Irish Red, Son of Big Red. Jim Kjelgaard

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СКАЧАТЬ minutes later his eye was attracted by motion within the beeches that rimmed the Pickett clearing. Danny kept his eyes on it. A second later Red broke out of the trees and started toward the cabin.

      Danny watched, pleased with what he saw but smiling a little wistfully. A few months ago Red had been perfection itself, incapable of graceless action. That was before he’d been hurt in the great fight with Old Majesty. Red would always carry evidence of that fight, for now he walked and ran with a pronounced limp. But he was still, Danny thought, the finest dog in the world.

      He came up on the porch and sat beside Danny, swinging his great head over his young master’s shoulder. Danny tickled his soft ear.

      “You, Red,” he murmured. “You old bum. For a dog like you, you sure can throw some half-witted sons.”

      Red muzzled Danny affectionately, and Danny tickled his other ear. Then he rose and walked down the steps. Red padded contentedly beside him as Danny struck the Stoney Lonesome trail.

      There were plenty of things to think about, and he could always think more clearly in the woods. Red wandered to one side to nose through a thicket of little hemlocks that had found a rooting among the beeches. Absently Danny watched him.

      Until Red came along, Danny had never thought much about his future because, unless you wanted to leave, which he didn’t, there was only one future in the beech woods. You took your living from the country, trapping, hunting, guiding hunters and fishermen, and doing whatever odd jobs you could get. Ross had lived in such a fashion all his life, and Danny had fully intended to do the same because, of all the places he could think of, none was as nice as the Wintapi.

      Danny had always dreamed of a dog, a great and wonderful dog to be his staunch friend and constant companion, and that dog had materialized in Red. Then the rest of it had happened almost miraculously and opened new vistas of which, previously, Danny had not even dreamed.

      There could be, Danny thought, no finer career than rearing and training fine dogs. If a man liked that work well enough, and had the chance, he’d do it without pay. But Mr. Haggin was paying Danny, and Danny felt keenly the additional responsibilities which that placed upon him.

      He must be certain he was working in the right direction. As far as the right direction for Mike was concerned, wouldn’t the reckless puppy and everyone else be better off if he were given away to serve as somebody’s pet? Regardless of a dog’s other qualities, he was of no practical value unless he was intelligent too.

      Nothing sensible ever seemed to penetrate Mike’s skull. He did what he wished when he wanted to do it, and defied the consequences. Mike had escaped death by a narrow margin a half dozen times, but he never hesitated to gallop headlong into new adventures, and it never seemed to occur to him even to think of what he was doing.

      Still, Ross’s judgment was sound most of the time. He thought Mike was just a pup who in time would outgrow his silly and bull-headed ideas. Well, only time could tell and Danny would hope for the best. Somehow, Mike might amount to something.

      Coming to a steep, aspen-bordered pitch, Danny climbed more slowly. He looked ahead, where Red was loping swiftly up the trail, intent on something he saw, heard, or smelled. Then, between the bordering aspens, he snapped to a dead stop. His head swung, then froze in position. Plumed tail was stiff behind him. One fore paw curled. Danny stopped, watching the scene in sheer delight.

      He knew that Red was on a ruffed grouse, a partridge, and since the hens with half-grown broods would not be likely to frequent a trail, doubtless Red had found a wise old cock bird. He stood exactly where he was, holding perfectly.

      Then there was an excited rush. Danny caught glimpses of a flying red ball that resolved itself into another dog, and Mike galloped past. Tail wagging hysterically, he dashed past his father straight at the partridge. There was a rattle of wings as the partridge rose and Danny caught fleeting glimpses as it winged through the aspens.

      Danny shook a disgusted head. Of course nobody could expect a puppy to point and hold a partridge, or even to honor a point. But any normal pup, coming upon his master, would have stopped. Danny walked impatiently forward.

      Red turned in the trail, stiff-legged and stiff-tailed, and a warning growl rumbled from his chest. Mike galloped out of the woods, paying no attention to his father’s rumbled warnings, and wagged happily up. Danny hurried. He did not think Red would hurt the puppy, but Mike was enough to try a saint’s patience and Red might decide to snap at him. Danny came nearer, then stopped abruptly.

      “You, Mike!” he cried. “You muttonhead!”

      A dozen white-tipped porcupine quills were imbedded in the puppy’s upper jaw. Obviously, coming up the trail, he had discovered and enthusiastically attacked some grunting old porcupine. Now he stood looking up at his master, and though Danny knew that he must be in pain, his tail was wagging and his eyes were glowing. Even a face full of porcupine quills could not ruin the pleasure Mike had found in a forbidden run through the woods. Danny’s heart melted.

      “Poor pup,” he soothed. “Poor little Mike! You would have to meet your first porky while you’re so little, and all alone!”

      Danny turned back down the trail, and Red hurried to get far enough ahead so he would not be near his son. Mike, beginning to feel the effect of the porcupine’s spears, fell in beside Danny. But when Danny tried to pick him up, Mike would have none of it. Danny let him walk. Mike could hardly be blamed for tackling a porcupine. Most puppies, meeting one of the clumsy, spiny beasts for the first time, could not resist getting too near.

      Mike pricked his ears up, galloped ahead of Danny, and made a right-angle turn from the trail. Danny began to run, suspecting that the porcupine was the cause of Mike’s excitement. He heard the pup barking furiously, and found him leaping against a birch tree. A big quill pig crouched halfway to the top; Mike’s attack must have been furious. Danny turned to Mike.

      “Come on, you little fool. Figure you need some more quills?”

      Danny’s misgivings returned full force. Most dogs would fight a porcupine once. Few were silly enough to try it a second time, and not within a half hour after the first. Danny shook his head in despair.

      When he entered the clearing, Red was on the porch and Ross was working on the wood pile. Ross looked up.

      “What happened?”

      “Tangled with a porcupine.”

      “Poor little cuss,” Ross soothed. “I’ll get the neatsfoot and a pair of pliers.”

      Danny knelt to pass his arms around the squirming puppy while Ross worked neatsfoot oil around the base of each quill. The puppy shivered with pain, but made no outcry.

      “Nothin’ wrong with his heart,” Ross announced.

      Ross grasped a quill with his pliers, and quickly jerked it out. As the puppy tried to break away, Danny took a firmer grip. It was not a job he liked, but it was one that had to be done. Ross worked as swiftly and as humanely as he could while Danny held Mike. Finally Ross got up, the last quill still clenched in his pliers.

      “There,” he announced, as he brushed the perspiration from his forehead. “Guess you learned somethin’ today, Mike.”

      Mike wriggled his tail, sat down, and began to soothe the many aches in his jaw with a soft tongue. Suddenly Red growled, and Danny and Ross swung to see two horsemen coming up the trail from the СКАЧАТЬ