Читать книгу Stormy - Jim Kjelgaard - Страница 5

Cardsville, Oct. 16. Entirely without warning a huge cross-breed dog, formerly the property of Del Crossman, of Gull Lake, but for the past month living on the Zermeich farm, attacked Jacob Zermeich early this morning. After beating the animal off with a pick handle, Zermeich, who suffered severe lacerations, called Deputy Burmeister. A posse found no trace of the dog, which is thought to be rabid and should be shot on sight.

Allan lowered the paper, glanced at the dog, and looked back at the picture. He had no doubt that this was the same animal. That it had belonged to old Del Crossman, a renowned woodsman and duck hunter who had died some two months ago, explained its hunting skill. It was not and never had been rabid, or it would have been dead weeks ago. But why had it attacked a human being, what was it doing here, more than fifty miles from the scene of that attack, and who had shot it? The paper dangling from his hand, Allan looked steadily at the dog, thinking.

When Allan came forward again, Stormy made no move to retreat but neither was there any friendly wag of the tail. The dog was very alert, as though to anticipate the next move of this man and be ready for it. When Allan stooped to wipe the floor, Stormy sniffed his hand.

Allan threw the bloody paper into the stove and opened two cans of beef soup. Then, recklessly, he added two more, dumped all of them into a kettle, and put the kettle over to warm. When the soup was hot enough, Allan poured it into another dish and put it on the floor.

Stiffly, but without apparent pain, the dog rose and sniffed. Then, in spite of what must be raging hunger, Stormy ate slowly and with dignity. Finished, and with no trace of weakness or unsteadiness now, the retriever walked to the far wall and lay down again.

Smiling to himself, Allan prepared his own supper.