Buff: A Collie, and Other Dog-Stories Read online

  CHAPTER TWO: "THE HUNT IS UP!"

  Michael Trent stood knee-deep in a grey-white drift that eddied andsurged about him in tumultuous, soft waves, almost threatening toengulf him.

  The grey-white drift filled the tiny field in whose centre Trent wasstanding. Its ragged edges were spilling in irregular driblets intothe adjoining fields and the road, scattering thence athwart thenearer countryside.

  To descend to bare fact, Michael Trent was in the middle of a millingand unruly flock of merino sheep; and he was, incidentally, in more orless of a fix.

  Of these sheep, seventy had belonged to his farm for months. And hehad just added to them two additional flocks, new-bought, of thirtyand of twenty-five each; making a grand total of one hundred andtwenty-five.

  This morning he had undertaken to pasture the three groups together ina single paddock-field while he should assort from the full flock adetachment of forty which he planned to drive to Boone Lake thefollowing morning for the rural metropolis' monthly market day.

  It had seemed a simple thing, this opening of the gates from twofields and driving into a third field the occupants of the other two.So simple had it appeared that Trent had not even enlisted theservices of his beautiful collie Buff in the petty task.

  Buff had been sent, a half-hour earlier, to drive the farm's littlebunch of cattle to the "forest pasture," a mile to the east; and hewas not yet back. Trent had not bothered to wait for the collie'sreturn before herding the three flocks of sheep into one. He hadmerely opened the gates leading into the central field where werepastured his original flock, and had driven the newer occupants ofthose two fields into the middle one.

  Then trouble had set in--as trouble is forever waiting to do, wheresheep are concerned.

  One of the two new flocks had stampeded at sight and scent of thestrange flocks, and of the still more strange man. The stampedingflock had ploughed straight into and through the thick of the others,jostling and shoving them roughly, and communicating to them thestampede impulse.

  That had been quite enough, and all at once there were a hundred andtwenty-five crazy sheep surging around Trent and radiating away inevery direction. Their fear-driven bodies had found a weak panel inthe hurdle fence that bordered the road. Down flapped the hurdle, andthrough the gap the nearest sheep began to dribble. The remainder werein great and ever-increasing danger of injury from the mad plungingsof their companions.

  Another accidental shove had loosed the half-fastened latch on thecentre field's gate, which Trent had neglected to clamp when he cameinto the paddock; and another leakage seeped out through that opening.

  Helpless, wrathful, Trent waded through the turmoil, trying in vain torestore quiet, and to make his way to one or both of the aperturesbefore a wholesale stampede should empty the field through gate orhurdle, bruising and perhaps killing some of the weaker sheep againstthe sides of the gap.

  In his extremity, the farmer put his fingers to his lips and sentforth a whistle agonisingly piercing and shrill. Then he turned backto his futile labours of calming the stampede. Because he turned backthus, he missed a sight really worth seeing.

  Over the brow of a ridge, across the winding high road, flashed atawny and white shape that was silhouetted for an instant on thepulsing sky-line--the shape of a large collie running as no dog but acollie or a greyhound can run. Close to earth, in his sweeping stride,Buff was coming at full speed in response to the far-heard whistle.

  As he breasted the ridge-crest, the dog took in the scene below him ina single glance. He saw the milling and straggling sheep, and hisdistracted master in the centre of the panic throng. Thus, he did notwait, as usual, for the signals Trent had taught him in "working"sheep. Instead, he went into action on his own account.

  Through the waves of greyish-white a tawny and wedge-shaped head cloveits way at express-train speed. With seeming aimlessness, Buff swirledthrough the mass, sheering now to right, now to left, now wheeling,now halting with a menace of thundered barks. Yet not one move wasthrown away, not one step was without definite purpose.

  As by miracle, the charging sheep began to shape up, in the field'scentre; and while they were still following this centrifugal impulse,Buff was gone from among them. Out into the high road he flew, notwaiting to find either of the openings; but taking the tall hurdles inhis stride.

  And in another second or so he had caught up with the rearmost of thestragglers, had passed it and flashed on toward the more distantstrays. Before the sheep in the paddock had shaken off theirBuff-given impulse to crowd to the centre of the enclosure, the colliehad rounded up the scampering and bleating strays and was drivingthem in a reluctant huddle through the gateway and in among theirfellows once more.

  Then, without resting, he swung shut the gate--an easy trick longsince taught to him, as to many another working collie--and wasguarding with his body the gap made by the overset hurdle.

  Trent ran up, fixed the hurdle in place, and then turned to pet andpraise his exultant dog.

  "Buff," he declared, taking the collie's fluffy head between his twognarled hands, "you're worth ten times your weight in hired men, andyou're the best side-partner and chum a lonely chap ever had!"

  Buff grinned, licked his master's hand in quick friendliness, then laydown at Trent's feet for an instant's rest. And, for the thousandthtime in the past three years the man noted something in the collie'spose that baffled him.

  For, though Buff was lying upright and not on his side, both hind legswere stretched straight out behind him. Normally no collie lies thus,nor does any other canine that is not the possessor of a strong strainof bulldog. It was Buff's favourite posture. And Buff had every pointof a pure-bred collie--indeed, of the highest type of "show collie."

  The man's bewilderment was roused, thus, from time to time, by thedog's various bulldog traits, such as lying with hindlegs out behindhim, or of holding a grip with the grim stubbornness of a pit terrierrather than with the fiery dash of a true collie, or of diving for theheels of driven cattle instead of for nose and ear.

  Waiting only for a moment, while Buff was breathing himself after hishard run across country, and his harder rounding up of the flock,Trent chirped to the collie, and prepared to shut the two newconsignments of merinos back in their respective pens. The mingling ofthe three flocks had been a mistake. Until their forthcoming drive tomarket, the three bunches would fare better among their ownacquaintances than among strange sheep.

  But the task was no easy one. To a casual eye all the milling sheeplooked just alike. Trent could distinguish by his personal red markhis original flock. But the two sets of strangers were unmarked.Wherefore his chirp to Buff.

  The moment the collie was made to see what was required of him, he wasin the thick of the jostling turmoil again, flashing in and out like astreak of tawny fire, seeming to have no objective, but to bescampering without any special purpose.

  Yet within fifty seconds he had headed a scared sheep through thegateway into the right-hand paddock where stood his master. Thenanother and yet another sheep, then a huddled half-dozen of themcantered bleatingly into the paddock. While Trent looked on in wonder,Buff proceeded to segregate, until the entire twenty-five thatbelonged in this particular field were back within its boundaries.

  Trent shifted to the opposite paddock, whence he had turned the secondflock of thirty into the central enclosure. And here Buff repeated hisunerring performance.

  Though Trent was filled with amazed admiration at his pet'sdiscernment, yet he recognised there was nothing miraculous in it.Buff had herded both these new flocks into the paddocks at least threetimes before, on their way from pasture, during the few days Trent hadowned them. He had become familiar with their scents and theirseparate identities, after the uncanny fashion of the best sort ofworking collie.

  As the job ended, and Trent started homeward, with Buff trottingchummily beside him, a slender black saddle-horse came single-footingaround the bend of the road between the paddocks and the farmhouse.Astride the b
lack, sat a figure as slender and highbred as the mount'sown.

  The rider was a girl of perhaps twenty, clad in crash and booted. Atsight of the man and the collie she waved her crop gaily at them, andput her horse to a lope by a shift of the snaffle-rein.

  Trent's bronzed face went red with surprised pleasure at theequestrian vision bearing down on him. Buff, after a single doubtfulglance, recognised horse and rider, and set off at a run to welcomethem.

  "Why, I didn't know you were at home yet, Ruth!" exclaimed Trent,reaching up to take the gauntleted little hand extended to greet him."Your father said you'd be in the city another month. I saw him at thestore last evening, and he said----"

  "Yes," she interrupted, "I know. He hadn't got my telegram, then. AuntHester had to go out West to take care of her son--my cousin, DickClinton, you remember? He has a ranch in Idaho. She had a letter fromhim yesterday morning, saying he'd broken his leg. So she packed up,right away; and took the night train, West. And I came home."

  "Oh!" said Trent, in an effort at sympathy. "And you had to cut yourvisit in half? What a shame!"

  "No," she denied guiltily, "it wasn't a shame. It was a blessing. Ioughtn't to say so, but it was. She did everything to give me a goodtime. And I enjoyed it, too, ever so much. But all the while I washomesick for these dear hills. And I'm so glad to get back to them!It's queer," she added, "how I've grown to love this Boone Lakeregion; when dad and I have lived here barely eighteen months."

  "Eighteen months and nine days," gravely corrected Trent. "I remember.I had gone to town that evening to get the mail. And when I passed bythe old Brander house I saw lights in it. At the post-office they toldme a New York man and his daughter--'some people named Hammerton'--hadmoved in, that day, and that they'd come here for Mr. Hammerton'shealth. It wasn't more than a week--just six days, to be exact--afterthat, when your father stopped here to ask me about the commissionpeople I was dealing with in the city. He spent the morning, and heasked me to come and see him. It was the next evening I called. Thatwas when I met you. So----"

  "Do you keep a diary?" she asked, in an amusement that seemed tingedwith embarrassment. "Or have you a genius for remembering dates?"

  "And," pursued Trent, "it was just sixteen days after that when wewent horseback riding the first time. It--it may be a bit of sillysuperstition," he went on reluctantly, "but I've always dated thestart of this farm toward real success from the time you people movedto Boone Lake. Ever since then I've prospered. Another six monthswill find me in shape to install the last lot of up-to-date machineryand to take over that eighty-acre tract of Holden's that I've got theoption on. Then I can begin to call my soul my own and live like realpeople. And, the first day I can do that, I am going to put my wholefortune and my life, too, to the biggest test in the world. A test Ihadn't any right to put it to while I was staggering along on the edgeof bankruptcy and with the future all so hazy. In six months I'll beable to ask a question that will show me whether all my luck is DeadSea fruit or--or the greatest thing that ever happened."

  He talked on, ramblingly, with an effort at unconcern; avoiding hereyes. But his gaze was on her little gloved hand as it lay athwart thehorse's mane. And he saw it tremble and clench. Trent was half glad,half frightened that she had caught the drift of his blundering words.

  Before he could continue, Buff created a diversion by routing a largeand terrified rabbit out of a fence corner and charging down the roadtoward them in noisy pursuit of his prey. Bunny fled in blind panicstraight between the nervous horse's forefeet. The mount snorted andreared. As Ruth skilfully mastered the plunging steed, Trent caughtthe bridle, close to the bit, and at the same time whistled Buff toheel. Unwillingly, but instantly, the collie abandoned his delightfulchase and trotted obediently back to his master.

  "Don't scold him!" begged Ruth. "It wasn't his fault!"

  "I'm not going to scold him!" laughed Trent, ruffling the dog's ears."It's many a long month since Buff needed a scolding. He didn't drivethe rabbit this way. The rabbit drove itself, before Buff could choosethe direction. He----"

  "Buff is splendid protection for you, isn't he?" she broke in, a tingeof nervousness in her soft voice.

  "Why, personally, I don't stand in any great need of protection," hesmiled. "I'm not exactly a timid little flower. But he protects thefarm and the house and the livestock as efficiently as a machine-guncompany could. He's a born watchdog."

  Buff, realising he was under discussion, sat down in the road betweenthe man and the girl. He was wriggling with self-consciousness andfanning the dust into a little whirlwind with the lightning sweeps ofhis plumy tail; as he grinned expectantly from one to the other of thespeakers. But the collie's grin found no answer on Ruth Hammerton'sflower-tinted face. The girl's eyes had grown grave, and there was atinge of uneasiness in them.

  "I hope you're right," she began, hesitantly, "in saying you don'tneed any protection. And probably I'm foolish. But that's why I rodeout here this morning."

  "To protect me?" he asked quizzically, yet perplexed at her newbearing.

  "To risk your thinking me impertinent," she evaded, "by mixing intosomething that doesn't concern me."

  "Anything that concerns me," he said as she hesitated again, "concernsyou, too; so far as you'll let it. What's the matter?"

  She drew a long breath, knit her dark brows, and plunged into thedistasteful mission that had brought her to the Trent farm.

  "In the first place," she began, "do you know two men named Con Heganand Billy Gates?"

  In stark surprise Trent stared up at her.

  "Why, yes!" he made answer. "Of course I do. I have good reason toknow them. I've told you the story. I told it to your father, too,before I accepted his invitation to come and see him. They were thetwo men I found in my kitchen when I----"

  "Yes, yes," she interposed hastily, as though trying to shield himfrom memories that must be painful. "I know. Of course, I remember.But--but you never told me their names. I'm certain you didn't. Orthey'd have been familiar to me when I heard them this morning."

  "This morning?" echoed Trent, puzzled. "I don't----"

  "I was at the store, doing the marketing," she explained. "Some menwere loafing on the steps, just outside the window. And one of themsaid, 'A fellow from down Logan-way told me just now that Con Heganand Billy Gates are due to be turned loose to-morrow.' And one of theother men said, 'Then Trent had better hire a special cop and take outanother life insurance policy. Both of 'em swore they'd get him, ifthey was to go to the chair for it. And that's one kind of an oathneither of 'em's liable to break. I wouldn't like to be in his shoesjust now!' That was all I could hear. But it worried me. I didn'tassociate the names with those men you had told me about. Perhapsbecause the phrase 'turned loose' didn't mean anything to me. But Icame out here to tell you, just the same. It wasn't so much what thefellow on the store steps said, as the scared way he said it, thatfrightened me. Oh, is there any real danger of----"

  "Nonsense!" laughed Trent. "There's no danger at all. And you're notto give the matter another minute of your precious thought. But it wasbully of you to come out here to warn me--to care enough to----"

  "You're making light of it, just to make me stop worrying!" sheaccused. "I know you are! Won't you please notify the police abouttheir threat? Won't you go armed? Won't you lock your house ever socarefully and keep indoors after dark? And----"

  "And wear warm flannels next to my skin, all summer?" supplementedTrent, with vast solemnity. "And carry an umbrella and wear rubbers ifthe day is at all stormy? And----"

  "Stop!" she commanded, a hint of tears in her troubled young voice."You're making fun of me!"

  "Heaven forbid!" he disclaimed, piously.

  "You are!" she accused. "And you're doing it to lead me to think youaren't in any danger; so that I won't worry. But there _is_ danger!And I know it. I'm positive of it, now that you've told me who thosemen really are. Oh, can't you----"

  "Listen!" he begged. "You're getting all wrought up over noth
ing,Ruth. It's wonderful to have you bother your head over my safety. ButI'm not going to let you do it. Here's the idea: Hegan and Gatesbelonged to the 'Riverside Gang,' over in South Boone. The gang wascleared out some years ago. Some of its members went to jail. Thepolice had nothing definite on those two; so they let them alone. Theypicked up a living by their wits, as semi-stationary tramps and theykept their petty thefts from being found out. Then, when they'd sentme to prison--they'd had it in for me ever since the time I caughtthem near my hen-roost and ordered them off my land, to theaccompaniment of a stray kick or so--they went into the business on alarger scale, using my house as a place to store their plunder and tohide out in, when the neighbours might be suspecting them of a sharein the robberies. When Buff and I collared them they went all topieces and confessed everything. Just as I told you, before. Now, Ileave it to you if two such pitifully cowardly sneak thieves arelikely to risk another jail sentence by trying to harm me. It'sridiculous. Just the same, I'm as much your debtor for warning me, asif the danger were real."

  Ruth had dismounted, during the talk. Now, turning to the horse, sheprepared to get into the saddle once more. But first she bent down andlaid her soft cheek against the delighted Buff's head. Under cover ofthe collie's glad whimper of friendliness she whispered very low:

  "Take care of him, Buff! Oh, take care of him--for _me_."

  Then, with assumed lightness, she said, as Trent lifted her to thesaddle:

  "Probably you're right. But it didn't do any harm to warn you. I'msorry if I've seemed foolish. Good-bye!"

  The little black horse cantered away. Michael Trent and Buff stood inthe middle of the road watching the girl out of sight. Then Trentturned slowly to his chum.

  "Buff, old man," said he, "we made a good bluff of it just now, youand I. All the same, it's up to us both to keep our eyes open for awhile. Hegan and Gates were soaked with cheap whisky and sodden andjumpy after a week's carouse, when the chief of police 'sweated' them.And he sure did 'sweat' them good and hard. It smashed their nerve.Because they were in prime shape to have it smashed. And that's how hegot them to go all to pieces and confess. That and the goods he foundon them. And, besides, he told each of them separately that the otherone had squealed; and made them sore on each other that way.

  "But that wasn't like either Gates or Hegan to give in. When they werenormal, they were as tough a pair of birds as I care to see. They'vehad nearly three years to sober up in and get back their nerve by hardwork and plain food and no drink, Buff. And unless I've got them bothsized up all wrong, they've been spending most of that three years inplanning how to get back at the man who spoiled their game andthrashed them and got them put away.

  "They've had plenty of time to store up venom, Buff. And plenty ofvenom to store up. Yes, and a good alibi, too, to clear them ifanything happens to me. Buff, we aren't going to be fools enough toworry. But we'll keep awake, just the same. And, Lord, but wasn't itglorious of her to care enough about me to come 'way out here and warnme! Buff, she knew what I meant, too, when I told her about having theright pretty soon to 'ask a question.' I wonder if I'm pig-headed notto have asked it long ago instead of waiting till I had somethingbesides my measly self to offer?"

  During his mumbled address to the wistfully listening dog he had beenmoving homeward. Now, standing on his neat porch, the man looked abouthim, over his well-kept farm and its trim buildings; with a littlethrob of pride as he contrasted it with the way the home had looked onhis return from prison three years earlier. The world, all at once,seemed to him a wonderful place to live in, and life seemedunbelievably sweet. His glance strayed down the long, yellow roadtoward the old Brander place, and his lean face softened with a glowthat transfigured it.

  Early the following morning Michael Trent set off down the same yellowroad toward Boone Lake for the monthly market day. But the patch ofroad directly in front of him was no longer yellow. It was filledwith jogging and tossing billows of greyish-white.

  Forty sheep, consigned to the market, were moving in close formationin front of their staff-swinging master. For one reason alone did theykeep this close formation or, indeed, keep to the narrow road at all.

  That one reason was Buff. The collie, with calm generalship, washerding and driving them. And he was doing it to such perfection as tomake Trent's rearguard task a sinecure.

  For more than thirty months now Buff had been the lonely Trent'sclosest chum and almost his only companion. With true collieefficiency, the dog had learned his hard and confusing farm lessonsfrom the master, who never lost his temper with him and who neverdealt unjustly by him. The bond between the two had sharpened andincreased Buff's naturally "human" tendencies, and had brought out inhim the great soul and uncanny brain wherewith nature had endowed him.A one-man dog, he idolised Trent and served him with joyous zeal.

  Trent and Buff guided their woolly charges through the single windingstreet of Boone Lake, now beginning to fill with market day traffic,and on to the fenced-in market square. There they herded the fortysilly sheep in one corner of the livestock enclosure, a rod or twodistant from a second and much larger flock.

  The owner of this second flock--a drover named Bayne--had no dog toreinforce his shepherding. Instead, three of his hired men were busilyrunning and shouting along the wabbly borders of the hemmed-in flock.

  Trent observed that they were not keeping their sheep in the bestorder, and that they seemed to be wilfully exciting instead of calmingthe big flock. At this he wondered, even as he had wondered when thesesame shepherds had been equally awkward at two former marketdays--days whereon Trent himself had had no sheep to sell.

  He had heard rumours--odd, unconfirmed gossip--about this Bayne'smethods. And, when he was not watching the antics of the three clumsyshepherds, he observed Bayne's craggy and shifty-eyed face with covertinterest.

  A half-hour later, as a third huddle of sheep were driven into theenclosure, there was a new commotion among Bayne's flock.

  All three shepherds dashed into the jostling mass as in an effort tocalm the pestered beasts. Instead, the noisy move stampeded the entireflock. They scattered broadcast through the entire enclosure.

  The new arrival saw the panic. He jumped ahead of his own bunch ofsheep as they were filing in, and drove them precipitately out of thesquare, standing at the opening to see that none of Bayne's stampedingflock should follow. Thus, by rare presence of mind--and perhapshaving also had experience with Bayne--he avoided any chance of hissheep mingling with the runaways.

  Michael Trent was less fortunate. Full tilt into the very midst of hisorderly flock charged some fifty of Bayne's stampeders, a shepherd attheir heels yelling to them to stop. The shepherd's voice andexcitement had merely the effect of urging them on. Trent, watching,wondered wrathfully why so stupid a man should be placed in charge ofany market consignment.

  Ragged and lean were the newcomers, of mixed blood and in badcondition; as was the way with Bayne's livestock. They were not to becompared to Trent's fine merinos, either in blood or incondition--assuredly not in value.

  Into and through the Trent flock swarmed the invaders. In ten secondsthe two flocks were inextricably intertangled. In vain did Buff seekto restore order. He could do nothing against three men--four now, forBayne had joined the bedlam--whose yells and crazy rushes frustratedhis every movement. The dog looked up in angry bewilderment at Trent,mutely begging for advice as to how the snarl might be straightenedout.

  But Trent did not see the appealing glance. His mind and eyes were toocompletely taken up in staring at Bayne and the latter's three men.

  For in a flash the quartet had changed from impotently roaring andrunning idiots, to swiftly certain and efficient shepherds. Withsplendid skill and speed they were quelling the stampede, separatingthe two flocks and driving their own sheep to their allotted corner ofthe enclosure. Their command of the situation was something to admire.

  Presently the Bayne flock was in its place, orderly and safe, with twoshepherds in front of it to prevent
further panic flight. Trentglanced back at his own flock, attracted to them by a sudden stiramong the forty.

  Buff, leaving his master, had plunged into the flock and was busily atwork, but for what purpose Trent could not guess. Then, almost atonce, he was out of the compact flock again, driving in front of himsix sheep, which he detached from the remaining thirty-four, and senthelter skelter out into the middle of the square.

  Still wondering if his wise dog had lost his wits, Trent chanced totake special note of the six sheep as they hurtled past him. And hisface went blank. The six were dirty, thin, undersized, sparse ofwool. They were as different from his own plump flock as a scavengerhorse from a Derby winner.

  Before Trent could speak or move, Buff had deserted the six raggedspecimens, leaving them bleating forlornly in the centre of thesquare.

  And he had bounded straight at Bayne's close-huddled flock. At oneleap he was on the backs of the sheep which formed the outer wall ofthe mass. He did not even waste time to plough through theirtight-held front rank.

  Over their backs he ran; and on until he vanished into the milling seaof wool.

  Then, while Bayne and his three shepherds still shouted inuncomprehending dismay, the dog appeared again on one edge of theflock. Moving slowly, by reason of the press around and ahead of him,he emerged from the bunch, driving two sheep. Fat they were and ofheavy wool, undoubted merinos both. Across the narrow space Buffheaded them and drove them into his master's flock. Then, on theinstant, he was in the Bayne flock again, running once more over thescared backs of many sheep and dropping to earth in the middle of thethrong.

  A second time he emerged from the huddle, again with two fat andwoolly merinos ahead of him. Eluding Bayne, who rushed down on himwith staff upraised, Buff galloped the two into his master's corner,and was back again, without pausing, in front of Bayne's flock.

  But this time his self-imposed job was no sinecure. Bayne and thethree shepherds had shaken off their amaze and were ready for him.Shouting and threatening they advanced on the eager dog.

  Trent, leaving his sheep in care of an official of the market, sprangto Buff's aid. But the dog did not wait for him. Instead, the colliemade a growling dash at Bayne's booted legs.

  Bayne jumped aside to guard his endangered shanks, and smote at theattacking collie with his staff. The blow did not land;--Buff was nolonger there. Eluding the swung cudgel with wolfish agility, he dartedinto the gap in the line--the gap made by Bayne's sideways jump--andwas at the fiercely guarded flock once more.

  As Buff reappeared, after an interval, with another pair of sheepherded ahead of him, Bayne and the shepherds were waiting for him. Butso was Trent. A shepherd made a lunging rush at the two salvagedsheep. Bayne aimed a murderous blow at the dog.

  Trent, with ludicrous ease, tripped the awkwardly charging shepherdand sent him asprawl on the ground. Trent's staff met the descendingstick of Bayne, and the latter's weapon was shattered by the impact.

  In practically the same gesture, Trent leaped between his dog and thetwo remaining shepherds, menacing them with staff and voice, andholding them in check while the collie cantered the rescued sheep backinto Trent's flock.

  Bayne, swearing and mouthing, strode in pursuit. He was met by acrouching collie, who faced him with an expression that looked like asmile and which was not a smile.

  Bayne hesitated, whirling on the tranquil Trent.

  "Your cur's stolen six of my sheep!" he thundered in righteousindignation. "I'll----"

  "No, you won't, Mr. Bayne," gently contradicted Trent, his pleasantvoice slow and drawling. "Stop a second and cool off, and you'll letthe matter drop. You'll let it go as a mistake of your men's inseparating the two flocks. Men often make mistakes, you know. Buffnever does. There are six sheep straying over yonder--six thin,cross-bred sheep. Not merinos. They are yours."

  "I tell you--" spluttered Bayne, though visibly uneasy at Trent'smanner and at the crowd that was collecting three deep around them.

  "No," intervened Trent. "Don't tell me, Mr. Bayne; don't bother to. Isee it was a mistake. Just as you are beginning to see it. There's nosin in a mistake. Though there's always sure to be a mistake in asin. My sheep are safe. So are yours. Let the matter drop. I've seenstampedes of your flocks before. And I've heard of them, too. Thistime no harm's done. That's all, I think."

  "I'll get a court order for my sheep your cur run off!" flared Baynein a last rally; and he turned to his shepherds, commanding:

  "Here, boys, go and get them sheep he run into that bunch. Get 'em!"

  "Speaking of court orders," said Trent, still in the same cool, slowtones of indifference and interposing his own lithe body beside thebristling Buff's to the hesitant advance of the shepherds--"speakingof court orders, Mr. Bayne, when you get yours, be sure to tell thejudge that I'm ready to show him the secret mark on each and every oneof my sheep, to prove they're mine. Now, if your men care to keep onedging toward my flock, Buff and I will try to entertain them as bestwe can till the police come up."

  Bayne glowered horribly into the smilingly level eyes that met hisglare so tranquilly. Then, with a grunt, he turned back to his owncorner, the three shepherds trailing after him.

  Behind his calm exterior Michael Trent drew a long breath of relief.These forty sheep of his were culled from the two new flocks he had sorecently purchased. None of them bore a mark. The only "secret mark"on them was Buff's unerring knowledge of their identity. Trent stoopedand petted the collie lovingly on the head and stroked the massiveruff.

  "That's how Mr. Bayne makes money, old man," he whispered. "One of hisseveral hundred ways. We couldn't have proved he didn't have six fatmerinos in that mangy bunch of sheep. And his shepherds would havesworn to them. Figure out the price-difference between six of our bestsheep and six of Bayne's scarecrows, and you'll know to a penny howmuch cash you've saved me to-day, Buff."

  The collie did not get the sense of one word in five. But he realisedhe had somehow made Trent very proud of him and that he was beingpraised. So for a moment he forgot to be stately and aloof. He waggedhis tail wildly and caught Trent's caressing hand between his mightyjaws in well-simulated savageness, pretending to bite it ferociously,while not exerting the pressure of a fraction of an ounce. Which wasone of Buff's many modes of showing affection for the pleasant-voicedman who was his master and his god.

  Dusk had fallen when Trent and Buff turned in at the gate of thesilent farmhouse. The day had been prosperous. The merinos had broughta well-nigh record price--the whole forty having been bought by anup-country stock farm man. Thus, Trent's investment in them had turnedinto an unexpectedly quick and large profit.

  Also, he had been congratulated by a dozen fellow sheep raisers on hisvictory over Bayne. He had banked his market cheque--the Boone LakeBank remaining open until seven in the evening on market days--and hadspent a blissful half-hour on the Hammerton porch with Ruth on the wayhome. Now, comfortably tired and buoyed by an equally comfortablesense of well-being, he lounged up the short path leading from theroad to his house. As he reached the fence gate he had bidden Bufffetch the cows from their upland pasturage and drive them to the barn.He himself went around to the side door, for the milk pails that werekept in the kitchen during the day.

  He unlocked and opened the door and stepped in. As he did so a bag wasthrown over his head, and the upper part of his body--a bag whosebottom was soaked in something that smelt like crushed apples. A ropewas flung about his arms at the same moment and its noose ran tight.

  Vainly, Trent stamped and writhed to free himself. His wiry strengthwas pinioned and cramped by the noose and the impeding bag. More ofthe apple-smelling liquid was dashed into his face through the sack'sloose meshes. Then, as he still struggled and choked, somethingcrashed down upon his skull.

  Buff trotted obediently across the road toward the hill pasture. Likehis master, Buff had had a happy and busy day. He had been praisedmuch and petted much by Trent, and had had a truly marvellous dinnerat the Boone Lake Hotel. He was complacent
ly at peace with the world.

  Then all at once he was not at peace with anything. For, far behindhim, he heard the noise of scuffling feet and of a loud, choking gasp.And his weird sixth sense told him his master was in trouble.

  Wheeling, he set off for the house at a tearing run. Excited as hewas, he was aware of a strange and vaguely remembered foot-scent as hewhirled in through the gate and up the path. His faint memory of thescent was hostile. He could not remember why.

  At a bound he reached the open kitchen door. Trent was lying inert andcrumpled on the floor. Two men were bending over him. And, as hecharged, Buff caught their scent.

  Like a rabid wolf he hurled himself upon the nearest of the men. Histeeth closed in Hegan's shoulder with the bone-crushing grip of hispit terrier ancestors. At the same moment Gates drew a pistol andfired point blank at the leaping dog.

  Buff's muscles collapsed. He slumped to the floor and lay lifelesslyacross the body of his master.

  "What'd you shoot for, you chucklehead!" panted Hegan, nursing hisrent shoulder. "Want to bring all Boone Lake down on us?"

  "Only way to get him!" retorted Gates. "He'd 'a' chewed us both intoHamburg steak if I hadn't."

  Quickly and deftly the two worked. First assuring themselves that noone had heard the shot, they went through the house and throughTrent's clothes. Then, their loot gathered, they carried it to thebarn and stowed it in Trent's new car. After which, under cover ofdarkness and carrying Trent between them, they loaded their victiminto the tonneau, covering him with a blanket. Then, while Hegangroaningly and laboriously cleaned away the tell-tale blood spots andother marks of struggle, Gates scowled down at the motionless huddleof tawny soft fur.

  "Got to lug him along with us, too, I s'pose?" he grunted. "Can'tleave him here."

  "Get a stone," commanded Hegan--"a big one. Tie it around his neck.Then drop him down the well."

  Gates groped around the steps until he found one of the old-time doorstones, and in another minute or so this was firmly affixed to Buff'scollar by a stout rope. As Gates picked up the heavy dog and carriedhim puffingly to the well the telephone bell rung.

  Tossing dog and stone over the well curb, Gates bolted for the housein sudden fright. Hegan had already gone into the hall, and waslifting the instrument from its table.

  "Hallo!" he grunted in a stifled voice as he motioned Gates tosilence.

  His face cleared, and he made answer to the query at the far end:

  "Yep, this is Michael Trent. Yes? No, I won't be here. Nope. I'm juststarting off on a motor trip up country. I may go a couple of thousandmiles before I get back. Maybe I won't ever come back. I'm dead sickof this hole. Yep. Good-bye."

  He hung up the receiver.

  "Corking good alibi!" he chuckled gleefully. "Some feller that Trentsold some sheep to to-day. Don't seem to know Trent well. Didn'tsuspicion the voice. Now, when Trent and his car are missing,nobody'll ask nosey questions. Come along!"

  They hurried to the barn, backed the laden car out, and drove awayinto the night.

  Not for some minutes did Buff recover consciousness from the bulletgraze that had rapped his skull so hard as to stun him and to gash thesilken fur above his eye.

  He woke in decided discomfort; his head was still in dire pain, and hewas fastened securely in one spot.

  When Michael Trent had had his farm drinking water tested, a yearearlier, he had learned that the well showed strong traces of stabledrainage. Wherefore, the well had been filled up, to within two yardsof the surface, and a new well had been dug on higher ground behindthe house.

  Thus it was that Buff woke to find himself sprawling on a pile ofrubble, with a short rope attaching him to a large stone.

  Indignantly the collie set to work gnawing the rope in two. Thisaccomplished, he got dizzily to his feet. A rush and a scramble, andhe was up the stone-lined wall of the well and on firm ground above.

  Straight to the house he ran, his teeth gleaming, his ruff abristle.At the kitchen door he halted. The door was shut; he could not get in.But his scent told him Trent was no longer there. His scent told himmore--much more. It confirmed his memory of his master's twoassailants, and stamped their odour for ever in his mind. Their stepsled him to the barn whither they had carried Trent. The senselessman's clothing had brushed the lintel of the barn door as they hadlifted him into the car. Buff looked wildly about him, sniffing theair, his tense brain telling him much.

  Then a red light began to smoulder in his deep-set eyes. Out into thehigh road he dashed, not running now like a collie, but like a timberwolf. As he ran he paused but once, and then he waited only longenough to throw his head aloft and shatter the night silences with ahowl as hideous and discordant as it was ear-splitting.

  A mile away a drowsy farmer dropped his weekly paper with a shiver.

  "If I was back on the frontier," he mused to his startled wife, "I'dsay that was a mad wolf a-howlin'--and I'd say the hunt was up!"