Buff: A Collie and Other Dog-Stories — The Grudge, Part 1

THE GRUDGE

This is the strange yarn of three dogs.

If the dogs had been humans, the story would have been on stage and screen long ago.

Frayne’s Farms is the alliterative name for the hundred-acre tract of rich bottom land; in the shadow of the Ramapo Mountains,--a range that splits North Jersey’s farm country for some twenty odd miles.

Back in these mountains are queer folk; whose exploits sometimes serve as a page story for some Sunday newspaper.

Within forty miles of New York City as the crow flits, the handful of mountaineers are well-nigh as primitive as any South Sea Islanders.

They are as a race apart; and with their own barbarous codes and customs.

Down from the mountains in the starvingly barren winter time, every few years, a band of huge black mongrel dogs used to swoop upon the Valley, harrying it from end to end in search of food; and leaving a trail of ravaged henroosts and sheepfolds in their wake.

These plunderers were the half-wild black dogs of the mountaineers;--dogs blended originally from a tangle of diverse breeds; hound predominating; and with a splash of wolf-blood in their rangy carcases.

When famine and cold gripped the folk of the mountains, the dogs were deprived of even such scanty crusts and bones as were their summer portion.

And, under the goad of hunger, the black brutes banded for a raid on the richer pickings of the Valley.

At such times, every able-bodied farmer, from Trask Frayne to the members of the Italian garden-truck colony, up Suffern-way, would arm himself and join the hunt.

Rounding up the horde of mongrels, they would shoot fast and unerringly.

Such few members of the pack as managed to break through the cordon and make a dash for the mountains were followed hotly up into the fastnesses of the grey rocks and were exterminated by trained huntsmen.

The mountaineers were too shrewd to make any effort to protect their sheep-slaying and chicken-stealing pets from the hunters.

Much as they affected to despise the stolid toilers of the Valley, yet they had learned from more than one bitter and long bygone experience that the Valley men were not safe to trifle with when once righteous indignation drove them to the warpath.

For years after such a battle, the Valley was wholly free from the marauding black-dog pack.

Not only did the dogs seem to shun, by experience, the peril of invading the lowlands; but their numbers were so depleted that there was more than enough food for all of the few survivors, in the meagre garbage of the mountain shacks.

Not until numbers and forgetfulness again joined hands with famine, did the pack renew its Valley forays.

When this story begins, a mere two years had passed since the latest of the mongrel hunts.

Forty farmers and hired men, marshalled and led by young Trask Frayne, had rounded up not less than seventy-five of the great black raiders at the bank of the frozen little Ramapo river, which winds along at the base of the mountain wall, dividing the Valley from the savage hinterland.

The pack’s depredations had beaten all records, that season.

And the farmers were grimly vengeful.

Mercilessly, they had poured volley after volley into the milling swarm of freebooters.

Led by a giant dog, ebony black and with the forequarters of a timber wolf, the handful of remaining pillagers had burst through the cordon and crossed the river to the safety of the bleak hills.

It was Trask Frayne who guided the posse of trackers in pursuit.

For the best part of two days the farmers kept up the hunt.

An occasional far-off report of a shotgun would be wafted to the Valley below, in token of some quarry trailed to within buckshot range.

The gaunt black giant leading the pack seemed to be invulnerable.

No less than five times during that two-day pursuit some farmer caught momentary sight of him; only to miss aim by reason of the beast’s uncanny craftiness and speed.

Trask Frayne himself was able to take a hurried shot at the ebony creature as the fugitive slunk shadowlike between two hillock boulders.

At the report of Trask’s gun, the huge mongrel had whirled about, snarling and foaming at the mouth and had snapped savagely at his own shoulder; where a single buckshot had just seared a jagged groove.

But, before Frayne could fire a second shot, the dog had vanished.

Thus the hunt ended.

Nearly all the black dogs of the mountaineers had met the death penalty.

It was the most thorough and successful of the historic list of such battles.

The raiders were practically exterminated.

Many a year must pass before the pack could hope again to muster numbers for an invasion.

And the Valley breathed easier.

Yet, Trask Frayne was not content.

He knew dog-nature, as it is given to few humans to know it.

And he could not forget the wily black giant that had led the band of mongrels.

The Black was a super-dog, for cunning and strength and elusiveness.

That had been proven by certain ultra-devastating features of the raid; as well as by his own escape from the hunters.

And the Black still lived;--still lived, and with no worse reminder of his flight than a bullet-cut on one mighty shoulder.

Such a dog was a menace; so long as he should continue alive.

Wherefore Trask Frayne wanted to kick himself for his own ill-luck in not killing him.

And he was obsessed by a foreboding that the Valley had not seen the last of the Black.

He could not explain this premonition.

He could not explain it, even to himself.

For Valley history showed that each battle served as a wholesome lesson to the black dogs for years thereafter.

Never, between forays, was one of them seen on the hither side of the Ramapo.

Yet the idea would not get out of Frayne’s head.

Trask had hated the necessary job of destroying the mongrels.

For he loved dogs.

Nothing short of stark need would have lured him into shooting one of them.

His own two thoroughbred collies, Tam-o’-Shanter and Wisp, were honoured members of the Frayne household.

Dogs of the same breed differ as much in character as do humans of the same race.

For example, no two humans could have been more widely divergent in nature than were these two collies of Trask’s. Tam-o’-Shanter was deep-chested, mighty of coat, tawny; as befitted the son of his illustrious sire, old Sunnybank Lad.

Iron-firm of purpose and staunchly loyal to his master, Tam was as steady of soul as a rock.

Whether guarding the farm-buildings or rounding up a bunch of scattered sheep that had broken bounds, he was calmly reliable.

He adored Trask Frayne with a worship that was none the less all-absorbing because it was so undemonstrative.

And he cared for nothing and nobody else on earth--except Wisp.

Wisp had been the runt of a thoroughbred litter.

He was slender and fragile and wholly lovable; a dainty little tricolour, scarce forty pounds in weight.

Not strong enough for heavy work, yet Wisp was a gallant guard and a gaily affectionate house dog--the cherished pet and playfellow of the three Frayne babies.

Also, he was Tam’s dearest friend.

The larger collie, from puppyhood, had established a protection over Wisp; ever conceding to him the warmest corner of the winter hearth, the shadiest spot in the dooryard in summer, the best morsels of their joint daily meal.

He would descend from his calm loftiness to romp with the frolicsome Wisp;--though the sight of stately Tam, trying to romp, was somehow suggestive of Marshal Joffre playing pat-a-cake.

In short, he loved Wisp, as he loved not even Trask Frayne.

More than once, in the village, when a stray cur misunderstood Wisp’s gay friendliness and showed his teeth at the frail little dog, Tam so far departed from his wonted noble dignity as to hurl himself upon the aggressor and thrash the luckless canine into howling submission.

He was Wisp’s guardian, as well as his dearest comrade.

Once in a very great while such inseparable friendships spring up between two collies.

One morning in June, Trask set forth for Suffern with a flock of sixty sheep.

The day was hot; and the journey promised to be tiresome.

So, when the two collies had worked the sixty out from the rest of the Frayne bunch of sheep and had started them, bleating and milling, toward the highroad, Trask whistled Wisp back to him.

“Home, boy!

” he ordered, patting the friendly uplifted head and playfully rumpling the collie’s silken ears.

“Back home, and take care of things there to-day.

It’s a long hot trip for a pup that hasn’t any more stamina than you have, Wispy.

Tam and I can handle them, all right.

Chase back home!

” The soft brown eyes of the collie filled with infinitely pathetic pleading.

Wisp understood the meaning of his master’s words as well as might any of the Frayne children.

From birth he had been talked to;

and his quick brain had responded; as does every clever collie’s. Wisp knew he had been bidden to stay at home from this delightful outing.

And every inch of his body as well as his eloquent eyes cried aloud in appeal to be taken along.

Yet, when, once more, Frayne petted his head and pointed towards the dooryard, the good little chap turned obediently back.

As he passed Tam, the two dogs touched noses; as if exchanging speech of some sort;--as perhaps they were.

Then, disconsolately, Wisp trotted to the house and curled up on the doormat in a small and furry and miserably unhappy heap.

There he was still lying, his sorrowful eyes fixed on his master and on his busily-herding chum; as the huddle of sheep were guided out of the gateway into the highroad beyond.

Glancing back, Frayne smiled encouragingly at the pathetic little waiting figure at the door.

Tam, too, paused, as he manœuvred the last silly sheep into the highroad; and stood beside Frayne, for a second, peering back at his chum.

Under their momentary glance, Wisp made shift to wag his plumy tail once; by way of affectionate farewell.

Long afterward, Trask Frayne could summon up memory of the daintily graceful little dog, lying so obediently on the doormat and wagging such a brave goodbye to the master who had just deprived him of a jolly day’s outing.

Possibly the picture remained in Tam-o’-Shanter’s memory, too.

It is to be hoped so.

For never again were Frayne or Tam to see their lovable little collie chum.

Dusk was sifting down the valley from beyond the mountain wall that afternoon, when Trask Frayne turned once more into the gateway leading to his farm.

At his side trotted Tam.

It had been a hard day, both for dog and man.

At best, it is no light task to marshal a flock of sixty bolting sheep along miles of winding road.

But when that road is infested with terrifying motor-cars and when it goes past two or three blast-emitting stone-quarries and a railway, the labour is spectacular in spots and arduous at all times.

But, at last, thanks to Tam, the sheep had reached Suffern without a single mishap; and had been driven skilfully into the herd-pens.

The seven-mile homeward tramp had been, by contrast, a mere pleasure-stroll.

Yet, both the collie and his master were glad of the prospect of rest and of supper.

Frayne, reviewing the labour of the day, was pleased with his own foresight in making Wisp stay at home.

He knew such an ordeal, in such weather, would have tired the delicate collie half to death.

Coming up the dusky lane from the house to meet the returning wanderers was a slender, white-clad woman.

As he saw her, Frayne waved his hat and hurried forward at new speed.

Thus, always, after one of his few absences from home, his pretty young wife came up the lane to welcome him.

And, as ever, the sight of her made him forget his fatigue.

Yet, now, after that first glance, worry took the place of eagerness, in Frayne’s mind.

For his wife was advancing slowly and spiritlessly;

and not in the very least with her wonted springy walk.

“The heat’s been too much for her!

” he muttered worriedly to Tam.

“It’s been a broiling day.

She ought to have----” But Tam was no longer beside him.

The big collie had started ahead, toward the oncoming woman.

Usually, when Mildred Frayne came thus to greet her returning husband, Wisp was with her.

The little dog would bound ahead of his mistress, as Frayne appeared; and come galloping merrily up to him and Tam.

Tam, too, always cantered forward to touch noses with his chum.

But, by this evening’s dim light, Frayne could not see Wisp.

Nor did Tam rush forward as usual.

Instead, he was pacing slowly toward Mildred, with head and tail adroop.

As Tam had turned in at the gate beside his master, the collie had come to a convulsive halt.

His nostrils had gone upward in a series of eagerly suspicious sniffs.

Then, his shaggy body had quivered all over, as if with a spasm of physical pain.

At that moment, Mildred’s white-clad figure had caught his wandering eye.

And he had moved forward, downcast and trembling, to meet her.

It was Tam,--long before Trask,--who discovered that Mildred was weeping.

And this phenomenon, for the instant, turned his attention from his vain search for Wisp and from the confusingly menacing scents which had just assailed his nostrils.

Departing from his lifelong calm, the big dog whined softly, as he came up with Mildred; and he thrust his cold muzzle sympathisingly into her loose-hanging hand.

Within him stirred all his splendid race’s pitiful yearning to comfort a human in grief.

So poignant was this craving that it almost made him forget the increasingly keen scents which had put him on his guard when he came in through the gateway.

“Hello!

” called Trask, cheerily, as he neared his wife.

“Tired, dear?

You shouldn’t have bothered to walk all this way out to meet me.

After a rotten day like this, you ought to be resting....

Where’s Wisp?

Is he ‘disciplining’ me for making him stay home?

I----”

Then he, too, saw Mildred was crying.

And before he could speak again, she had thrown her arms around his neck; and was sobbing out an incoherent story, broken by an occasional involuntary shiver.

Holding her close to him and asking eagerly futile questions, Trask Frayne, bit by bit, drew forth the reason for her grief.

Harry and Janet, the two older children, had gone down to the river, that noon, to fish, off the dock, for perch.

Mildred, at an upper window where she was sewing, had watched them from time to time.

For the river was high and rapid from recent rains.

But Wisp was with them; and she had experience in the little collie’s sleepless care over the youngsters.

More than once, indoors, Wisp had thrust his own slight body between a Frayne child and the fire.

Again and again, at the dock, he had interposed his puny bulk and had shoved with all his force; when one or another of the babies ventured too close to the edge.

To-day, as she looked up from her sewing, she had seen the trio leave the dock and start homeward.

Janet had been in the lead; swinging the string of perch and sunfish and shiners they had caught.

They had skirted a riverside thicket on their way to the home-path.

Out from the bushes had sprung a gigantic lean dog, jet black except for a zig-zag patch of white on one shoulder.

The wind had been strong in the other direction.

So no scent of the dog had reached Wisp, who was dawdling along a bit to the rear of the children.

The black had made a lightning grab at the carelessly swung string of fish; and had snatched them away from Janet.

As he turned to bolt back into the thicket with his stolen feast, Harry had caught up a stick and had charged in pursuit of the string of laboriously-caught fish.

The child had brought his stick down with a resounding thwack on the head of the escaping beast.

The blow must have stung.

For, instantly, the Black dropped the fish and leaped upon the tiny chap.

All this in a single second or less.

But, before the mongrel’s teeth could reach their mark, Wisp had flashed past the two startled children and had launched his weak body straight at the Black’s throat.

Down went the two dogs in a tearing, snarling heap.

Mildred, realising how hopelessly unequal was the contest, had run to the aid of her beloved Wisp.

Fleeing downstairs, she had snatched Trask’s gun from its peg above the mantel, had seized at random a handful of shells; and ran out of the house and towards the river, loading the gun as she went.

By the time she came in sight, the Black had already recovered the advantage he had lost by Wisp’s unexpected spring.

By dint of strength and of weight, he had torn himself free of Wisp’s weak grip, had flung the lighter dog to earth and had pinned him there.

Right gallantly did little Wisp battle in the viselike grasp of the giant.

Fiercely he strove to bite at the rending jaws and to rip free from the crushing weight above him.

But, as ever, mere courage could not atone for dearth of brute strength and ferocity.

Undeterred by his foe’s puny efforts or by the fusillade of blows from Harry’s stick and from Janet’s pudgy fists, the Black had slung Wisp to one side and had lunged once more at him.

This time he found the mark he sought:--the back of the neck, just below the base of the brain.

He threw all his vast jaw-power into one terrific bite.

And little Wisp’s frantic struggles ceased.

The valiant collie lay inert and moveless; his neck broken.

Maddened by conquest, the Black tossed the lifeless body in air.

It came to ground on the edge of the river.

There, from the momentum of the toss, it had rebounded into the water.

The swift current had caught it and borne it downstream.

Then, for the first time, the Black seemed to realise that both frantically screaming children were showering futile blows on him.

With a snarl he turned on Harry.

But, as he did so, Mildred’s flying feet brought her within range.

Halting, she raised the gun and fired.

She was a good shot.

And excitement had not robbed her aim of steadiness.

But excitement had made her catch up a handful of cartridges loaded lightly with Number Eight shot; instead of anything more deadly.

The small pellets buzzed, hornetlike, about the Black’s head and shoulders; several of them stinging hotly.

But at that distance, the birdshot could do no lasting damage.

Nor did any of it chance to reach one of his eyes.

With a yell of pain he wheeled to face the woman.

And she let him have the second barrel.

Memories of former clashes with gunners seemed to wake in the brute’s crafty brain.

Snarling, snapping, shaking his tormented head, he turned and plunged into the narrow river; gaining the farther bank and diving into the waterside bushes before Mildred could think to reload.

The balance of the day had been spent in a vain search of the bank, downstream, for Wisp’s lost body; and in trying to comfort the heart-broken children.

Not until she had gotten the babies to bed and had soothed them to sleep did Mildred have scope to think of her own grief in the loss of the gentle dog who had been so dear to her.

“He--he gave his life for them!

” she finished her sobbing recital.

“He knew,--he _must_ have known,--that he had no chance against that horrible monster.

And Wisp had never fought, you know, from the day he was born.

He knew that brute would kill him.

And he never hesitated at all.

He gave his life for the children.

And--and we can’t--can’t even say a prayer over his grave!

” But Trask Frayne, just then, was not thinking of prayers.

Deep down in his throat, he was cursing:--softly, but with much venom.

And the nails of his hard-clenched fists bit deep into his palms.

“Black, with a white scar on the shoulder?

” he said, at last, his own harsh voice not unlike a dog’s growl.

“Hound ears, and the build of a timber-wolf?

Almost as big as a Dane; and bone-thin?

H’m!

That’s my buckshot-scar on his shoulder,--that zig-zag white mark.

To-morrow morning, I’m going hunting.

Up in the mountains.

Want to come along, Tam?

” But, as before, Tam was not there, when his master turned to speak to him.

The collie had waited only long enough to note that the task of comforting the weeping Mildred had been taken over by more expert powers than his.

Then he had trotted off towards the house; not only to solve the problem of these sinister scents which hung so heavy on the moist night air, but to find his strangely-absent chum, Wisp.

Circling the house, he caught Wisp’s trail.

It was some hours old; but by no means too cold to be followed by a collie whose scenting powers had once tracked a lost sheep for five miles through a blizzard.

With Wisp’s trail was mingled that of two of the children.

And it led to the river-path.

True, there were other trails of Wisp’s, that the sensitive nostrils caught.

But all of them were older than this which led to the water.

Therefore, as any tracking dog would have known, Wisp had gone riverward, since he had been near the house.

And down the path, nose to ground, followed Tam-o’-Shanter.

He did not move with his wonted stolidity.

For, over and above the mere trail scent, his nostrils were assailed by other and more distressingly foreboding smells;--the smells he had caught as he had entered the gate;--the smells which grew ranker at every loping step he took.

In half a minute he was at the bank.

And before that time, he had abandoned the nose-to-earth tracking.

For now all around him was that terrible scent.

Back and forth dashed and circled and doubled Tam.

And every evolution told him more of the gruesome story.

Here among the bushes had lain a strange animal; an unwashen and pungent and huge animal; apparently sleeping after a gorge of chicken or lamb.

Here, along the path, had come the children, with Wisp behind them.

Here the strange dog had leapt forth; and here,--alongside that string of forgotten and sun-blown fish on the ground,--Wisp and the stranger had clashed.

The dullest of scents could have told the story from that point:--the trampled earth, the spatters of dried blood, the indentation in the grass, where Wisp’s writhing body had striven so heroically to free itself from the crushing weight above it and to renew the hopeless battle.

Wisp was dead.

He was slain by that huge and rank-scented creature.

His body had touched the river-brink, fully five feet from the scene of the fight.

After that it had disappeared.

For running water will not hold a scent.

Yes, Wisp was dead.

He had been murdered.

He had been murdered,--this adored chum of his,--by the great beast whose scent was already graven so indelibly on Tam’s heartsick memory.

There, at the river-edge, a few minutes later, Trask Frayne found Tam-o’-Shanter; padding restlessly about, from spot to spot of the tragedy; whimpering under his breath.

But the whimper carried no hint of pathos.

Rather was it the expression of a wrath that lay too deep for mere growling.

At his master’s touch, the great collie started nervously; and shrunk away from the caress he had always craved.

And his furtively swift motion, in eluding the loved hand, savoured far more of the wolf than of the trained house dog.

The collie, in look and in action, had reverted to the wild.