Buff: A Collie and Other Dog-Stories — Buff: A Collie - "The Hunt is Up!", Part 2
Early the following morning Michael Trent set off down the same yellow road toward Boone Lake for the monthly market day.
But the patch of road directly in front of him was no longer yellow.
It was filled with jogging and tossing billows of greyish-white.
Forty sheep, consigned to the market, were moving in close formation in front of their staff-swinging master.
For one reason alone did they keep this close formation or, indeed, keep to the narrow road at all.
That one reason was Buff.
The collie, with calm generalship, was herding and driving them.
And he was doing it to such perfection as to make Trent’s rearguard task a sinecure.
For more than thirty months now Buff had been the lonely Trent’s closest chum and almost his only companion.
With true collie efficiency, the dog had learned his hard and confusing farm lessons from the master, who never lost his temper with him and who never dealt unjustly by him.
The bond between the two had sharpened and increased Buff’s naturally “human” tendencies, and had brought out in him 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 winding street of Boone Lake, now beginning to fill with market day traffic, and on to the fenced-in market square.
There they herded the forty silly sheep in one corner of the livestock enclosure, a rod or two distant from a second and much larger flock.
The owner of this second flock--a drover named Bayne--had no dog to reinforce his shepherding.
Instead, three of his hired men were busily running and shouting along the wabbly borders of the hemmed-in flock.
Trent observed that they were not keeping their sheep in the best order, and that they seemed to be wilfully exciting instead of calming the big flock.
At this he wondered, even as he had wondered when these same shepherds had been equally awkward at two former market days--days whereon Trent himself had had no sheep to sell.
He had heard rumours--odd, unconfirmed gossip--about this Bayne’s methods.
And, when he was not watching the antics of the three clumsy shepherds, he observed Bayne’s craggy and shifty-eyed face with covert interest.
A half-hour later, as a third huddle of sheep were driven into the enclosure, there was a new commotion among Bayne’s flock.
All three shepherds dashed into the jostling mass as in an effort to calm the pestered beasts.
Instead, the noisy move stampeded the entire flock.
They scattered broadcast through the entire enclosure.
The new arrival saw the panic.
He jumped ahead of his own bunch of sheep as they were filing in, and drove them precipitately out of the square, standing at the opening to see that none of Bayne’s stampeding flock should follow.
Thus, by rare presence of mind--and perhaps having also had experience with Bayne--he avoided any chance of his sheep mingling with the runaways.
Michael Trent was less fortunate.
Full tilt into the very midst of his orderly flock charged some fifty of Bayne’s stampeders, a shepherd at their heels yelling to them to stop.
The shepherd’s voice and excitement had merely the effect of urging them on.
Trent, watching, wondered wrathfully why so stupid a man should be placed in charge of any market consignment.
Ragged and lean were the newcomers, of mixed blood and in bad condition; as was the way with Bayne’s livestock.
They were not to be compared to Trent’s fine merinos, either in blood or in condition--assuredly not in value.
Into and through the Trent flock swarmed the invaders.
In ten seconds the two flocks were inextricably intertangled.
In vain did Buff seek to restore order.
He could do nothing against three men--four now, for Bayne had joined the bedlam--whose yells and crazy rushes frustrated his every movement.
The dog looked up in angry bewilderment at Trent, mutely begging for advice as to how the snarl might be straightened out.
But Trent did not see the appealing glance.
His mind and eyes were too completely taken up in staring at Bayne and the latter’s three men.
For in a flash the quartet had changed from impotently roaring and running idiots, to swiftly certain and efficient shepherds.
With splendid skill and speed they were quelling the stampede, separating the two flocks and driving their own sheep to their allotted corner of the enclosure.
Their command of the situation was something to admire.
Presently the Bayne flock was in its place, orderly and safe, with two shepherds in front of it to prevent further panic flight.
Trent glanced back at his own flock, attracted to them by a sudden stir among the forty.
Buff, leaving his master, had plunged into the flock and was busily at work, but for what purpose Trent could not guess.
Then, almost at once, he was out of the compact flock again, driving in front of him six sheep, which he detached from the remaining thirty-four, and sent helter skelter out into the middle of the square.
Still wondering if his wise dog had lost his wits, Trent chanced to take special note of the six sheep as they hurtled past him.
And his face went blank.
The six were dirty, thin, undersized, sparse of wool.
They were as different from his own plump flock as a scavenger horse from a Derby winner.
Before Trent could speak or move, Buff had deserted the six ragged specimens, leaving them bleating forlornly in the centre of the square.
And he had bounded straight at Bayne’s close-huddled flock.
At one leap he was on the backs of the sheep which formed the outer wall of the mass.
He did not even waste time to plough through their tight-held front rank.
Over their backs he ran; and on until he vanished into the milling sea of wool.
Then, while Bayne and his three shepherds still shouted in uncomprehending dismay, the dog appeared again on one edge of the flock.
Moving slowly, by reason of the press around and ahead of him, he emerged from the bunch, driving two sheep.
Fat they were and of heavy wool, undoubted merinos both.
Across the narrow space Buff headed them and drove them into his master’s flock.
Then, on the instant, he was in the Bayne flock again, running once more over the scared backs of many sheep and dropping to earth in the middle of the throng.
A second time he emerged from the huddle, again with two fat and woolly merinos ahead of him.
Eluding Bayne, who rushed down on him with 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 the three 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, sprang to Buff’s aid.
But the dog did not wait for him.
Instead, the collie made a growling dash at Bayne’s booted legs.
Bayne jumped aside to guard his endangered shanks, and smote at the attacking collie with his staff.
The blow did not land;--Buff was no longer there.
Eluding the swung cudgel with wolfish agility, he darted into the gap in the line--the gap made by Bayne’s sideways jump--and was at the fiercely guarded flock once more.
As Buff reappeared, after an interval, with another pair of sheep herded ahead of him, Bayne and the shepherds were waiting for him.
But so was Trent.
A shepherd made a lunging rush at the two salvaged sheep.
Bayne aimed a murderous blow at the dog.
Trent, with ludicrous ease, tripped the awkwardly charging shepherd and sent him asprawl on the ground.
Trent’s staff met the descending stick of Bayne, and the latter’s weapon was shattered by the impact.
In practically the same gesture, Trent leaped between his dog and the two remaining shepherds, menacing them with staff and voice, and holding them in check while the collie cantered the rescued sheep back into Trent’s flock.
Bayne, swearing and mouthing, strode in pursuit.
He was met by a crouching collie, who faced him with an expression that looked like a smile and which was not a smile.
Bayne hesitated, whirling on the tranquil Trent.
“Your cur’s stolen six of my sheep!
” he thundered in righteous indignation.
“I’ll----” “No, you won’t, Mr. Bayne,” gently contradicted Trent, his pleasant voice slow and drawling.
“Stop a second and cool off, and you’ll let the matter drop.
You’ll let it go as a mistake of your men’s in separating the two flocks.
Men often make mistakes, you know.
Buff never 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’s manner and at the crowd that was collecting three deep around them.
“No,” intervened Trent.
“Don’t tell me, Mr. Bayne; don’t bother to.
I
see it was a mistake.
Just as you are beginning to see it.
There’s no sin in a mistake.
Though there’s always sure to be a mistake in a sin.
My sheep are safe.
So are yours.
Let the matter drop.
I’ve seen stampedes of your flocks before.
And I’ve heard of them, too.
This time no harm’s done.
That’s all, I think.
” “I’ll get a court order for my sheep your cur run off!
” flared Bayne in 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, slow tones of indifference and interposing his own lithe body beside the bristling Buff’s to the hesitant advance of the shepherds--“speaking of court orders, Mr. Bayne, when you get yours, be sure to tell the judge that I’m ready to show him the secret mark on each and every one of my sheep, to prove they’re mine.
Now, if your men care to keep on edging toward my flock, Buff and I will try to entertain them as best we can till the police come up.
” Bayne glowered horribly into the smilingly level eyes that met his glare so tranquilly.
Then, with a grunt, he turned back to his own corner, 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 so recently purchased.
None of them bore a mark.
The only “secret mark” on them was Buff’s unerring knowledge of their identity.
Trent stooped and petted the collie lovingly on the head and stroked the massive ruff.
“That’s how Mr. Bayne makes money, old man,” he whispered.
“One of his several hundred ways.
We couldn’t have proved he didn’t have six fat merinos in that mangy bunch of sheep.
And his shepherds would have sworn to them.
Figure out the price-difference between six of our best sheep and six of Bayne’s scarecrows, and you’ll know to a penny how much cash you’ve saved me to-day, Buff.
” The collie did not get the sense of one word in five.
But he realised he had somehow made Trent very proud of him and that he was being praised.
So for a moment he forgot to be stately and aloof.
He wagged his tail wildly and caught Trent’s caressing hand between his mighty jaws in well-simulated savageness, pretending to bite it ferociously, while not exerting the pressure of a fraction of an ounce.
Which was one of Buff’s many modes of showing affection for the pleasant-voiced man who was his master and his god.
Dusk had fallen when Trent and Buff turned in at the gate of the silent farmhouse.
The day had been prosperous.
The merinos had brought a well-nigh record price--the whole forty having been bought by an up-country stock farm man.
Thus, Trent’s investment in them had turned into an unexpectedly quick and large profit.
Also, he had been congratulated by a dozen fellow sheep raisers on his victory over Bayne.
He had banked his market cheque--the Boone Lake Bank remaining open until seven in the evening on market days--and had spent a blissful half-hour on the Hammerton porch with Ruth on the way home.
Now, comfortably tired and buoyed by an equally comfortable sense of well-being, he lounged up the short path leading from the road to his house.
As he reached the fence gate he had bidden Buff fetch 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 were kept in the kitchen during the day.
He unlocked and opened the door and stepped in.
As he did so a bag was thrown over his head, and the upper part of his body--a bag whose bottom was soaked in something that smelt like crushed apples.
A rope was flung about his arms at the same moment and its noose ran tight.
Vainly, Trent stamped and writhed to free himself.
His wiry strength was pinioned and cramped by the noose and the impeding bag.
More of the apple-smelling liquid was dashed into his face through the sack’s loose meshes.
Then, as he still struggled and choked, something crashed down upon his skull.
Buff trotted obediently across the road toward the hill pasture.
Like his master, Buff had had a happy and busy day.
He had been praised much and petted much by Trent, and had had a truly marvellous dinner at the Boone Lake Hotel.
He was complacently at peace with the world.
Then all at once he was not at peace with anything.
For, far behind him, 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 he was, he was aware of a strange and vaguely remembered foot-scent as he whirled in through the gate and up the path.
His faint memory of the scent was hostile.
He could not remember why.
At a bound he reached the open kitchen door.
Trent was lying inert and crumpled on the floor.
Two men were bending over him.
And, as he charged, Buff caught their scent.
Like a rabid wolf he hurled himself upon the nearest of the men.
His teeth closed in Hegan’s shoulder with the bone-crushing grip of his pit terrier ancestors.
At the same moment Gates drew a pistol and fired point blank at the leaping dog.
Buff’s muscles collapsed.
He slumped to the floor and lay lifelessly across the body of his master.
“What’d you shoot for, you chucklehead!
” panted Hegan, nursing his rent shoulder.
“Want to bring all Boone Lake down on us?
” “Only way to get him!
” retorted Gates.
“He’d ‘a’ chewed us both into Hamburg steak if I hadn’t. ” Quickly and deftly the two worked.
First assuring themselves that no one had heard the shot, they went through the house and through Trent’s clothes.
Then, their loot gathered, they carried it to the barn and stowed it in Trent’s new car.
After which, under cover of darkness and carrying Trent between them, they loaded their victim into the tonneau, covering him with a blanket.
Then, while Hegan groaningly and laboriously cleaned away the tell-tale blood spots and other marks of struggle, Gates scowled down at the motionless huddle of tawny soft fur.
“Got to lug him along with us, too, I s’pose?
” he grunted.
“Can’t leave 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 door stones, and in another minute or so this was firmly affixed to Buff’s collar by a stout rope.
As Gates picked up the heavy dog and carried him puffingly to the well the telephone bell rung.
Tossing dog and stone over the well curb, Gates bolted for the house in sudden fright.
Hegan had already gone into the hall, and was lifting the instrument from its table.
“Hallo!
” he grunted in a stifled voice as he motioned Gates to silence.
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 just starting off on a motor trip up country.
I may go a couple of thousand miles before I get back.
Maybe I won’t ever come back.
I’m dead sick of this hole.
Yep.
Good-bye.
” He hung up the receiver.
“Corking good alibi!
” he chuckled gleefully.
“Some feller that Trent sold some sheep to to-day.
Don’t seem to know Trent well.
Didn’t suspicion 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 away into the night.
Not for some minutes did Buff recover consciousness from the bullet graze that had rapped his skull so hard as to stun him and to gash the silken fur above his eye.
He woke in decided discomfort; his head was still in dire pain, and he was fastened securely in one spot.
When Michael Trent had had his farm drinking water tested, a year earlier, he had learned that the well showed strong traces of stable drainage.
Wherefore, the well had been filled up, to within two yards of the surface, and a new well had been dug on higher ground behind the house.
Thus it was that Buff woke to find himself sprawling on a pile of rubble, with a short rope attaching him to a large stone.
Indignantly the collie set to work gnawing the rope in two.
This accomplished, he got dizzily to his feet.
A rush and a scramble, and he 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 him more--much more.
It confirmed his memory of his master’s two assailants, and stamped their odour for ever in his mind.
Their steps led him to the barn whither they had carried Trent.
The senseless man’s clothing had brushed the lintel of the barn door as they had lifted him into the car.
Buff looked wildly about him, sniffing the air, his tense brain telling him much.
Then a red light began to smoulder in his deep-set eyes.
Out into the high road he dashed, not running now like a collie, but like a timber wolf.
As he ran he paused but once, and then he waited only long enough to throw his head aloft and shatter the night silences with a howl 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’d say that was a mad wolf a-howlin’--and I’d say the hunt was up!
”
