They could never go back to it again, and they swung north at a steady gallop; the sound of the pursuit crashed away in the opposite direction.
The moon came up late that night. It found the two horsemen toiling up the slope of the higher mountains, the same mountains toward which the wolf had directed his run when the hounds chased him. When the moon was bright, Pete Reeve stopped his horse, and Bull followed that example.
The Ghost sat down before them, looking steadily up into the face of his master.
It was characteristic of Pete Reeve that he neither complained to Bull for following him, nor directly thanked him for that rescue, but he said with a sort of wonder: ”What beats me, Bull, is that you save the life of a wolf because you love the critter; and then he turns right around and saves the life of a gent that he hates. Can you beat that?”
“No,” said Bull, “I can’t beat that.”
Chapter XII
Before the Camp Fire
The camp fire had changed from bright to dull gold, and finally, being chiefly a wisp of smoke and a bed of dying embers, it threw only enough light to pick out the forms near it, in flat, black shadows. The faces of the two men were indistinguishable, but their silhouettes were strongly contrasted. One was a wide-shouldered monster and the other was as remarkably meager as his companion was large. He sat with slumping shoulders like an adolescent child.
“Look at ‘em,” said the little man. “Look at The Ghost working at the cur, Bull.”
The big man leaned and stirred the embers. “I been watching, Pete, all day, and I been wishing that Dunkin would come back and look after his dog.”
“Take care of him?” asked Pete. “Why, it looks to me like the dog could take care of himself. The Ghost is fair busting himself to make friends.”
“I dunno,” sighed Bull. “I dunno.” And he shook his big head.
In the meantime they continued to observe the two dogs. The Ghost was peaceably stretched beside the camp fire, doing his best to make friendly advances to a mongrel cur that lay within the circle of the fire’s warmth.
It was an important time in the life of the huge wolf-like dog. This was his first definite avowal of his change of caste. He was attempting to make friends with the big, fierce mongrel on the ground by the fire.
His methods were not altogether competent to inspire friendly confidence. They began when, after a long survey of the mongrel, he rose from his place beside Bull Hunter and began to stalk around the other dog in a wide circle, moving with stiff-jointed steps that showed he would be instantly ready to fight if the occasion demanded.
The mongrel flattened his head to the earth and watched the progress of the gray giant with rolling eyes. He bared his teeth, but he had not the courage to growl. A growl would be a challenge, but the bared teeth merely showed that, while he invited no trouble, he would fight to the last ditch, if the pinch came. In the meantime he gathered his hind feet well under him, every muscle of his legs quivering and ready to send him off in a flying leap should The Ghost stop his promenade and attack.
The Ghost made no offer to fight. He continued to move solemnly about the other, viewing him from every angle. Finally he went straight up to the other, and standing not a yard away, pricked his ears and slowly wagged his tail. The mongrel twitched his own tail, but it was a perfunctory response.
To make his meaning clear, The Ghost turned and marched about the camp fire in a swift circle. Plainly he was inviting the other to come with him for a romp across the hills, for he looked back as he ran. The mongrel shuddered and pressed his body closer to the warmed earth. Follow that slayer into the darkness, he seemed to ask.
The Ghost returned and now stood with his head cocked to one side, regarding the other with a wistful curiosity. There was a certain pathos in his attitude, as though he were striving mightily to learn the language of this fellow and finding it impossible. At last his impatience found vent in a deep-throated growl. His antics had been all dog, but his growl was all wolf.
“I think maybe you’re right,” said Pete Reeve to his companion, hearing the snarl of The Ghost. “In five minutes they’ll either be friends or fighting. Dunkin may come back and find himself minus a dog.” He chuckled again. “And that’d sure make him mad. He loves that dog.”
“He won’t be minus a dog,” answered Bull Hunter.
“How come?” asked the little man. “You don’t think the cur, yonder, would have a fighting chance against The Ghost?”
“The Ghost would kill him in five seconds,” said Bull soberly, “but I promised Dunkin when he left that I would keep The Ghost away from his dog. So I must.”
“I remember,” said Pete Reeve. “When Dunkin left he swore you’d have to account to him if anything went wrong with his dog.” He broke off and laughed softly. “Dunkin is a pretty hard sort, but if he knew you better he’d have sooner bitten his tongue than talked so big to you, Bull.”
Bull Hunter waved this implied compliment away. “Where has Dunkin gone?” he asked.
The little man jerked his head to one side and looked intently at his companion. “Ain’t you guessed?” he asked sharply.
Bull Hunter shook his head.
“Well,” said Reeve in the same sullen manner, “I ain’t handing out any information. Besides, I don’t altogether know. I ain’t riding with Dunkin tonight.”
“I think I guess,” said Bull Hunter sadly.
The big man’s mind was full of doubts. Dunkin, who had joined them a few days before and had ridden off that morning, was an old acquaintance of Pete’s; and Dunkin was on the face of him a “bad one.” Bull had from the first moment hated the swagger of the fellow and his thin-lipped, twisting smile and his malicious eye. He had not the slightest doubt that Dunkin had left their temporary camp to ride off on some errand of mischief. And Bull, writhing at the thought, felt that his crime would be the greater of the two, if he accepted the hospitality of the other. But what should he do? Could he leave Pete Reeve a hopeless victim to the evil influence of the depraved Dunkin?
It seemed that Reeve’s mind had been running in the same direction, for now he said: “Men are like dogs, Bull. I’m like The Ghost, except that he’s big for his kind, and I’m little for mine. The Ghost has run wild all his life and raised the devil. So have I. The Ghost found a friend in you, and now he’s trying to turn decent and be civilized. I found a friend in you, too, Bull, and I’m doing the same thing as The Ghost. I’m trying to get civilized and live decent. But I don’t think The Ghost will stay tame; he’ll turn wild again, and so will I.”
He sighed and shook his head. “And in the end we’ll both have to leave you, Bull.”
“In the end,” said Bull, smiling sadly, “I’ll have to follow you.” He turned his head sharply. “Steady!”
The Ghost obeyed the command by springing six feet backward. He stood with head lowered, a snaky, formidable, cunning head, seen thus in profile. The mongrel twitched himself about and faced the gray giant in the new position.
“You see,” said Pete Reeve, “that The Ghost can’t make friends with the cur, and so he wants to fight him; if you won’t let him fight, you and him will have trouble. And then he’ll leave. A wild dog ain’t never going to be really happy with a tame master. A man with the wolf strain is just the same way.”
In one respect, at least, he had spoken the truth. His voice was hardly quiet when The Ghost, having tried in vain all manner of friendly advances toward the dog, and having been repelled with terror and disgust at each attempt, gathered himself and flung straight at the mongrel. The latter stood up with a brief howl of terror, wavered for the split part of a second between a desire to run and a knowledge that he would be overtaken instantly if he fled, and then bared his teeth to meet that attack as well as he might.