dog was well worth his rations and the ten dollars that Ben had paid for him as a puppy, for the protection which he afforded to the farm.
It was towards noon when Parsons tramped up to the sheep pasture to see if all was well with his flock, a bunch of high-grade southdowns in which he took much pride. Bran accompanied him, not trotting at his heels, but ranging about with an air of responsibility.
The flock was pasturing—contentedly, for sheep have short memories—near the home fence of the pasture. The ewe which had given birth to her lamb the night before had rejoined the flock with her gawky offspring; but the owner's eye was quick to notice that three were missing. He glanced about the field.
"Seek 'em!" he said sharply.
Bran pricked up his ears, eyed Parsons inquiringly for a moment, then led him straight to the little hollow behind a big grey stump where one of the victims was lying.
To Parsons the sight of the torn throat was instant evidence that here was the work of that most hated of marauders, a sheep-killing dog. There could be no doubt as to who was the culprit. Bran was the only big dog in the whole settlement, the only dog with dangerous blood in his veins.
He turned and looked at Bran, a deadly rage
