</blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></SPAN>CHAPTER XII<br/> IN THE DAY OF BATTLE</h2>
<p>Now, this is the true tale of Lad's last great
adventure.</p>
<p>For more years than he could remember,
Lad had been king. He had ruled at The Place,
from boundary-fence to boundary-fence, from highway
to Lake. He had had, as subjects, many a
thoroughbred collie; and many a lesser animal and
bird among the Little Folk of The Place. His rule
of them all had been lofty and beneficent.</p>
<p>The other dogs at The Place recognized Lad's
rulership—recognized it without demur. It would
no more have occurred to any of them, for example,
to pass in or out through a doorway ahead of Lad
than it would occur to a courtier to shoulder his
way into the throne-room ahead of his sovereign.
Nor would one of them intrude on the "cave"
under the living-room piano which for more than
a decade had been Lad's favorite resting-place.</p>
<p>Great was Lad. And now he was old—very old.</p>
<p>He was thirteen—which is equivalent to the
human age of seventy. His long, clean lines had
become blurred with flesh. He was undeniably<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</SPAN></span>
stout. When he ran fast, he rolled slightly in his
stride. Nor could he run as rapidly or as long as
of yore. While he was not wheezy or asthmatic,
yet a brisk five-mile walk would make him strangely
anxious for an hour's rest.</p>
<p>He would not confess, even to himself, that age
was beginning to hamper him so cruelly. And he
sought to do all the things he had once done—if
the Mistress or the Master were looking. But
when he was alone, or with the other dogs, he
spared himself every needless step. And he slept
a great deal.</p>
<p>Withal, Lad's was a hale old age. His spirit
and his almost uncanny intelligence had not faltered.
Save for the silvered muzzle—first outward
sign of age in a dog—his face and head were as
classically young as ever. So were the absurdly
small fore-paws—his one gross vanity—on which
he spent hours of care each day, to keep them clean
and snowy.</p>
<p>He would still dash out of the house as of old—with
the wild trumpeting bark which he reserved
as greeting to his two deities alone—when the Mistress
or the Master returned home after an absence.
He would still frisk excitedly around either of them
at hint of a romp. But the exertion <i>was</i> an exertion.
And despite Lad's valiant efforts at youthfulness,
everyone could see it was.</p>
<p>No longer did he lead the other dogs in their
headlong rushes through the forest in quest of rab<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</SPAN></span>bits.
Since he could not now keep the pace, he
let the others go on these breath-and-strength-taking
excursions without him; and he contented himself
with an occasional lone and stately walk through
the woods where once he had led the run—strolling
along in leisurely fashion, with the benign dignity
of some plump and ruddy old squire inspecting his
estate.</p>
<p>There had been many dogs at The Place during
the thirteen years of Lad's reign—dogs of all sorts
and conditions, including Lad's worshiped collie
mate, the dainty gold-and-white "Lady." But in
this later day there were but three dogs beside himself.</p>
<p>One of them was Wolf, the only surviving son
of Lad and Lady—a slender, powerful young collie,
with some of his sire's brain and much of his
mother's appealing grace—an ideal play-dog. Between
Lad and Wolf there had always been a bond
of warmest affection. Lad had trained this son of
his and had taught him all he knew. He unbent
from his lofty dignity, with Wolf, as with none of
the others.</p>
<p>The second of the remaining dogs was Bruce
("Sunnybank Goldsmith"), tawny as Lad himself,
descendant of eleven international champions and
winner of many a ribbon and medal and cup. Bruce
was—and is—flawless in physical perfection and in
obedience and intelligence.</p>
<p>The third was Rex—a giant, a freak, a dog oddly<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</SPAN></span>
out of place among a group of thoroughbreds. On
his father's side Rex was pure collie; on his mother's,
pure bull-terrier. That is an accidental blending of
two breeds which cannot blend. He looked more
like a fawn-colored Great Dane than anything else.
He was short-haired, full two inches taller and ten
pounds heavier than Lad, and had the bunch-muscled
jaws of a killer.</p>
<p>There was not an outlander dog for two miles
in either direction that Rex had not at one time
or another met and vanquished. The bull-terrier
strain, which blended so ill with collie blood, made
its possessor a terrific fighter. He was swift as a
deer, strong as a puma.</p>
<p>In many ways he was a lovable and affectionate
pet; slavishly devoted to the Master and grievously
jealous of the latter's love for Lad. Rex was five
years old—in his fullest prime—and, like the rest,
he had ever taken Lad's rulership for granted.</p>
<p>I have written at perhaps prosy length, introducing
these characters of my war-story. The rest is
action.</p>
<p>March, that last year, was a month of drearily
recurrent snows. In the forests beyond The Place,
the snow lay light and fluffy at a depth of sixteen
inches.</p>
<p>On a snowy, blowy, bitter cold Sunday—one of
those days nobody wants—Rex and Wolf elected to
go rabbit-hunting.</p>
<p>Bruce was not in the hunt, sensibly preferring<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</SPAN></span>
to lie in front of the living-room fire on so vile a
day rather than to flounder through dust-fine drifts
in search of game that was not worth chasing under
such conditions. Wolf, too, was monstrous comfortable
on the old fur rug by the fire, at the Mistress'
feet.</p>
<p>But Rex, who had waxed oddly restless of late,
was bored by the indoor afternoon. The Mistress
was reading; the Master was asleep. There seemed
no chance that either would go for a walk or otherwise
amuse their four-footed friends. The winter
forests were calling. The powerful crossbred dog
would find the snow a scant obstacle to his hunting.
And the warmly quivering body of a new-caught
rabbit was a tremendous lure.</p>
<p>Rex got to his feet, slouched across the living-room
to Bruce and touched his nose. The drowsing
collie paid no heed. Next Rex moved over to
where Wolf lay. The two dogs' noses touched.</p>
<p>Now, this is no <i>Mowgli</i> tale, but a true narrative.
I do not pretend to say whether or not dogs
have a language of their own. (Personally, I think
they have, and a very comprehensive one, too. But
I cannot prove it.) No dog-student, however, will
deny that two dogs communicate their wishes to
each other in some way by (or during) the swift
contact of noses.</p>
<p>By that touch Wolf understood Rex's hint to
join in the foray. Wolf was not yet four years old—at
an age when excitement still outweighs lazy<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</SPAN></span>
comfort. Moreover, he admired and aped Rex, as
much as ever the school's littlest boy models himself
on the class bully. He was up at once and
ready to start.</p>
<p>A maid was bringing in an armful of wood from
the veranda. The two dogs slipped out through
the half-open door. As they went, Wolf cast a sidelong
glance at Lad, who was snoozing under the
piano. Lad noted the careless invitation. He also
noted that Wolf did not hesitate when his father
refused to join the outing but trotted gayly off in
Rex's wake.</p>
<p>Perhaps this defection hurt Lad's abnormally sensitive
feelings. For of old he had always led such
forest-runnings. Perhaps the two dogs' departure
merely woke in him the memory of the chase's joys
and stirred a longing for the snow-clogged woods.</p>
<p>For a minute or two the big living-room was
quiet, except for the scratch of dry snow against
the panes, the slow breathing of Bruce and the turning
of a page in the book the Mistress was reading.
Then Lad got up heavily and walked forth from
his piano-cave.</p>
<p>He stretched himself and crossed to the Mistress'
chair. There he sat down on the rug very close
beside her and laid one of his ridiculously tiny
white fore-paws in her lap. Absent-mindedly, still
absorbed in her book, she put out a hand and patted
the soft fur of his ruff and ears.</p>
<p>Often, Lad came to her or to the Master for<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</SPAN></span>
some such caress; and, receiving it, would return to
his resting-place. But to-day he was seeking to attract
her notice for something much more important.
It had occurred to him that it would be jolly
to go with her for a tramp in the snow. And his
mere presence failing to convey the hint, he began
to "talk."</p>
<p>To the Mistress and the Master alone did Lad
condescend to "talk"—and then only in moments of
stress or appeal. No one, hearing him, at such a
time, could doubt the dog was trying to frame
human speech. His vocal efforts ran the gamut
of the entire scale. Wordless, but decidedly eloquent,
this "talking" would continue sometimes for
several minutes without ceasing; its tones carried
whatever emotion the old dog sought to convey—whether
of joy, of grief, of request or of complaint.</p>
<p>To-day there was merely playful entreaty in the
speechless "speech." The Mistress looked up.</p>
<p>"What is it, Laddie?" she asked. "What do
you want?"</p>
<p>For answer Lad glanced at the door, then at the
Mistress; then he solemnly went out into the hall—whence
presently he returned with one of her fur
gloves in his mouth.</p>
<p>"No, no," she laughed. "Not to-day, Lad. Not
in this storm. We'll take a good, long walk to-morrow."</p>
<p>The dog sighed and returned sadly to his lair
beneath the piano. But the vision of the forests<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</SPAN></span>
was evidently hard to erase from his mind. And a
little later, when the front door was open again
by one of the servants, he stalked out.</p>
<p>The snow was driving hard, and there was a
sting in it. The thermometer was little above zero;
but the snow had been a familiar bedfellow, for
centuries, to Lad's Scottish forefathers; and the
cold was harmless against the woven thickness of
his tawny coat. Picking his way in stately fashion
along the ill-broken track of the driveway, he
strolled toward the woods. To humans there was
nothing in the outdoor day but snow and chill and
bluster and bitter loneliness. To the trained eye
and the miraculous scent-power of a collie it contained
a million things of dramatic interest.</p>
<p>Here a rabbit had crossed the trail—not with
leisurely bounds or mincing hops, but stomach to
earth, in flight for very life. Here, close at the terrified
bunny's heels, had darted a red fox. Yonder,
where the piling snow covered a swirl of tracks,
the chase had ended.</p>
<p>The little ridge of snow-heaped furrow, to the
right, held a basketful of cowering quail—who
heard Lad's slow step and did not reckon on his
flawless gift of smell. On the hemlock tree just
ahead a hawk had lately torn a blue-jay asunder.
A fluff of gray feathers still stuck to a bough, and
the scent of blood had not been blown out of the
air. Underneath, a field-mouse was plowing its<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</SPAN></span>
way into the frozen earth, its tiny paw-scrapes
wholly audible to the ears of the dog above it.</p>
<p>Here, through the stark and drifted undergrowth,
Rex and Wolf had recently swept along in pursuit
of a half-grown rabbit. Even a human eye could
not have missed their partly-covered tracks; but
Lad knew whose track was whose and which dog
had been in the lead.</p>
<p>Yes, to humans, the forest would have seemed a
deserted white waste. Lad knew it was thick-populated
with the Little People of the woodland, and
that all day and all night the seemingly empty and
placid groves were a blend of battlefield, slaughterhouse
and restaurant. Here, as much as in the
cities or in the trenches, abode strenuous life, violent
death, struggle, greed and terror.</p>
<p>A partridge rocketed upward through a clump
of evergreen, while a weasel, jaws a-quiver, glared
after it, baffled. A shaggy owl crouched at a tree-limb
hole and blinked sulkily about in search of
prey and in hope of dusk. A crow, its black feet
red with a slain snowbird's blood, flapped clumsily
overhead. A poet would have vowed that the still
and white-shrouded wilderness was a shrine sacred
to solitude and severe peace. Lad could have told
him better. Nature (beneath the surface) is never
solitary and never at peace.</p>
<p>When a dog is very old and very heavy and a
little unwieldy, it is hard to walk through sixteen-inch
snow, even if one moves slowly and sedately.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</SPAN></span>
Hence Lad was well pleased to come upon a narrow
woodland track; made by a laborer who had passed
and repassed through that same strip of forest during
the last few hours. To follow in that trampled
rut made walking much easier; it was a rut barely
wide enough for one wayfarer.</p>
<p>More and more like an elderly squire patrolling
his acres, Lad rambled along, and presently his
ears and his nose told him that his two loving
friends Rex and Wolf were coming toward him
on their home-bound way. His plumy tail wagged
expectantly. He was growing a bit lonely on this
Sunday afternoon walk of his, and a little tired.
It would be a pleasure to have company—especially
Wolf's.</p>
<p>Rex and Wolf had fared ill on their hunt. They
had put up two rabbits. One had doubled and completely
escaped them; and in the chase Rex had cut
his foot nastily on a strip of unseen barbed wire.
The sandlike snow had gotten into the jagged cut
in a most irritating way.</p>
<p>The second rabbit had dived under a log. Rex
had thrust his head fiercely through a snowbank
in quest of the vanished prey; and a long briar-thorn,
hidden there, had plunged its needle point
deep into the inside of his left nostril. The inner
nostril is a hundred-fold the most agonizingly
sensitive part of a dog's body, and the pain wrung
a yell of rage and hurt from the big dog.</p>
<p>With a nostril and a foot both hurt, there was<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</SPAN></span>
no more fun in hunting, and—angry, cross, savagely
in pain—Rex loped homeward, Wolf pattering
along behind him. Like Lad, they came upon
the laborer's trampled path and took advantage of
the easier going.</p>
<p>Thus it was, at a turn in the track, that they
came face to face with Lad. Wolf had already
smelled him, and his brush began to quiver in welcome.
Rex, his nose in anguish, could smell nothing;
not until that turn did he know of Lad's
presence. He halted, sulky, and ill-tempered. The
queer restlessness, the pre-springtime savagery
that had obsessed him of late had been brought to
a head by his hurts. He was not himself. His
mind was sick.</p>
<p>There was not room for two large dogs to pass
each other in that narrow trail. One or the other
must flounder out into the deep snow to the side.
Ordinarily, there would be no question about any
other dog on The Place turning out for Lad. It
would have been a matter of course, and so, to-day,
Lad expected it to be. Onward he moved, at that
same dignified walk, until he was not a yard away
from Rex.</p>
<p>The latter, his brain fevered and his hurts torturing
him, suddenly flamed into rebellion. Even
as a younger buck sooner or later assails for
mastery the leader of the herd, so the brain-sick
Rex went back, all at once, to primal instincts, a<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</SPAN></span>
maniac rage mastered him—the rage of the angry
underling, the primitive lust for mastery.</p>
<p>With not so much as a growl or warning, he
launched himself upon Lad. Straight at the tired
old dog's throat he flew. Lad, all unprepared for
such unheard-of mutiny, was caught clean off his
guard. He had not even time enough to lower
his head to protect his throat or to rear and meet
his erstwhile subject's attack halfway. At one
moment he had been plodding gravely toward his
two supposedly loyal friends; the next, Rex's
ninety pounds of whale-bone muscle had smitten
him violently to earth, and Rex's fearsome jaws—capable
of cracking a beef-bone as a man cracks a
filbert—had found a vise-grip in the soft fur of
his throat.</p>
<p>Down amid a flurry of high-tossed snow, crashed
Lad, his snarling enemy upon him, pinning him to
the ground, the huge jaws tearing and rending at
his ruff—the silken ruff that the Mistress daily
combed with such loving care to keep it fluffy and
beautiful.</p>
<p>It was a grip and a leverage that would have
made the average opponent helpless. With a short-haired
dog it would have meant the end, but the
providence that gave collies a mattress of fur—to
stave off the cold, in their herding work amid the
snowy moors—has made that fur thickest about the
lower neck.</p>
<p>Rex had struck in crazy rage and had not gauged<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</SPAN></span>
his mark as truly as though he had been cooler. He
had missed the jugular and found himself grinding
at an enormous mouthful of matted hair—and at
very little else; and Lad belonged to the breed that
is never to be taken wholly by surprise and that acts
by the swiftest instinct or reason known to dogdom.
Even as he fell, he instinctively threw his
body sideways to avoid the full jar of Rex's impact—and
gathered his feet under him.</p>
<p>With a heave that wrenched his every unaccustomed
muscle, Lad shook off the living weight and
scrambled upright. To prevent this, Rex threw
his entire body forward to reinforce his throat-grip.
As a result, a double handful of ruff-hair and a
patch of skin came away in his jaws. And Lad
was free.</p>
<p>He was free—to turn tail and run for his life
from the unequal combat—and that his hero-heart
would not let him do. He was free, also, to stand
his ground and fight there in the snowbound forest
until he should be slain by his younger and larger
and stronger foe, and this folly his almost-human
intelligence would not permit.</p>
<p>There was one chance and only one—one compromise
alone between sanity and honor. And this
chance Lad took.</p>
<p>He <i>would</i> not run. He <i>could</i> not save his life by
fighting where he stood. His only hope was to
keep his face to his enemy, battling as best he
could, and all the time keep backing toward home.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</SPAN></span>
If he could last until he came within sight or
sound of the folk at the house, he knew he would
be saved. Home was a full half-mile away and
the snow was almost chest-deep. Yet, on the instant,
he laid out his plan of campaign and put
it into action.</p>
<p>Rex cleared his mouth of the impeding hair and
flew at Lad once more—before the old dog had
fairly gotten to his feet, but not before the line
of defense had been thought out. Lad half
wheeled, dodging the snapping jaws by an inch
and taking the impact of the charge on his left
shoulder, at the same time burying his teeth in the
right side of Rex's face.</p>
<p>At the same time Lad gave ground, moving backward
three or four yards, helped along by the
impetus of his opponent. Home was a half-mile
behind him, in an oblique line, and he could not
turn to gauge his direction. Yet he moved in precisely
the correct angle.</p>
<p>(Indeed, a passer-by who witnessed the fight, and
the Master, who went carefully over the ground
afterward, proved that at no point in the battle
did Lad swerve or mistake his exact direction.
Yet not once could he have been able to look around
to judge it, and his foot-prints showed that not
once had he turned his back on the foe.)</p>
<p>The hold Lad secured on Rex's cheek was good,
but it was not good enough. At thirteen, a dog's
"biting teeth" are worn short and dull, and his<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</SPAN></span>
yellowed fangs are blunted; nor is the jaw by any
means as powerful as once it was. Rex writhed
and pitched in the fierce grip, and presently tore
free from it and to the attack again, seeking now
to lunge over the top of Lad's lowered head to
the vital spot at the nape of the neck, where sharp
teeth may pierce through to the spinal cord.</p>
<p>Thrice Rex lunged, and thrice Lad reared on his
hind legs, meeting the shock with his deep, shaggy
breast, snapping and slashing at his enemy and
every time receding a few steps between charges.
They had left the path now, and were plowing a
course through deep snow. The snow was scant
barrier to Rex's full strength, but it terribly impeded
the steadily backing Lad. Lad's extra flesh,
too, was a bad handicap; his wind was not at all
what it should have been, and the unwonted exertion
began to tell sharply on him.</p>
<p>Under the lead-hued skies and the drive of the
snow the fight swirled and eddied. The great dogs
reared, clashed, tore, battered against tree-trunks,
lost footing and rolled, staggered up again and renewed
the onslaught. Ever Lad manœuvered his
way backward, waging a desperate "rear-guard
action." In the battle's wake was an irregular but
mathematically straight line of trampled and blood-spattered
snow.</p>
<p>Oh, but it was slow going, this ever-fighting retreat
of Lad's, through the deep drifts, with his
mightier foe pressing him and rending at his throat<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</SPAN></span>
and shoulders at every backward step! The old
dog's wind was gone; his once-superb strength was
going, but he fought on with blazing fury—the
fury of a dying king who <i>will</i> not be deposed.</p>
<p>In sheer skill and brain-work and generalship,
Lad was wholly Rex's superior, but these served
him ill in a death-grapple. With dogs, as with
human pugilists, mere science and strategy avail
little against superior size and strength and youth.
Again and again Lad found or made an opening.
Again and again his weakening jaws secured the
right grip only to be shaken off with more and
more ease by the younger combatant.</p>
<p>Again and again Lad "slashed" as do his wolf
cousins and as does almost no civilized dog but
the collie. But the slashes had lost their one-time
lightning speed and prowess. And the blunt "rending
fangs" scored only superficial furrows in Rex's
fawn-colored hide.</p>
<p>There was meager hope of reaching home alive.
Lad must have known that. His strength was
gone. It was his heart and his glorious ancestry
now that were doing his fighting—not his fat and
age-depleted body. From Lad's mental vocabulary
the word <i>quit</i> had ever been absent. Wherefore—dizzy,
gasping, feebler every minute—he battled
fearlessly on in the dying day; never losing his
sense of direction, never turning tail, never dreaming
of surrender, taking dire wounds, inflicting
light ones.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>There are many forms of dog-fight. Two
strange dogs, meeting, will fly at each other because
their wild forbears used to do so. Jealous dogs
will battle even more fiercely. But the deadliest
of all canine conflicts is the "murder-fight." This
is a struggle wherein one or both contestants have
decided to give no quarter, where the victor will
fight on until his antagonist is dead and will then
tear his body to pieces. It is a recognized form
of canine mania.</p>
<p>And it was a murder-fight that Rex was waging,
for he had gone quite insane. (This is wholly different,
by the way, from "going mad.")</p>
<p>Down went Lad, for perhaps the tenth time, and
once more—though now with an effort that was
all but too much for him—he writhed to his feet,
gaining three yards of ground by the move. Rex
was upon him with one leap, the frothing and
bloody jaws striking for his mangled throat. Lad
reared to block the attack. Then suddenly, overbalanced,
he crashed backward into the snowdrift.</p>
<p>Rex had not reached him, but young Wolf had.</p>
<p>Wolf had watched the battle with a growing excitement
that at last had broken all bounds. The
instinct, which makes a fluff-headed college-boy
mix into a scrimmage that is no concern of his,
had suddenly possessed Lad's dearly loved son.</p>
<p>Now, if this were a fiction yarn, it would be
edifying to tell how Wolf sprang to the aid of
his grand old sire and how he thereby saved Lad's<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</SPAN></span>
life. But the shameful truth is that Wolf did nothing
of the sort. Rex was his model, the bully he
had so long and so enthusiastically imitated. And
now Rex was fighting a most entertaining bout,
fighting it with a maniac fury that infected his
young disciple and made him yearn to share in the
glory.</p>
<p>Wherefore, as Lad reared to meet Rex's lunge,
Wolf hurled himself like a furry whirlwind upon
the old dog's flank, burying his white teeth in the
muscles of the lower leg.</p>
<p>The flank attack bowled Lad completely over.
There was no chance now for such a fall as would
enable him to spring up again unscathed. He was
thrown heavily upon his back, and both his
murderers plunged at his unguarded throat and
lower body.</p>
<p>But a collie thrown is not a collie beaten, as perhaps
I have said once before. For thirty seconds
or more the three thrashed about in the snow in
a growling, snarling, right unloving embrace.
Then, by some miracle, Lad was on his feet again.</p>
<p>His throat had a new and deep wound, perilously
close to the jugular. His stomach and left side
were slashed as with razor-blades. But he was up.
And even in that moment of dire stress—with both
dogs flinging themselves upon him afresh—he
gained another yard or two in his line of retreat.</p>
<p>He might have gained still more ground. For
his assailants, leaping at the same instant, collided<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</SPAN></span>
and impeded each other's charge. But, for the
first time the wise old brain clouded, and the hero-heart
went sick; as Lad saw his own loved and
spoiled son ranged against him in the murder-fray.
He could not understand. Loyalty was as much
a part of himself as were his sorrowful brown
eyes or his tiny white fore-paws. And Wolf's
amazing treachery seemed to numb the old warrior,
body and mind.</p>
<p>But the second of dumfounded wonder passed
quickly—too quickly for either of the other dogs
to take advantage of it. In its place surged a
righteous wrath that, for the instant, brought back
youth and strength to the aged fighter.</p>
<p>With a yell that echoed far through the forest's
sinister silence, Lad whizzed forward at the advancing
Rex. Wolf, who was nearer, struck for
his father's throat—missed and rolled in the snow
from the force of his own momentum. Lad did
not heed him. Straight for Rex he leaped. Rex,
bounding at him, was already in midair. The two
met, and under the Berserk onset Rex fell back
into the snow.</p>
<p>Lad was upon him at once. The worn-down
teeth found their goal above the jugular. Deep
and raggedly they drove, impelled by the brief flash
of power that upbore their owner.</p>
<p>Almost did that grip end the fight and leave Rex
gasping out his life in the drift. But the access
of false strength faded. Rex, roaring like a hurt<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</SPAN></span>
tiger, twisted and tore himself free. Lad realizing
his own bolt was shot, gave ground, backing away
from two assailants instead of one.</p>
<p>It was easier now to retreat. For Wolf, unskilled
in practical warfare, at first hindered Rex
almost as much as he helped him, again and again
getting in the bigger dog's way and marring a rush.
Had Wolf understood "teamwork," Lad must have
been pulled down and slaughtered in less than a
minute.</p>
<p>But soon Wolf grasped the fact that he could do
worse damage by keeping out of his ally's way
and attacking from a different quarter, and thereafter
he fought to more deadly purpose. His
favorite ruse was to dive for Lad's forelegs and
attempt to break one of them. That is a collie
manœuver inherited direct from Wolf's namesake
ancestors.</p>
<p>Several times his jaws reached the slender white
forelegs, cutting and slashing them and throwing
Lad off his balance. Once he found a hold on the
left haunch and held it until his victim shook loose
by rolling.</p>
<p>Lad defended himself from this new foe as well
as he might, by dodging or by brushing him to one
side, but never once did he attack Wolf, or so
much as snap at him. (Rex after the encounter,
was plentifully scarred. Wolf had not so much as a
scratch.)</p>
<p>Backward, with ever-increasing difficulty, the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</SPAN></span>
old dog fought his way, often borne down to earth
and always staggering up more feebly than before.
But ever he was warring with the same fierce
courage; despite an ache and bewilderment in his
honest heart at his son's treason.</p>
<p>The forest lay behind the fighters. The deserted
highroad was passed. Under Lad's clawing and
reeling feet was the dear ground of The Place—The
Place where for thirteen happy years he had
reigned as king, where he had benevolently ruled
his kind and had given worshipful service to his
gods.</p>
<p>But the house was still nearly a furlong off, and
Lad was well-nigh dead. His body was one mass
of wounds. His strength was turned to water.
His breath was gone. His bloodshot eyes were
dim. His brain was dizzy and refused its office.
Loss of blood had weakened him full as much as
had the tremendous exertion of the battle.</p>
<p>Yet—uselessly now—he continued to fight. It
was a grotesquely futile resistance. The other dogs
were all over him—tearing, slashing, gripping, at
will—unhindered by his puny effort to fend them
off. The slaughter-time had come. Drunk with
blood and fury, the assailants plunged at him for
the last time.</p>
<p>Down went Lad, helpless beneath the murderous
avalanche that overwhelmed him. And this time
his body flatly refused to obey the grim command
of his will. The fight was over—the good, <i>good</i><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</SPAN></span>
fight of a white-souled Paladin against hopeless
odds.</p>
<p>The living-room fire crackled cheerily. The
snow hissed and slithered against the glass. A
sheet of frost on every pane shut out the stormy
twilit world. The screech of the wind was music
to the comfortable shut-ins.</p>
<p>The Mistress drowsed over her book by the fire.
Bruce snored snugly in front of the blaze. The
Master had awakened from his nap and was in the
adjoining study, sorting fishing-tackle and scouring
a rusted hunting-knife.</p>
<p>Then came a second's lull in the gale, and all at
once Bruce was wide awake. Growling, he ran to
the front door and scratched imperatively at the
panel. This is not the way a well-bred dog makes
known his desire to leave the house. And Bruce
was decidedly a well-bred dog.</p>
<p>The Mistress, thinking some guest might be arriving
whose scent or tread displeased the collie,
called to the Master to shut Bruce in the study,
lest he insult the supposed visitor by barking. Reluctantly—very
reluctantly—Bruce obeyed the
order. The Master shut the study door behind
him and came into the living-room, still carrying
the half-cleaned knife.</p>
<p>As no summons at bell or knocker followed
Bruce's announcement, the Mistress opened the
front door and looked out. The dusk was falling,
but it was not too dark for her to have seen the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</SPAN></span>
approach of anyone, nor was it too dark for the
Mistress to see two dogs tearing at something that
lay hidden from her view in the deep snow a hundred
yards away. She recognized Rex and Wolf
at once and amusedly wondered with what they
were playing.</p>
<p>Then from the depth of snow beneath them she
saw a feeble head rear itself—a glorious head,
though torn and bleeding—a head that waveringly
lunged toward Rex's throat.</p>
<p>"They're—they're killing—<i>Lad!</i>" she cried in
stark, unbelieving horror. Forgetful of thin dress
and thinner slippers, she ran toward the trio.
Halfway to the battlefield the Master passed by
her, running and lurching through the knee-high
snow at something like record speed.</p>
<p>She heard his shout. And at sound of it she
saw Wolf slink away from the slaughter like a
scared schoolboy. But Rex was too far gone in
murder-lust to heed the shout. The Master seized
him by the studded collar and tossed him ten feet
or more to one side. Rage-blind, Rex came flying
back to the kill. The Master stood astride his
prey, and in his blind mania the cross-breed sprang
at the man.</p>
<p>The Master's hunting-knife caught him squarely
behind the left fore-leg. And with a grunt like the
sound of an exhausted soda-siphon, the huge dog
passed out of this story and out of life as well.</p>
<p>There would be ample time, later, for the Master<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</SPAN></span>
to mourn his enforced slaying of the pet dog that
had loved and served him so long. At present he
had eyes only for the torn and senseless body of
Lad lying huddled in the red-blotched snow.</p>
<p>In his arms he lifted Lad and carried him
tenderly into the house. There the Mistress' light
fingers dressed his hideous injuries. Not less than
thirty-six deep wounds scored the worn-out old
body. Several of these were past the skill of home
treatment.</p>
<p>A grumbling veterinary was summoned on the
telephone and was lured by pledge of a triple fee
to chug through ten miles of storm in a balky car
to the rescue.</p>
<p>Lad was lying with his head in the Mistress' lap.
The vet' looked the unconscious dog over and then
said tersely:</p>
<p>"I wish I'd stayed at home. He's as good as
dead."</p>
<p>"He's a million times better than dead," denied
the Master. "I know Lad. You don't. He's got
into the habit of living, and he's not going to break
that habit, not if the best nursing and surgery in
the State can keep him from doing it. Get busy!"</p>
<p>"There's nothing to keep me here," objected the
vet'. "He's——"</p>
<p>"There's everything to keep you here," gently
contradicted the Master. "You'll stay here till
Lad's out of danger—if I have to steal your
trousers and your car. You're going to cure him.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</SPAN></span>
And if you do, you can write your bill on a Liberty
Bond."</p>
<p>Two hours later Lad opened his eyes. He was
swathed in smelly bandages and he was soaked in
liniments. Patches of hair had been shaved away
from his worst wounds. Digitalis was reinforcing
his faint heart-action.</p>
<p>He looked up at the Mistress with his only available
eye. By a herculean struggle he wagged his
tail—just once. And he essayed the trumpeting
bark wherewith he always welcomed her return
after an absence. The bark was a total failure.</p>
<p>After which Lad tried to tell the Mistress the
story of the battle. Very weakly, but very persistently
he "talked." His tones dropped now and
then to the shadow of a ferocious growl as he
related his exploits and then scaled again to a
puppy-like whimper.</p>
<p>He had done a grand day's work, had Lad, and
he wanted applause. He had suffered much and he
was still in racking pain, and he wanted sympathy
and petting. Presently he fell asleep.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>It was two weeks before Lad could stand upright,
and two more before he could go out of
doors unhelped. Then on a warm, early spring
morning, the vet' declared him out of all danger.</p>
<p>Very thin was the invalid, very shaky, snow-white
of muzzle and with the air of an old, old<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</SPAN></span>
man whose too-fragile body is sustained only by
a regal dignity. But he was <i>alive</i>.</p>
<p>Slowly he marched from his piano cave toward
the open front door. Wolf—in black disgrace for
the past month—chanced to be crossing the living-room
toward the veranda at the same time. The
two dogs reached the door-way simultaneously.</p>
<p>Very respectfully, almost cringingly, Wolf stood
aside for Lad to pass out.</p>
<p>His sire walked by with never a look. But his
step was all at once stronger and springier, and
he held his splendid head high.</p>
<p>For Lad knew he was still king!</p>
<p class="center">THE END.</p>
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