Читать книгу Desert Dog - Jim Kjelgaard - Страница 4

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Tawny shivered, not understanding this and not liking it because he did not understand. When the wheeling buzzard dipped closer, Tawny snarled fiercely and the short hair on his neck bristled. The buzzard soared higher and Tawny returned to where Fred Haver lay among the crushed branches of greasewood.

Whining low in his throat, Tawny thrust a slim muzzle against his friend. Getting no response, he pawed very gently but anxiously at the man's rumpled jacket. He raised his head suddenly, fearing that the buzzard might have descended again. But it was still soaring patiently, maintaining its altitude.

His eyes fixed on the buzzard, Tawny stood motionless. His short ears were erect, his greyhound body, still showing traces of puppyhood, was tense and rigid. His grey-brown, smoke-colored short hair blended into the desert background. A hundred feet beyond him, a giant saguaro cactus thrust its many-armed trunk toward the sky. Beyond that was more desert that rose to cactus-studded, near-treeless hills. For a moment Tawny let his eyes rest on the hills, while within him rose the strange stirring that he always felt when he looked into uncluttered space. Scarcely seeming to move his head, he looked again at the buzzard.

Tawny came of what is probably the oldest breed of dog known to man, and ages had changed him little. Heavy of chest and lean of paunch, with a spear-shaped head and a slim tail, he had wonderfully long legs which, though slender, were strong and hard. His remote ancestors had been tamed because, lacking any weapons except stones and spears, ancient man needed a dog intelligent enough to work closely with him, fast enough to run down the speediest game, and courageous enough to fight and hold his game after he caught it.

The young greyhound bent his head to look squarely into Fred Haver's face, and the worry in his eyes became more intense. Tawny had a mighty love for three things: speed, freedom, and the man who now lay motionless in the greasewood.

Earlier this morning Fred Haver had taken him from his kennel, whistled him into the pickup truck that was used to carry the kennel dogs, and brought him out into the desert. This trip for an exercise period in the desert was routine. But they had gone scarcely a hundred yards from the truck when Fred had cried out, stumbled, and fallen. Nor had he moved since. It was beyond the dog's understanding. He looked around anxiously.

Three hundred yards away, a mule deer that had already browsed its fill and been to water, rested in the shelter of a dry wash. Long-eared jack rabbits went about their various affairs. Gophers ventured a few yards from their dens, then squeaked and scurried back. A heavy-bodied rattlesnake, just emerged from its winter's den, coiled near a clump of cholla cactus and waited for a pack rat to venture from its spiny nest.

All these things would have been evident to a hound, setter, cur, or any dog with a keen nose, for such dogs would have read the wind currents. Tawny knew about none of them for it was not his nature to use his nose. He was one of the so-called 'gaze hounds' who run by sight alone.

But his sight was remarkable and presently it was called into play.

All about him was a sea of greasewood broken here and there by cactus: stately saguaro, ocotillo with its serpentine withes, prickly pear, spiny cholla, and hook-studded barrel. But there were avenues and passages where it was possible to see through the greasewood. Down one of these passages was the coyote, as far as two city blocks away when Tawny saw it.

The coyote was slinking, crouching low to the ground and moving slowly because by so doing it hoped to remain unseen. The coyote had smelled Fred Haver and Tawny, knew something had gone amiss, and with the usual bent of its kind, was coming to see if it could turn another's misfortune to its advantage.

Tawny followed with his eyes, losing the coyote at times and at other times seeing it only as a flitting patch of grey fur that appeared here and there. But he knew it was coming nearer. When the coyote was ninety yards away, Tawny launched his attack.

He sprang suddenly, taking so little time to get under way that he developed full speed with almost his first couple of bounds. He kept his head high the better to see, and his eyes never wavered from the coyote. Uncertain at once as to just what happened, the coyote lingered a moment. Then it turned to flee. An old animal that knew most of a coyote's many tricks, this one knew that there was no time for strategy now. It would have to depend on its legs because the dog was coming very fast, but the coyote knew and had confidence in its own speed. It could run away from most things.

But in spite of its fifty-yard start—Tawny had run forty yards while the coyote was making up its mind—it could not run away from Tawny. Four hundred yards from where it had started to run, with Tawny a bare half-dozen leaps behind, the coyote whipped about with its back against a rock and made ready to fight for its life.

Its fur was bristled to make it look bigger and fiercer. Its ears were flattened. Its face was a snarling mask. Its jaws snapped continuously with a sound like that of a springing steel trap. Its tail was curved between its legs and lying flat against the belly. Most men would have interpreted that as a sign of cravenness, but Tawny knew better instinctively. The coyote held its tail in such a position because, should there be a belly attack in the forthcoming fight, the enemy would bite its tail first, instead of the vulnerable belly.

With no slackening of speed, Tawny leaped in. But though he seemed intent on meeting the coyote squarely, at the last second, so fast and with such a superb muscular control that there was not the slightest fumble, he launched a flank attack instead. His slicing teeth cut through grey fur and into the flesh beneath while the coyote's own slash missed entirely.

Its nerve breaking, the coyote whirled and fled. About to pursue farther, Tawny checked himself. His blood was up and he did not fear to fight. But he had run a long way from his helpless friend. Letting the coyote go, Tawny raced full speed back to Fred Haver.

Back at the man's side, Tawny glanced up at the still-wheeling buzzard, then softly nosed his friend's motionless body and licked his face with a soft, warm tongue.

The dog felt forlorn, hopeless, lost. Tawny knew how to cope with a coyote, or any enemy into which he could set his teeth. But he was helpless in the face of this strange situation, and he expressed his desperate unhappiness with a miserable little whine. Crouching full length, he pillowed his slim head on Fred Haver's shoulder.

He dared not lie quietly for very long because of his uncertainty and the unknown perils that beset him. Fred Haver was helpless and unable to protect himself. Therefore, Tawny must protect him. So he searched the desert constantly, marking in his own mind a line beyond which nothing would be allowed to venture. He kept an especially wary eye on the buzzard. Its intentions were all too plain and so was its patience. Buzzards are seldom in a hurry, for what they want will always wait.

Tawny looked again at the far peaks and was stirred by their challenge. But even though he yearned toward them because they represented unlimited space, the ties that bound him to Fred Haver were too powerful to break. He must stay here because this was his place.

When a hopping jack rabbit appeared, he eyed it suspiciously. But the big rabbit veered off before it passed the line Tawny had marked, and he paid no more attention to it.

It was late afternoon before there was another interruption.

Tawny heard the car grinding in second gear over the same desert path that Fred Haver had taken with the pickup truck. Leaping up, the better to see over the greasewood, Tawny saw the approaching vehicle. It was a sleek and shiny black car, but in the blue shadows cast by the oblique rays of the setting sun, it assumed a purplish hue. The car stopped beside the truck and two men Tawny knew got out.

One was Charles Northcott, who often visited the kennels where Tawny was kept with other greyhounds and who seemed to have much authority there. Tawny did not know that Charles Northcott owned the kennels of racing greyhounds, and he wouldn't have cared if he had known. The dog could give his allegiance to only one man and he had given it to Fred Haver.

The second man was John Weston, who trained and raced greyhounds of his own.

Tawny watched them hopefully, joyously, and for the first time since Fred Haver had fallen, his spirits rose. In Tawny's brief experience, humans were all wise and all powerful. These two men would do what he failed to do; make Fred Haver get up and walk again.

Unobtrusively, partly because it was his nature and partly because he had never felt the slightest attachment for anyone or anything except his fallen friend, Tawny waited for them. But his eyes were anxious and beseeching, as he looked up at the two men.

Tawny moved aside while they knelt to examine Fred Haver. They rose, and Tawny knew a terrible moment when the fallen man did not rise with them.

"The poor cuss!" Charles Northcott said.

There was genuine sorrow in his voice. He was the wealthy owner and Fred Haver only his trainer, but between them there had been a bond that rose above money and social position. Above all else, Fred Haver loved a fine greyhound and had taught Charles Northcott how to appreciate one, too.

"Heart, do you think?" John Weston asked somberly.

Northcott nodded. "He's had heart trouble for some time. The doctor warned him a year ago to take it easy."

John Weston looked down at the still body. "I can't imagine him taking it easy as long as there were greyhounds to be trained."

"That's right. They were his whole life."

Tawny whined, trying in his own way to return their attention to the plight of his friend. They looked at him, and as men will when they are faced with big things about which they can do nothing, they spoke of little ones.

"Nice looking pup," John Weston commented.

"Fred said he had the makings of a great racer."

"What's his name?"

"Tawny Streak."

John Weston looked at Tawny again. He too had an insight into greyhounds, and had trained many good ones.

"Looks to me as though he may be a bit spooky. Maybe some bronco in that pup?"

"I haven't paid much attention to the pups," Charles Northcott admitted. "Fred seemed to get along with him."

"Fred got along with all greyhounds," John Weston declared. "The racing circuit won't be the same without him."

They stood silently for a short space, as though they did not want to concede failure and were casting about for something they could do. Charles Northcott finally broke the awkward silence that had come between them.

"We might as well get going."

"Might as well."

They brought a robe from the car and wrapped all that was left of Fred Haver in it. Self-consciously, as though unsure as to whether or not they were doing the right thing, they laid the blanketed form in the pickup truck.

"Will you drive him in?" Northcott asked.

"Sure."

Tawny danced anxiously, looking up at the place where his friend rested and yearning to be beside him once more. But, so sobered by the death of his trainer that he was almost unaware of what he was doing, Charles Northcott snapped a leash on the dog's collar. Trained to obey a leash, Tawny stood still.

He watched closely while John Weston turned the truck around and drove back toward the highway. When Northcott opened the rear door of his big car and snapped his fingers, Tawny climbed in. He did so automatically, having been taught to obey the wishes of humans.

He climbed on the cushioned rear seat, his eyes still fixed upon the truck that carried Fred Haver. They came to a concrete highway and the truck faded into a stream of traffic. Nervous and worried, Tawny looked intently at each passing car. But not again did he see the truck.

His spirits rose when Charles Northcott stopped beside the big building that housed the rest of his greyhounds, for Tawny hoped that Fred Haver would meet him there. Instead, the car was met by an old, gaunt roustabout known to his employer as Billy and to his intimates on the greyhound circuit as Billy the Kid. Northcott got out and gave him Tawny's leash.

"Put him away, will you, Billy?"

"Shore." Billy squinted with his one good eye. "Whar's Fred?"

"He won't be coming back," Charles Northcott said soberly. "He had a heart attack out on the desert."

"Now hain't that a sad thing."

There was a veiled elation in Billy's voice, for he himself cherished a secret desire to be Charles Northcott's trainer. He never could be, because really outstanding greyhound men were born, not made. Billy led Tawny into the gloomy, unlighted building.

"Come 'long. Come 'long, purp."

Tawny followed only because the leash was still on his collar and he had been taught to obey. But as far as he was concerned, Billy was only another kennel boy who brought him his carefully prepared and rationed meals, provided him with fresh water, and under Fred Haver's watchful eye, rubbed him down.

Voluntarily Tawny entered his kennel, more properly a cage closed by a steel-barred door. Tired out, he lay down in the bed of freshly torn newspapers that awaited him. When a greyhound runs he gives all and Tawny had had a hard, fast run after the coyote. Ordinarily he would have gone to sleep at once, but he was still too worried to sleep.

He was aware of his various kennel mates that ranged from six as yet unproven pups like himself to the redoubtable King Bee, the pride of Charles Northcott's kennel. With one full year of racing behind him, King had run a standard five-sixteenths of a mile, or five hundred and fifty yards, in just a shade over thirty-one seconds, and had won purses totaling more than twenty thousand dollars. In all likelihood, King's second year would be better. His owner had been offered, and refused, seven thousand five hundred dollars for him.

Tawny paid little attention to any of the other dogs for he had little regard for any of them. It was not in him to give lavishly of himself. The dogs in the kennel with him meant no more than Billy the Kid, John Weston, Charles Northcott, or the puppies his own age against which he had raced. Except for Fred Haver, everything was part of a pattern. But the pattern merely existed; it had no real meaning.

He brightened eagerly when he heard the kennel door open and someone enter. Then he relaxed sadly. Billy, and not Fred Haver, had come into the kennel. Without great interest or much appetite, Tawny ate the meal Billy put in the kennel, and lay down again.

Finally he slept. His paws twitched eagerly in his sleep, for a dream had come to him. He was out on the desert with Fred Haver, but instead of coming back to the kennel after his prescribed exercise period was over, they stayed on the desert. Trucks, cars, kennels, uniformed handlers, spectators, music, all the artificial aspects of greyhound racing were left far and forever behind. There was only space in which to exercise his legs, and together he and Fred Haver went into the mountains that loomed so enticingly on the horizon.

But when he awakened, he was still in the dark kennel. Tawny heard another greyhound get up, turn restlessly, and seek a more comfortable position. At the far end of the kennel, a lonesome puppy whined. When Tawny went back to sleep, he was more contented. Morning was on its way, and morning always brought Fred Haver.

Tawny went into another happy dream. He was racing, striving his utmost to catch the mechanical rabbit that bobbed on a steel track before him. He knew instinctively that the rabbit was not real but he knew also that other dogs were striving to catch it, too, and he must be first. These two things, a born love of speed and the spirit of competition, summed up Tawny's knowledge of racing.

He did not know that a greyhound starts to race when it is about fifteen or sixteen months old, and that thereafter its racing life is about two years. He did not understand that, on northern tracks in summer and on southern or southwestern courses in winter, a greyhound in prime condition can run about twice a week. Nor could he have the faintest idea of a greyhound's fate when its racing usefulness is over.

A few beloved dogs are kept as pets, a few are given away, and a few are kept for breeding, with no guarantee whatsoever that a sire or dam with a notable track record will beget sons and daughters equally as fast. The rest of the greyhounds that have outlived their racing usefulness are painlessly put to sleep. This is not merely a convenient method for getting rid of unwanted dogs. Racing greyhounds are among the most pampered of animals and most owners love their dogs greatly. It troubles an owner to think of his cherished racers, that have had every possible attention, in the hands of new owners who may give them little or no care.

Tawny did not understand that there is almost no possibility of using underhanded methods in order to insure that some favorite dog will win a race. Racing greyhounds carry no jockeys. They run for the love of running and the best dog wins. Greyhound tracks are under the supervision of experienced officials who know what they're about, and anyone caught trying to prearrange the results of any race is barred forever from all tracks.

Tawny knew only that he dreamed of freedom, adored speed, and loved Fred Haver. He needed all three elements to make him completely happy, and at present he had none.

When morning came again, it was Billy who brought his water and cleaned out his cage. Tawny waited sadly, ears alert for every sound and eyes close to the grilled bars of his kennel door. Every morning each dog in the kennel went out for exercise, and Tawny was among the favored ones that went with Fred Haver. But this morning nobody took any of the dogs out, and Tawny turned restlessly around and around in his kennel. When he ran, he ran terrifically, and such exertion took its toll. But being young, he recuperated swiftly and soon felt the need to run again. Abundant energy needed an outlet, and today there was none.

That made him restless and nervous, so that he had no taste for his evening meal when it was offered to him. He needed room in the same sense that a hawk needs it, and the kennel was barely big enough to permit his turning around. Billy took away his untasted food and Tawny inspected every inch of his kennel. When a piece of paper wafted into the air before him, he snatched it in his jaws and shook it fiercely, as he might have shaken some live thing he had caught.

That night, having been deprived of their usual run and missing it greatly, all the dogs were restless. Some moaned their disquiet to the uncaring darkness, but Tawny remained still. Just as he had given his entire affection to Fred Haver, so he had placed his whole trust in him. Now that Fred was no longer here, he trusted only himself.

The next morning he had only a passing glance for Billy when he cleaned his kennel and shut the door. Standing motionless against the grill, Tawny centered his whole attention on the door leading into the shed. He was restless, and tense as a weighted spring. Mutely, hopelessly, but with every taut nerve in his body, he yearned for Fred Haver.

When the door finally opened, it was Charles Northcott and John Weston who came in.

Tawny watched them steadily, unnoticed himself because he was one of many dogs and because he held so still. He sensed something about Charles Northcott that had not been there before, a sad and dreary something. Though Northcott had never understood his dogs as Fred Haver did, he had at least been partly in tune with them. Now, when he entered the kennel, he did so as an alien and every dog sensed it.

"That's the story," he was saying. "Fred and I made a pretty decent team, but now that he's gone the fun's gone too. So I'm selling."

"I understand," John Weston said quietly, "and I appreciate your giving me first chance. I'll take King Bee, as I said."

"He'll be worth it three times over this coming season."

"If," John Weston smiled, "he doesn't lame a paw, or sicken, or run his heart out."

"I know," the other admitted. "A man's crazy to take a chance on a greyhound."

John Weston shrugged. "Some of us are born crazy. I'll take King Bee and glad to get him, and I'll send you my check. Otherwise I have a pretty full kennel, though if I didn't I'd be tempted by that Tawny pup Fred had out when we found him."

"You like Tawny, eh?"

"Not particularly. To me he's just another youngster. But if Fred Haver said he'd got something, he's got it."

"Let's have another look at him," Charles Northcott said. "Get Tawny out, will you, Billy?"

Wholly indifferent to all three men, but obedient to the leash that Billy snapped on his collar, Tawny left his kennel and stood quietly for John Weston's inspection. After a moment, Weston turned to Northcott.

"He's going to be one of two things: a champion or an out and out renegade. There isn't going to be any in-between for him."

"What do you mean, John?"

"The dog may have it," Weston conceded, "and if Fred Haver had lived he might have made a second King Bee out of the pup. But I'm sure the bronco streak's still there. He doesn't give a hang about any of us or much of anything else. I might be able to win him over, and then again I might not. Right now he belongs to himself and may never change. If he doesn't, he'll be more of a liability than an asset to anyone who owns him. But he interests me. I'd like to see him run."

"He's entered in the puppy elimination Wednesday night. Why don't you watch him race before you make up your mind?"

"Fair enough. I'll meet you at the track," John Weston promised.