work made a hole large enough to admit them. The Killer crawled under the fence first, and Pierre followed.
It happened that the Killer had been upon just such an expedition in this same pasture about a week before. He had been discovered and had escaped with his hide well peppered wih bird shot. A strict watch had been kept on the sheep ever since. Even at the moment when the two dogs crawled out from under the fence and entered the lot, a man and two boys were lying in wait behind the fence on the other side of the lot. Two of them had shotguns, but one of the boys carried a Winchester rifle.
The Killer threw all precaution to the winds once he spied the sheep. Probably the thought of warm blood destroyed his sense of prudence. He immediately started in pursuit of a half—grown lamb. It was lucky for Pierre that his dark coat made him less conspicuous than his companion, also that he did not at once join in the chase.
The chase had hardly begun when Bang, bang, bang! went the guns with ki-yi, ki-yi, ki-yi! from the Killer. The boy with the rifle had missed him, but the two shotguns had filled him with shot.
"Ki-yi, ki-yi, ki-yi! It's the men with their guns, run!" yelped the old bull, making for the hole under the fence.
Pierre was much excited himself, but he had seen such sights as this before. He had also heard those deafening noises, only much louder. It was war. It was like the day when he had found the Colonel and carried the letter to his mistress. So he was not nearly so much excited as the bulldog.
"Ki-yi, where is the hole under the fence?" yelped the bull.
"I am blinded. I cannot see. You must show me. They will get me."
Then the three guns went bang, bang, bang again. This time Pierre himself felt the sharp sting of several shot and he knew full well what it was that made the Killer yelp. Either they were being stung by bees or else it was something connected with the loud noise that stung their hides so. Anyhow, they must get out of this lot, or be stung to death.
"Here, this way," sniffed Pierre. "Here is the hole."
But he had spoken too late to help his companion, for at the same instant the Winchester barked again and the Killer fell kicking on the ground beside Pierre.
Pierre knew instinctively that the old dog was mortally wounded, just as all animals know these things. He must save himself. He turned to crawl under the fence but could not discover the hole. He ran this way and that but could not find it. He was trapped.
What should he do? All the time he was running desperately about, the banging was going on. Shot were stinging his hide and the Winchester was ripping up grass all about him. It was only the fact that he ran so continuously that saved him from the fate of the old killer. Finally a bullet cut a lock of hair from his face and he decided to rush the wire fence. He did not know whether he could go through it or not, but it was the only way.
It looked ugly. It would probably tear his face, but it was his only chance. So he shut his eyes and sprang against it with all his might, keeping his head low.
There was a sensation of his face being scratched with a thorn bush, like the one he had gotten into when a puppy at the château.
The thorns also raked along his back. He thought his hide would be torn off him. But at last he was through. His heart gave a great bound of delight. He had escaped. Now he would run for it. But he was too sure of himself. His congratulations were too previous. For just then the boy with the Winchester got a good bead on him and sent a bullet ripping through his flank. It was a very bad wound, but luckily only a flesh wound. Otherwise his story might have ended then and there. Pierre thought at first that he could not step. He was faint and sick. They had mortally wounded him, just as they had the Killer.
Then the sense of self-preservation asserted itself. He must flee. If he stayed there, they would surely kill him. So he set his teeth, and his splendid fighting strength came to his aid.
His ancestors had all been good fighters, and why not he?
He must flee, but where? It did not matter much as long as he ran fast and far. So he sped away on three legs, leaving his companion in this desperate night's work dead in the sheep pasture.
They fired two or three more shots at him but finally he disappeared and the fusillade ceased.
But poor Pierre still seemed to hear the deafening sounds long after he had passed out of range. The night was full of horrors. The whole world was full of fierce men with thunder sticks and they were all after him.
Finally the roadway led through a deep wood, and Pierre was very glad. He left the road and struck off into the woods.
The darker it was and the thicker the underbrush the better it suited him. Here was a place to hide. The sweet green woods protected him, just as it has many another hunted animal, or even man.
Finally in the very heart of the woods he crawled under the top of a fallen tree to rest. He was so weak he could hardly stand. His breath came in wheezy gasps. He lay very still and tried to sleep.
But the wound pained him intensely, so he sat up and licked it steadily for an hour. Then he discovered that he was very thirsty.
He could hear water running close at hand, so he crept cautiously out and slaked his thirst. Then he went back to his treetop to rest some more.
For three days Pierre slept and rested under the treetop, going often to the little stream to slake his thirst. He ate no food, only slept and drank cool, refreshing water.
On the fifth day, he came forth from hiding. The wound had healed so perfectly that it would have troubled any one to discover it under his thick coat. He limped slightly for a few hours but finally even that discomfort disappeared and he was his own active self, only prodigiously hungry. He at once remembered the bad meat where he had met the Killer. He had no difficulty in finding it and he was astonished to discover how good it tasted.
When he had eaten until he could hold no more, he took to the open road. He would find his mistress if he had to run his legs off. She had been so good to him. They had all been good to him. What a fool he had been to run away. But instead of finding the actress, he discovered some new friends.