Читать книгу Irish Red, Son of Big Red - Jim Kjelgaard - Страница 7

Irish or English?

ATTACKING FIRST, Mike won the advantage of surprise and used it to good advantage. The red puppy snapped half a dozen times before the other dog could bring himself to retaliate.

Something registered in Danny’s brain. The English setter was a wonderful dog, but something was missing. It was not that he lacked the courage to defend himself; lack of initiative seemed to be his trouble. He had, Danny thought, been cast in too rigid a mold. Doubtless he would respond perfectly and immediately to any command of his trainer, and probably, as he grew older, he would be a superb hunter. But he was like a man who cannot think for himself, who must always look to a superior before he can act. When an unexpected situation arose, the English setter did not know how to meet it.

Never at a loss no matter what happened, Mike dodged away when the English setter finally struggled to his feet. Mike came in to strike at his enemy’s flank and was away, whirling and twisting on dancing paws which, for all their puppy clumsiness, did exactly what he wanted them to do.

Finally becoming oriented, the young English setter snarled in to strike. But Mike had spent too many hours frolicking with his brother and sisters not to know how to roll with a punch. His enemy’s teeth snapped only on a mouthful of red fur, and Mike struck twice while the English setter was preparing a new attack.

Danny shouted a command which he knew Mike would ignore anyway, then jumped from the porch to part the fighting dogs. John Price was there a second sooner.

He slid from his black horse, raised his riding crop, and slashed Mike across the face. He struck again, and was preparing to hit a third time, when Mike backed away.

He did not cringe or slink, as a beaten or spiritless dog would, nor did he display any hostility toward this new and unexpected assailant. For generations Mike’s breed had been taught that their place was with men. Only in protection of his own master, or his master’s household, would an Irish setter attack a human being.

Mike had no thought of striking back at John Price, but he could take the measure of this man and file it away in his brain for future reference. He backed warily, keeping cautious eyes on the riding crop. Mike dodged aside when the man rushed him, and feinted to the other side when he rushed again. Both times the riding crop slashed only empty air.

Then Danny was between Mike and his attacker. Danny’s sinewy fingers closed and tightened about the hand that held the riding crop.

“Stop it!” he commanded.

For a moment they stood eye to eye, two young men who took each other’s measure much as Mike had taken John Price’s. When the other tried to jerk away, Danny tightened his fingers. Then John Price relaxed and Danny let him go. Grimly he stepped back.

“No need to keep on hitting a dog after he’s stopped fighting.”

“He could use a lesson!”

“He don’t get his lessons with whips!”

Mr. Haggin had dismounted and was holding the young English setter’s collar. Turning his back on Danny, John Price walked back to the black and white dog. He stooped, and explored with probing fingers. Then he rose.

“He isn’t hurt,” he said to Mr. Haggin.

“I wouldn’t think so.” Mr. Haggin sounded slightly sarcastic. “That puppy isn’t more than five months old.”

Ross had caught Mike, and now stood uncertainly near. This was not the way things should have happened. But they had happened, and he would stand by Danny and Mike.

“Little pepper pot,” Mr. Haggin grinned, coming toward them. “Wonder what possessed him?”

“No telling what possesses Mike to do anything,” Danny said. “Guess he just wanted a fight.”

“As I was saying when I was so rudely interrupted,” Mr. Haggin continued, “I thought it would be a good idea if you met my nephew. John, shake hands with Danny Pickett.”

John Price spoke to the English setter, who dropped instantly, and came forward. He had, Danny decided, been annoyed when Mike jumped his dog. Well, that might make anybody mad and John Price seemed over it now. He smiled and extended his hand.

“Glad to know you, Danny.”

“And I’m glad to know you.”

Mr. Haggin took over. “I’m going on a rather extended trip, guess you both know that? I’ve been awaiting the opportunity a long while, but until I got hold of John I didn’t have anybody to leave in command here. I just want both of you to know that John will be in complete charge, and you can go to him for anything you need.”

“We’ll get along,” Ross said.

“I’m sure you will.”

“Where are you going, Mr. Haggin?” Danny inquired.

“Quite a few places, Danny. I’m going to look at some of the world’s best horses, cattle, and sheep, and see if I can bring back anything that will improve our Wintapi stock. I’ll be in Arabia, Holland, England, Ireland, and maybe other countries.” Mischief lighted his eyes. “Maybe I’ll even find a better Irishman than Big Red.”

“There aren’t any!” Danny said quickly.

John Price laughed, then gestured toward Mike with his riding crop.

“You told me you had champion Irish setters up here, Uncle Dick. Do you call that one?”

“Mike’s one of Sheilah’s pups, but I admit he isn’t much like his father or mother.”

“Where are the rest of them?”

Ross spoke up. “Red and Sheilah’s prowlin’ somewhere. The rest of the pups are penned.”

John Price looked puzzled. “You let prize-winning dogs roam at will?”

Ross shrugged. “Why not? Irish setters was meant to run loose. You can’t keep ‘em in any piddlin’ little coop and make ‘em like it.”

John Price gave him a sharp look.

“May I see the pups?”

“Sure,” said Ross, retaining his hold on Mike.

When they started away, the black and white setter half rose. John Price spoke sharply and the dog settled back down on the grass. Danny frowned, not understanding. A dog was more than just an animal. He furnished love, and loyalty, and companionship, and something that made you feel warm inside when you and your dog were all alone in the deep woods. A dog was not merely something that dropped, or heeled, or fetched, on command, as though he were always in a cage fashioned of his master’s thought and will. Plainly John Price thought of dogs in a way that had never occurred to either Danny or Ross.

Danny fell in beside Mr. Haggin, and they followed Ross and John Price toward the wire cage. Sheilah’s four children came yelling to meet them, and reared against the wire. Ross picked Mike up and dropped him beside his brother and sisters.

“Ever see a nicer-looking bunch of pups?” Mr. Haggin said proudly.

For a moment John Price did not speak. “No,” he said slowly, “I never did, Uncle Dick. I never saw a nicer-looking bunch—or a more useless one.”

“Useless?” Danny bristled.

“That’s exactly what I mean. What are those four pups ever going to do besides add to Uncle Dick’s collection of blue ribbons? The fifth won’t even do that; he might better be shot right now.”

“Shot!” Danny gasped.

“It’s straight talk. Oh, nobody will deny that the Irishman’s a beautiful dog; the average Irish setter has a more striking appearance and more flash than bench winners of almost any other breed. That’s exactly their trouble. People who care more about looks than anything else have taken the Irishmen over; everything except an ability to win blue ribbons at dog shows has been bred out of them.”

“Did you ever shoot behind a good Irish setter?”

John Price laughed. “There aren’t any good ones.”

“That isn’t so! My Red dog, he’ll out-run and out-hunt anything that’s ever been in the Wintapi!”

Danny stopped, remembering something he had momentarily forgotten. Red had been able to out-run and out-hunt anything in the Wintapi. Red was now a cripple. His hunting ability was unimpaired, but he couldn’t possibly match the pace of a young, fast dog.

“Before you two get to fighting,” Mr. Haggin said, “maybe I’d better explain what this is all about. John’s got the idea that, if we switch to English setters, we can collect some field trial cups as well as bench wins. He says he’ll prove it. The dog that came up here with us, John says, is going to take the National Field Trials.”

“You,” Danny stammered, “you aren’t going to sell your Irish setters?”

“Not yet anyhow; John hasn’t proven a thing. But I’ll back the best dog.”

“Oh,” Danny said.

He felt a dull emptiness that began at the pit of his stomach and spread both ways. Until now, there had been no word or thought of selling Sheilah and the pups, and switching to some other dog. Danny was staggered by the very thought of such a thing. John Price spoke eagerly.

“Let me show you what I mean, Uncle Dick! Obviously these pups haven’t even been yard-broken, but you said there were two older dogs here and both hunted. Pit either of them against any of the eight English setters I brought, and you’ll see the difference yourself!”

Mr. Haggin looked at Danny. “What do you say?”

Danny shook a miserable head. “Red couldn’t keep up in a fast heat. You know that.”

“Sheilah hunts.”

“You have to understand Sheilah, Mr. Haggin. She’ll hunt for us, but I don’t know what she’d show if you put her down and made her hunt.”

John Price was grinning triumphantly. Ross noticed it.

“We’ll bring Sheilah down,” he said. “When?”

“Tomorrow morning at eight,” John Price said.

“We’ll be there.”

The two men remounted their horses, and on command the black and white English setter rose to follow. Danny stared at their retreating backs, and turned to Ross.

“Why did you say that?”

“That John Price, he thought we were afraid.”

“You know Sheilah.”

“We can’t back down, Danny.”

“Better rub your rabbit’s foot, then. We’ll need all the luck we can get.”

Danny strolled gloomily to the cabin. Red was nowhere to be seen, but Sheilah, who had taken herself elsewhere while strangers visited, thumped the floor boards with her plumed tail as Danny approached. Danny stooped to stroke her head.

Never a fast or flashy hunter, or one that cared a bit about playing to the grandstand, Sheilah was still a first-rate gun dog and able to hold her own in most company. Trouble would arise because of her make-up.

She was so gentle, and emotional, that a harsh word could send her trembling into the nearest corner. At all times she must be positive that she was in the good graces of the human beings around her, but so well had Danny and Ross handled her that, in turn, Sheilah gave herself completely to them. She trusted no one else, and regardless of how they coaxed, she would never let herself be caressed by anyone else. She was strictly a one-family dog who would break her heart for the people she loved and trusted. What would she do if other people were present and how would she react when competing with one of John Price’s robots? Tomorrow would tell that tale.

Red limped out of the woods onto the porch, threw himself down beside Sheilah, and Danny scratched the big dog’s ears. A lump rose in his throat. There had been a time, not too long ago, when Red could have challenged anything in John Price’s kennels and beaten it easily. That time was past and would never come back again. Danny sighed and got up; it was time to give the pups a run.

He let Red and Sheilah into the cabin and opened the gate to the puppies’ cage. Out they boiled, streaming past Danny as they raced helter-skelter across the clearing. The gorgeous Sean, perfection itself, led the pack. Then came his three sisters while, for a moment, Mike lagged in the rear.

Danny’s eyes widened. Mike was the smallest of the pups, and therefore the shortest-legged. But Mike never had been one to let minor handicaps interfere with the more important things and right now the most important consisted of catching Sean. Mike lengthened out, his belly seeming to scrape the ground as his pace became swifter. Plumed tail fluttered straight behind him, and his slim body undulated. A happy grin framed his face.

Almost without effort he passed his three sisters and bore down on Sean. The lead puppy glanced back over his shoulder and accepted the challenge. Like ground-skimming birds they flew to the far end of the clearing, and it was there that Mike finally caught his swift brother. Instantly he attacked, and the two puppies rolled in another of their endless mock fights.

Danny watched, puzzled and interested. Sean had been doing his best, but Mike had caught him. The smallest of the litter, he was also the fastest. And certainly there was nothing wrong with his courage. Two minutes after Ross had finished pulling porcupine quills out of his face, he had jumped headlong into a fight with a bigger, heavier dog. Danny shook his head.

Mike was fast and courageous, but he was also bull-headed. Always wanting his own way, he never gave an inch to anything that might stand in his path. He would be worthless unless he developed some brains and showed some willingness to cooperate.

Two hours later, shortly before dark, the panting puppy pack returned. All were soaking wet, they had been swimming in the creek, and in addition Mike had a torn ear. Somewhere out in the beech woods he had run into something, probably a prowling coon, and had evidently tried to start another fight with it.

Danny locked all five puppies in the barn, and gave them a huge pan full of food, which they started gobbling instantly. Mike, always alert for the main chance, climbed into the middle of the pan and calmly proceeded to usurp the lion’s share. Danny grinned. By any reasonable rules Mike should have been the biggest dog in the pack; he ate half again as much as any of his companions.

Soberly Danny strolled into the cabin. Red rose to come greet him, but the more restrained Sheilah wagged her welcome from her carpet in the middle of the floor. Red sat beside him when Danny seated himself on a chair and stared thoughtfully at Sheilah.

“If your face gets any longer, your lower jaw will be hittin’ your knees,” Ross observed from the stove. “What’s the matter, Danny?”

“Nothing.”

“Yes, there is. You’re afraid of tomorrow mornin’, huh?”

“We shouldn’t be using Sheilah.”

Hearing her name, Sheilah rose and padded over to sit quietly at Danny’s other side. Danny stroked her sleek head.

“Sheilah’s a good hunter,” Ross said.

“Sure. I know it and you know it. But is she going to prove it for Mr. Haggin and his nephew?”

Ross said quietly, “Danny, why did you take up with these Irish setters?”

“Because I believe in them.”

“Then don’t let Sheilah down by lickin’ her yourself, before Haggin’s dog does it.”

“Suppose he does it?”

“He ain’t done it yet. Set the table.”

Danny spent a restless night, and pecked at the breakfast Ross cooked. He locked Sean and his three sisters in the wire cage, led the unwilling Mike into the cabin, and shut the door. At once Mike reared with his paws on the window sill, his face plastered against the window. Mike entreated Danny with pleading eyes and wagging tail, and when Danny refused to let him out he set up a howling that could be heard a quarter of a mile away.

“Let him screech,” Ross said. “He won’t bother anythin’, except maybe a squirrel or two.”

When Ross snapped his fingers, Sheilah trotted confidently over to walk beside him. Danny fell in with the pair, and when Red would have followed Danny ordered him back. Red sat down in the path, ears flattened and eyes disconsolate as he watched the trio enter the woods. In Red’s opinion it was not right for Danny to go anywhere unless he went along, but he made no attempt to follow.

Without speaking they strode down the Smokey Creek trail, crossed the bridge, and came to the edge of the extensive Haggin estate. Ross worked his lips, as though he was about to say something, but he did not speak. Danny glanced sideways, knowing that his father was tense, too.

As they approached the big barns, Sheilah slowed her step and walked so close to Ross that she all but brushed his legs. Curley Jordan, one of Mr. Haggin’s men and a good friend of the Picketts, was exercising a stallion in the yard. He jerked a calloused thumb toward the house.

“Boss said to tell you he won’t be long. Stick around.”

They sat down in the grass, Sheilah resting companionably between the two, and watched Curley work. Then a stranger, dressed in jodhpurs and leather leggings, emerged from one of the tenant houses and came toward them.

He was a tall man with a fading thatch of brown hair. His face, sun-tanned and wind-creased, had obviously been exposed to every sort of weather. He smiled as he came forward.

“So you’re my competition, are you?”

“Guess so,” Danny said. “Would you be John Price’s trainer?”

“That’s me, Joe Williams.”

He looked keenly at Sheilah, and Danny warmed to him. His was the air of a man who knew dogs, and plainly he was able to see Sheilah’s good points as well as her few flaws. When he came near, Sheilah pressed her sleek head tightly against Ross’s shoulder and refused to look around.

“She doesn’t take kindly to anybody she doesn’t know,” Danny explained.

“I understand. Is she the best you’ve got?”

“Not the best hunter, but we can’t run him; he’s crippled. All we’ve got except Sheilah and Red are five unbroken pups.”

“Uh-huh. Would it be fair enough if you ran her against another bitch her own age?”

“Sure,” Ross said.

“I’ll get Belle.”

Joe Williams disappeared behind the barn, and reappeared in a short time with another English setter beside him. Danny whistled his admiration. If John Price had personally selected these English setters, he knew good stock. Belle was like the young dog that Mike had fought, but more finished. There was fire in her, and quality, and plenty of breeding. Still....Danny wrinkled his brow.

There was something else about John Price’s dogs, something Danny could not understand at all. Belle was not on a leash, but she still seemed to be confined, as though her trainer were the source of all power and strength. There could be no doubt that the English setters were perfectly trained, but they seemed to lack spontaneity. At the moment Danny could not decide whether that was good or bad.

A few minutes later John Price and Mr. Haggin appeared.

“All set, I see,” Mr. Haggin said. “Good. The heats will be run in the back field. Of course they won’t be formal, and we’ll sort of figure out the rules as we go along. All right?”

Danny walked with the group, but because Sheilah did not like to be so close to strangers, Ross dropped back. They crossed Mr. Haggin’s broad meadows, went through a straggling line of woods, and came into one of the uncultivated back fields. Danny looked questioningly at a wooden crate beneath a tree, and Mr. Haggin saw his glance.

“John wanted to be sure there’d be birds to find, so we had some pheasants brought up.”

“I see.”

Danny kept his own counsel, not voicing the protest that sprang to his lips. As far as he knew, Sheilah had never worked on anything except grouse and quail. Pheasants were entirely different, but they were game birds and Mr. Haggin was certainly trying to be fair. The heats could have been run under very formal rules, and if either dog did not live up to them, disqualification would be the penalty. Knowing that neither Danny nor Ross had ever taken part in such a trial, Mr. Haggin had said that the rules would be made as they went along. Sheilah had a chance.

John Price took over. “Each handler will start his dog at this corner of the field and make a complete circuit. We’ll plant one bird for each, and the winner will be the dog that holds and points best. Any objections?”

Ross shrugged his acceptance. Danny said nothing.

“Do you want to go first?” Price asked Ross.

“Nope, let Joe lead off.”

Danny relaxed. He had been wondering just what a handler did, and how he acted, in a trial such as this. Ross had solved that neatly by accepting second place; he could watch Joe Williams and do whatever he did.

“I’ll plant your bird, Joe,” John Price said.

He walked down to the crate, cautiously opened the trap door, reached in, brought out a struggling hen pheasant, and folded his hands about both wings. He whirled the pheasant around a few times, tucked its head under one wing, and put it down in a bunch of tall grass.

Danny approved; evidently John Price knew a lot about both dogs and birds. A pheasant, treated in such a manner, was hypnotized and would remain quiet for a considerable time.

“All right, Joe,” Price called.

Joe Williams moved away with the English setter beside him. He spoke some command, some word that Danny could not hear, and the dog started to hunt. Danny kept his eyes on her.

A beautiful creature, she seemed to acquire added beauty and grace now that she was hunting. All fire and flesh, she raced so swiftly that her trainer began to run to keep up. But at another command the dog slowed slightly. Danny narrowed his eyes.

There still seemed to be an invisible leash stretching from Belle to her trainer. They worked together in almost perfect coordination, and that was good. There was still something about it that he didn’t like.

Certainly Belle was a superb hunter, and she was enjoying the hunt, but not to the same extent that Red would. He threw himself heart and soul into the game, and worked as perfectly with Danny as Belle was working with Joe Williams, from sheer love of hunting and for Danny. Belle seemed a little strained, a little mechanical, as though she could never forget there was a man behind her. She was a wonderful hunter. Red was an artistic one.

Danny’s eyes were attracted by motion at the far end of the field. He saw two grouse come out of the beech woods into the open meadow, and disappear in tall grass. Probably they were looking for seeds, or had a dust bath in the grass. Danny’s eyes returned to the dog.

She was almost at the far end of the field, turning to come back toward her planted game. When they neared the pheasant, Joe Williams dropped a little behind his dog. He was not going to make the mistake of pointing it out to her.

Nor did he have to. Getting bird scent, Belle stopped instantly. She froze in a point, plumed tail stiff and one fore paw lifted. Joe Williams edged up to flush the pheasant.

It flew so close to the grass tops that its beating wings sent little air currents ruffling through them. Joe Williams called his dog to heel and came in.

Danny gulped. It had been a wonderful performance, almost a perfect one. Before he was hurt Red could have done as well or better, but Danny looked doubtfully at Sheilah.

John Price planted another bird and called, “All right, Ross.”

Sheilah crowded close beside Ross as he started off, following the path laid out by Joe Williams. Danny crossed his fingers and breathed hard; this was exactly what he had feared. Sheilah, upset by close contact with too many strangers, had no intention of leaving Ross’s side. Besides Danny, only Joe Williams seemed to know that.

“That’s a good dog,” the trainer said, “but she’s strictly one-man. Right now she’s nervous as a hurt cat.”

“Yes, darn it,” Danny agreed.

They were in the far corner of the field before Sheilah would hunt at all. Then she trotted forward, casting as a hunting dog will, and Danny’s heart sang. Sheilah lacked Belle’s ability to impress an audience. But she was hunting almost as well and there was something present here that had been absent from Belle’s performance—something free and easy.

Never since Danny and Ross had had her had Sheilah known a whipping or even a slap. Never had she been forced to do anything which love for Danny and Ross would not have made her do anyway. It showed in the way she hunted. Danny’s eyes glowed. This was the way a dog should hunt. An Irish setter with Belle’s speed, hunting the way Sheilah hunted, would be perfection itself.

They swung to come up, following almost exactly the path laid out by Joe Williams and Belle. Sheilah stopped suddenly.

Danny’s heart leaped. The English setter passed within a few feet of where Sheilah was standing, but Belle had missed entirely the two grouse in the field. Sheilah was on them! She edged up and snapped into a perfect point.

Ross walked in ahead of her, and Danny felt suddenly cold. No birds flushed. Nothing at all happened. The two grouse had come into the meadow because they thought themselves perfectly safe. Finding a dog upon them, and too wise to fly, they must have run through the grass and back into the woods.

Danny remembered too late that nobody except himself had seen them come there.