Argosy All-Story Weekly, December 4, 1926 — page 129: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE GRAY nor could he find a man among the cow- hands who looked as if he might prospect at times. They talked in a strange language, and spoke of drifting, the saddle string, and buckaroos, instead of mushing, dog teams, and dog mushers. Sandy had been given to understand Pete and Joe were potential friends, not enemies; so aside from a certain dignity when he first met the sheep dogs nothing happened. As for Pete and Joe, they took one look at Sandy and decided he was a dog worth letting alone. It grew cooler the second month, and, besides that, Sandy was becoming accus- tomed to the climate. Early one morning he followed the sheep dogs,to their charges. Two weeks later Brick called Marie. “Come here quick. I want to show you something; bring the binoculars.” Brick was pointing to the band, stream- ing over a ridge like a gray flood. Pete and Joe were having their paws full, fig- uratively speaking, and Sandy was lending them a paw on his own account. A cry of delight came from Marie’s lips as she lowered the glasses. “The old dear has found his place,” she exclaimed. ‘‘ Isn’t he wonderful? And he’s tireless.” . “Some of the men warned me to keep the Malemute away from the _ sheep; claimed there was so much wolf in him he would turn killer, but—I don’t know!” “Oh, Sandy understands, I am sure of it. See how well he works.” She extended the glasses to Brick. ‘““T’ve watched him for a couple of days. I’m satisfied.” IT. Witu the coming of fall and cooler weather snow appeared on the mountain peaks and began working its way down to the timber line. Then one afternoon a snowstorm struck. And that night Sandy went mad with joy. He tore around and around the house and barns, thrust his nose into the only drift he could find, then rolled in it. If some one only would hook him up to a sled and yell “ Mush!” he would be happy] SHADOW. 439 Then the storm cleared away, a crust formed, and a cold moon rose over colder peaks. Something that night aroused Brick Stewart from a sound sleep. “Great guns, Marie, what’s that?” “ What’s what?” She had heard nothing and, awakened so abruptly, she was half frightened. ‘‘ What?” ‘* Listen!” Then it came again, a mournful wail, softened by distance. The girl smiled in the half darkness. “Tt makes me homesick: it’s the howl of the Malemute. Poor old Sandy hears the call of the North, I guess. Haven’t I heard it many a moonlit night. Listen— isn’t it thrilling?” “Huh! Sounds like the call of the wild or something.” Brick grunted and rolled over. Pres- ently he slept, but his wife continued awake, gripped by the spell of the night and the memories that howling stirred. It grew fainter and fainter and finally died away. Morning brought a grim-faced man who owned a ranch five miles distant. He drove over in a light truck used for hauling stuff about kis ranch. In the rear was the car- cass of a sheep. ‘ Take a look at this, Brick,” he said, with a note of challenge in his voice. “Your dog ran wild last night. One of my men heard him howling like a wolf, and this morning one of my sheep dogs came in chawed up. I found this dead sheep!”’* Brick Stewart experienced a strange sen- sation. The wild howling lingered in his mémory. He looked at Sandy, sleeping now, per- haps well fed from his night’s raiding. He rather liked Sandy, and Marie loved him. Still, if he was a killer— ‘Are you sure Sandy turned the trick? How about a timber wolf?” ‘“ Ain’t been a timber wolf in these parts for twenty years.” The other’s lips set firmly. ‘A man hates to kill this own dog, Brick, so I'll do it for you!” “Got to have stronger evidence than that. A coyote might—” “No chance, Brick. The tracks were igo AAI OOK