Читать книгу Desert Dog - Jim Kjelgaard - Страница 6

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John Weston was a patient man. Because of that, because he was willing to work until he understood a problem, because he was able patiently to sift through a mass of tedious detail to find the hard, usable core of what he wanted, he had a reputation around the greyhound tracks for second sight. Frequently, it was said, he knew what a dog was going to do before the dog did.

The reputation was absurd, and nobody knew that better than John Weston. Understanding of anything started with love for it, and he loved a fine greyhound. But behind him was also twenty years of study, during which he had not only watched thousands of greyhounds run but had carefully analyzed the reasons for their success or failure. Unlike many owners, he never trusted his dogs entirely to any trainer or hired handler, but supervised them himself. Nobody could teach a greyhound how to run for that came naturally, but much of John Weston's success resulted because he himself attended the thousand and one details connected with that running. He maintained a comparatively small kennel, and every day personally inspected each dog. He knew what they were eating, where the food came from, how it was mixed, whether or not any dog might be a bit out of condition, and each one's individual quirks and foibles.

Tonight, as he walked with the crowd that was rapidly filling the grandstand of the Wilmo Greyhound Track, he wished that he did have some magical insight. If he did, he would know whether or not to add Tawny to his kennel.

Tawny was fast because Fred Haver had said so: Fred had seldom been wrong about greyhounds. But speed alone did not make a champion, and John Weston had an instinctive distrust of something about Tawny. It was nothing he could see, but he sensed it strongly. Was it that Tawny would give everything he had only if the right master were with him to call it forth? Or was it that Tawny had a real bronco streak? John Weston could not afford to have such a dog in his kennel. He'd spent too many years building up his reputation to risk ruining it with a renegade.

Entering the grandstand, he bought a program and scanned it. The first six of tonight's ten races were merely conventional five-hundred-and-fifty-yard turns around the track, with the dogs in each race grouped according to the speed they had shown in previous races. The seventh was one of the elimination races for the Wilmo Puppy Stake, in which eighty-one dogs that had not yet reached their second birthday would run. But seventy-two would be eliminated in these trial heats, and the nine dogs that eventually ran the Puppy Stake would naturally be the pick of the lot.

"Evening, John."

Smiling, Charles Northcott detached himself from the crowd and came forward. John Weston smiled back.

"Hi, Charley. Let's go look at the dogs."

They made their way to the glass-enclosed kennel room where the ninety dogs that would run in tonight's ten races were being kept until it was time for them to go out. All dogs must be delivered to the kennel room three hours before track time, and were thereafter completely out of their owners' hands until the race in which they were to run was over.

The ten dogs that would run in the first race had been taken out of their kennel boxes, muzzled, and each covered with a light blanket bearing the number of his track position. Reacting according to their natures, some sat almost listlessly, some were tense and alert, one padded restlessly as far as a short leash would let him go, and one gave voice to a succession of excited yelps. Peering at the wooden kennel boxes, John Weston finally saw Tawny.

The pup was at the far side of the room, in the upper tier of kennels. He was lying down, but his head was up and his ears alert as he followed with quick eyes every motion in the kennel room.

Weston pointed. "There he is."

"Where?"

"Top row, third kennel from the far end."

"Oh, yes, I see him. He's an independent-looking cuss, isn't he?"

"A lot of dogs are, but in not quite the same way. Charley, I just can't figure that hound!"

Northcott grinned. "Still looking for the bronco streak?"

"Not just looking for it. I'm seeing it!"

"How do you know?"

"I don't, really. Call it a hunch."

"And do you believe in hunches?"

"How can I help it? I've been a greyhound man for twenty years."

Led by their uniformed captain, the handlers in charge of dogs in the first race started toward the track.

"The dogs are coming out for the first race," the loud-speaker blared.

"Let's watch," Weston suggested. "There are some good dogs in this race."

Single file, the handlers paraded their dogs toward the starting boxes, reversed to go in the other direction, walked almost around the track, and put the dogs in their boxes. As the handlers left the track, the loud-speaker announced, "Here comes the rabbit."

No rabbit at all, but a mechanical contrivance that moved on an electrically operated axle, the rabbit bounced past and the starting boxes were opened simultaneously. The dogs rushed out and began their futile attempt to catch the rabbit which, no matter how fast they ran, would always move a little faster. Finally the rabbit scuttled back into its den and the number 4 flashed in the winner's space on the electric bulletin board across the track.

"Good race," John Weston said. "Number Four is Duke Harry. I'd like to see him in a race with King Bee."

There were no outstanding dogs in the next race, so John Weston and Charles Northcott sipped coffee in the snack bar. There they talked of past races they had seen and great dogs they had known. Finally the loud-speaker drew their attention.

"The seventh race, a puppy elimination race, is now coming up."

John Weston glanced briefly at his program to see the post positions of the nine pups. The rail on which the rabbit skipped was on the inside of the track's oval, and post position was important. Number One was on the inside, closest to the rabbit, and the dog in that position had a little better chance than any of the rest. The second and third positions were the next best, for the dogs starting from those had to cross in front of only one or two of their track mates in order to gain the favored inside of the track. The dogs starting from positions four to eight were at a handicap because they must of necessity mingle with the pack. Number Nine was another good post. Though he had eight dogs on the inside, the starter from nine had nothing on the other side, and that allowed him comparative freedom of movement.

Number One was Black Bart, a good dog, but not exceptional. Two was Sarawak Queen, and a dog named Conquistador would start from the third position. Conquistador was a big dog, weighing seventy-seven pounds, but he looked fast. Tawny was Number Six.

Weston looked at the lighted sign upon which were listed the post positions, the present odds of each dog, track time, and other pertinent data. Obviously the favorite, Black Bart was two to one. Next in line, Conquistador was three to one, and a brindle dog named Sally's Pride, starting from Number Nine, was third. Tawny was listed at nine to one.

John Weston's eyes sought out Tawny. The pup still seemed apart, belonging very much to himself, walking beside his handler only because of the leash. But there was about him a vibrant eagerness and an air of anticipation, that had nothing to do with the lights, the color, or the pageantry.

All these, John Weston understood, were for the benefit of human spectators. Tawny trembled with excitement because he was going to run again and knew it. John Weston sighed, seeing in Tawny a part of what Fred Haver had said was there. If such a dog, with so much to give, would give it for love of a new master as well as for love of speed, he might be unbeatable.

Charles Northcott turned to Weston. "He looks good, doesn't he?"

"They all look good."

Keeping an almost military step, the handlers paraded their dogs past the grandstand and turned stiffly to start back around the track. There was a momentary pause as, in turn, each dog's muzzle was inspected by the track captain. During the pause the loud-speaker announced the dogs' numbers, names, weights, and owners. Still in step, moving slowly, the procession went almost the length of the track.

John Weston's eyes remained on Tawny, but in a detached manner he noticed the others. Sally's Pride decided that Conquistador was just the playmate he had been looking for, and did his best to start a frolic with him. A dog named Fancy Jean, thinking she saw motion on the other side of the track, leaped to the end of her leash and fought when the handler brought her up short. But Tawny walked stiffly, as though he were the only living creature on the track. Weston knew that the pup was not posing. As far as Tawny was concerned, there were no other dogs or men. He was, as usual, holding himself aloof. He cared only about the forthcoming race.

The handlers led their dogs to the starting box, which actually did resemble a long box with numbers on the front. But it was separated into nine compartments and so arranged that the nine gates in front all opened at exactly the same instant. All dogs had an equal chance to start. From the rear, the handlers thrust their dogs into the compartments that corresponded with the numbers they had drawn. Then, for the first time, the handlers broke their parade-ground formation. They ran toward the grandstand and scrambled off the track.

"Here comes the rabbit," announced the loud-speaker.

Riding its steel path, the rabbit began to bounce around the track. The grandstand was dimmed and only the track remained lighted. When the rabbit was about fifteen yards ahead of the starting box, the dogs were released.

John Weston held his breath. The start of any greyhound race was a crucial time. Some dogs were ready to go at once and some needed a split second to get under way. It made a great difference for, in greyhound racing, there is seldom more than a split second between the winners and losers.

Pressed closely by Conquistador, Sarawak Queen took the early lead and increased it. The grandstand became filled with excited murmuring as spectators vocally urged their favorite to win. A laugh went up as Black Bart, off to a slow start, stopped to sniff interestedly at something on the track. Finally realizing that he was in a race, but hopelessly outdistanced, he ran to catch up with the rest.

Tangled in the pack, Tawny was running sixth.

Unbeatable for a short sprint but without stamina for a long race, Sarawak Queen fell behind. Some booed her, but John Weston felt a pang of pity. He knew how much Sarawak Queen had given in the first hundred and fifty yards and understood why she fell behind. Conquistador surged ahead until his lean grey length flashed a full eighteen inches in front of the rest. Sally's Pride, starting from Number Nine position, strained neck and neck with Fancy Jean for second place.

Suddenly Tawny was running with something besides his legs. His brain and heart were in it too. He was again a hunter's dog and must catch his game. It made no difference if it was only a mechanical rabbit; it was still a challenge. Unable to maintain the terrific pace, Fancy Jean fell behind. Inch by inch, Tawny closed the distance between himself and Sally's Pride.

Then the race was over.

The grandstand lights came on. Across the track, John Weston watched the winners' numbers flash onto the bulletin board. First was 3, Conquistador, the winner. Next was 9 for Sally's Pride, then 6 for Tawny. John Weston stood spellbound, knowing that he had witnessed a great performance. Tawny hadn't won, but when he had suddenly put his heart in the race, he had surged magnificently ahead, showing great staying power.

"What do you think of him now?" Charles Northcott said happily.

"I always thought well of him. If he'd do that every time, he'd be another King Bee in a few months."

"Still worried?"

"I still see the bronco in him," Weston confessed. "There's something strange about that dog. Maybe he'll outgrow it. Perhaps he's grieving for Fred. Or maybe he really is wild. I'd like to see what he does on the desert, off the track. Can we take him there?"

"Sure. How about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow will be fine," John Weston said. "Suppose I pick you up at half-past eight?"

Awakening only now and again to find a more comfortable position, or to lap a little fresh water and eat his dinner, Tawny slept for eight hours. But when he finally rested, he was wholly rested. He rose and peered between the bars on his kennel door.

He would like to run again, for only in running had he found satisfaction. The possibility of another race and only that, now kept him interested. Fred Haver had not visited him in a very long while and Tawny ached for him. He also longed for the sense of freedom and space that his trips to the desert with Fred had brought.

Tawny glanced indifferently at the lackadaisical Billy, who was cleaning a kennel at the far end of the line. King Bee had already gone to John Weston's kennel and some of the other dogs had also been sold. Tawny did not miss them. He regarded them much the same as he did Billy, just a part of things, part of the pattern of life as Tawny knew it. But except for racing, it had become a drab pattern.

There was a little more interest in his eyes when Charles Northcott and John Weston came into the building. Tawny was not really drawn to either man, but both had always treated him kindly. Much more important, they were the last two humans Tawny knew who had had anything to do with Fred Haver.

Charles Northcott opened the door to Tawny's kennel and snapped his fingers softly. "Come on out, Tawny."

Tawny stepped out, took the tidbit, a tiny piece of fresh hamburger, that Northcott offered him, and acknowledged the gift with a slight wag of his tail. Then he stared straight ahead as Northcott snapped a leash on his collar and started toward the door.

When ordered, Tawny climbed into the back seat of John Weston's car and sat quietly until he realized that they were not going to the track but out in the desert. Then he began to tremble with excitement. Fred Haver had always exercised him in the desert, and this was the first time he'd been there since Fred's death.

He made no move to get out of the car when it finally stopped because Fred Haver had taught him manners. But when Northcott opened the car door, Tawny leaped out eagerly. Unsnapping the leash, Northcott waved his hand.

"All right, Tawny. Go ahead."

Tawny walked a few steps, then broke into a fast run that carried him a hundred yards. When the wind carried a piece of torn paper in front of him, he leaped to snap it up. Then he stopped to look around. He had no recollection of having been in this exact spot at any previous time, yet the place seemed familiar.

Ready to run again, he responded instantly to the piercing whistle when Charles Northcott blew it. Though he had never loved anyone except Fred Haver, the bonds that tied him to men were strong and unquestionable. He must respond to the whistle because he had been so trained, but at the same time he was very restless. He returned to the two men reluctantly.

"Is he still the bronco?" Northcott asked.

John Weston looked puzzled. "He certainly doesn't act it now."

Tawny saw the jack rabbit before either man was aware of it, hopping out of some greasewood fifty yards away. Tawny strained eagerly, head up and eyes questing. Following his gaze, John Weston saw the big desert hare.

"Reckon he can catch it?"

"Let's find out. Take him, Tawny!"

The dog flashed forward, and had covered a third of the distance when the jack rabbit saw him coming. It dashed away, skittering up a small knoll on the summit of which grew a lonely ironwood tree. Eyes on the rabbit, Tawny mounted the knoll. The rabbit dodged sidewise but Tawny ran straight ahead.

This time he paid no attention whatever to the summoning whistle, for from the top of the knoll he saw, a quarter of a mile away, the many-armed saguaro near where Fred Haver had always parked the truck. Rising beyond that was the rocky knoll where Fred usually rested while Tawny ran. This was well-remembered country, a dear place, and Tawny whined low in his throat as he streaked toward it. He heard the whistle's summoning blast again, but again paid no attention whatever to it.

He reached and raced up the rocky knoll. There he leaped high, throat tense and tail stiff as he looked. His eyes were wild with excitement. This was where he had last seen Fred Haver and, since there was no trace of him elsewhere, it followed that this was where he would find him. Quivering with eagerness, Tawny coursed around the rocky knoll like a trail hound on a scent. A dozen times he went to where Fred had fallen in the greasewood.

When he did not find the beloved person for whom he searched, his eyes turned to the distant, alluring mountains, with their remembered promise of endless space and freedom. After another fruitless course around the knoll, Tawny started for the mountains at a fast run.

He never knew that Charles Northcott and John Weston searched for him until the desert day ended and the sudden desert night fell like a lowering curtain over the greasewood and cactus. He never saw them finally walk back to the car, nor heard Charles Northcott say, "You were right, John. He did have a bronco streak."

"It will show up every time," Weston replied. There was passionate sympathy in his voice when he turned for one last look at the desert, for he knew what a dog could face there.

"Poor devil," he said. "He doesn't stand a chance. I hope he dies quickly."