through him and he wheeled to run as a voice spoke seemingly out of the air and called his name. But the voice was friendly and old habit was strong. Flash stopped.
“Hello, Flash.” From his perch on the windmill platform the early riser had seen the dim form slipping toward the house. “You old rascal, where have you been?”
Flash trotted off to the sheltering gloom of the corral and waited, undecided which course to pursue.
When the windmill fan started to turn, the bunkhouse door opened and the occupants emerged irregularly and started splashing face and hands with the icy water from the tank: Halfway down the ladder, the man above stopped to call out that Flash was back and from the group at the tank there arose an immediate chorus of friendly remarks and whistles for the dog.
Flash trotted near them, his muscles bunched for sudden flight at the first hostile move, but he was greeted as an old friend.
During the next week he reconstructed his ideas of man. Twice he was shot at when far from the ranch. He finally knew that he was safe
