The Incident of Man's Best Friend
I'd heard of dog days, three dog nights, dog-eared and dog tired; in fact, I've experienced most, but I never thought one lost wandering mutt could change a trail drive in so many ways. I was wrong. I'm Gil Favor, trail boss.
He was just a mutt; as nondescript as they come. Some sort of terrier with a little bit of collie thrown in for effect. What effect there was did not dazzle the senses of the drovers. In fact, their first reaction, to a man, was laughter. Whiskers stuck stiffly out from the dog's muzzle like porcupine quills and his terrier/collie ears didn't know whether to stand at strict attention or droop half-heartedly – so they did both; the left stood straight up while the right drooped somewhat dejectedly. His coat was best described as harlequin – too many colors mixed together with no thought as to eye appeal and as coarse and kinky as wire. Skinny and long-legged, it seemed the animal hadn't yet grown into his body.
"He sure acts the clown, don't he?" Wishbone asked of no one in particular as the dog loped up, tongue hanging from between slobbery jaws; tail wagging at the attention; eyes bright; obviously oblivious to the fact he was the object of derision.
The reply from the clustered drovers was unanimous, "Yup!"
"Looks it, too!" Mushy added even as he scraped a dollop of stew onto a tin plate and offered it to the interloper.
"Hey! I ain't ate yet and here you go givin' MY dinner to that mangy dog!" Pete Nolan stepped down off his saddle, slapping dust from chaps with his beat up hat. Hot and sweaty, tired and hungry, he was not in the mood for fooling around or for foolish behavior. "You hear me, Mushy? I ain't ate yet! Don't go feedin' that cur..."
"Aw, keep yer shirt on, Pete Nolan! There's plenty more where that came from. That's just scrapins off the men's plates is all! I kept yers warm. Like I don't always," Wishbone muttered. Filling a plate with hot meat and potatoes, he handed it to the owly scout.
Somewhat mollified, Nolan took the plate. "Thanks, Wish."
Finding an empty seat he watched the dog gobble the food, the famished animal still managing to stop between mouthfuls to grin up at his benefactors. "Kinda takes my appetite away watchin' him eat." Pete groaned, dumping the remnants of his stew onto the animal's plate.
"Now you know how we feel watchin' you eat!" Jim Quince slapped Pete on the back, the gesture letting a friend know the jibe was meant as a joke – for the most part.
"Very funny, Jim. Real funny!" Pete acknowledged with a scowl.
Wishbone handed Nolan a cup of coffee. As soon as Pete took the cup, Wish bent down to peer into the scout's face. Pete drew back. "What the hell you doin'?" He asked. "I got food smeared on me or somethin'?"
Nolan wiped his mouth off against his sleeve and while so occupied barely averted Wishbone's hand angling for his forehead, Pete reacting just in time to block the gesture.
"Just wonderin' if yer sick or somethin'! I don't every recall Pete Nolan not cleanin' his plate and beggin' for more besides and here you go givin' your dinner to a stray mutt! I'm just concerned is all!" Wish huffed, slightly hurt by Pete's attitude.
"I ain't sick. It's just that dog...all that slobberin' and grinnin'. It's disgustin' is all. I ain't sick!" Pete reiterated.
"Well, awright then. I guess you ain't. But come breakfast and you ain't your usual self..." Wishbone left the sentence open-ended, but Pete knew, as did all those listening...if a man wasn't his 'usual self' he got dosed with castor oil and no complaints. Sick men meant slow moving or non-moving cattle and that would not be tolerated by Gil Favor. Castor oil beat a tongue-lashing or worse from the trail boss.
"Aw, he ain't disgusting, Mr. Nolan! He's kinda cute! Look how he wags his tail! Mushy bent down to scratch the animal behind the ears. For his trouble he was rewarded with a thorough face washing. Leftover bits of unidentifiable food dotted the young man's cheeks and chin courtesy of the overzealous canine.
Pete turned away, utterly revolted. "I'd rather be on night hawk than spend another minute in camp with that mutt!"
"That suits me just fine, Mr. Nolan. I love it when a man volunteers. You're on night duty. You, too, Quince!" Gil Favor accepted coffee from Wishbone, reaching for the sugar and dosing the dark brew liberally.
At Jim's astonished, "but I didn't volunteer, Mr. Favor! I like the dog!" Gil attempted, successfully for the most part, to hide a grin.
"You heard me, Jimbo; up and at it... now!" Gil snapped. The Boss was back.
Pete didn't offer a protest. What was the use? He'd put his foot into his mouth, boot, spur and all and paid for it...in spades. Besides, he really didn't want to be in camp with that dog – at least that's what he told himself. It made the long hours back in the saddle at least slightly more bearable.
His shift finally over, Pete rolled into his blankets and slept the sleep of the just or the dead. When he woke it was to the bewhiskered face of the dog, its bristly muzzle not an inch from his own nose. Half asleep, the sight scared him mightily and he leaped up, forgetting he'd placed his bed roll under the supply wagon. His expression, coupled with the loud thunk of head against wood got everyone's attention.
Even as the bump on his forehead swelled to truly mammoth proportions, Pete's face reddened in embarrassment at the laughter of his cronies. He didn't know whether to swear, yell or cry like a baby. Two out of three had to do and as Wishbone applied witch hazel to the lump on his outsides and castor oil to his insides, Nolan alternated between swearing like a trooper, cursing dog and cook alike, and yelling in pain. Actually, the yells sounded more like yodels which only made the other drovers laugh all the harder.
At the commotion Favor cut short his leisurely shave and hurried up from the river. "What the hell is going on here? Sounds like a bunch of escaped lunatics! Is this a cattle drive or not?" Though the boss was less than amused, for the second time in less than 24 hours, his drovers were. "That dog," Gil pointed to the animal in question, which, as usual, wagged his tail, woofing as if acknowledging Favor's attention, "Have something to do with why this drive is not making any forward momentum?"
"He sure does, Boss! That damned dog...I..." Pete stammered, unsure as to why the dog really was to blame. "When I woke up...he was starin' right into my face! Scared the ...scared me half to death! Cracked my head near open. See?" Pouting, the scout angled the wounded area toward Favor.
Gil leaned down and took a look. "That's a hen's egg if ever I saw one," he mused. "Bet you got two blacks eyes before noon." Turning to Wishbone he inquired, "He able to ride with that?"
"I can ride, Boss." Pete, momentarily forgetting the lump, slapped his Stetson down a bit too hard, yelping in pain and jumping up from his seat, although somehow managing to hold any cursing to a minimum.
"I don't recall asking you. I asked Wish." Gil tapped his foot and the muscle beneath the firm jaw line twitched ominously. Patience was not a Favor virtue.
"He can ride, Boss," Wish replied. "He ain't seein' double or anything; least not that I know of."
Nolan shook his head – gingerly.
"Pete, mount up. The rest a you do the same; all but you, Scarlet. Take that dog out a ways and...."
"But Boss, I can't...!" Joe leaped to his feet, the laughter of only moments ago forgotten. "Boss, I can't!" the big drover protested.
"I didn't give you your orders yet! Take that dog out a ways and tie him to a tree. Make the knot stout. We'll be long gone before he chews his way out." At Scarlet's relieved expression, Favor commented, "didn't your ma ever tell you not to put the cart before the horse, Joe?"
Scarlet cocked his head and shrugged. "No, Boss. But what's horses and carts got to do with dogs and such?" he asked in all innocence.
It was Favor's turn to shrug. "Never mind. Just do what I said, Joe and do it fast."
Scarlet smiled. "Yes, sir, Boss!"
When camp was made that evening, Pete, both eyes black as per the boss's bet, made certain to take his bed roll far from the wagons, finding a nice spot away from snickering drovers and baiting looks. Sighing in relative comfort, he rolled over and fell soundly asleep.
As unbelievable as it sounded, he woke to loud laughter. Sitting up oh so carefully and blinking in the new light, Pete Nolan realized that once again, he was the object of the merriment. Glancing down he noticed that the dog had somehow managed to chew through Scarlet's handiwork, the remnants of hemp remaining about his neck like a raggedy necktie, and made his way to Pete's side. Lying on his back, all four paws waving in the air, tongue lolling from its open mouth the animal squirmed and wriggled in what Pete perceived as perverse delight in the man's discomfort and embarrassment.
"I quit! I just plain quit!" he shouted which only added to the general amusement of the men.
"Does that mean you quit the drive or you quit pretendin' you don't like that mutt bein' your new best buddy?" Rowdy teased with little tact. He enjoyed baiting Pete. Usually the jibes fell on deaf ears, though occasionally, the two had come to blows over some small misunderstanding. However, today, Pete Nolan was in no mood for a fight, no matter how tantalizing the prod.
"Come on now, Pete. You act like you never had a dog before!" Wish added, grinning. But at Nolan's curt "well, I never did have no dog!" The cook's fine mood soured and he quickly lost the smile.
"How come? Every kid's had a dog sometime or other. You was a kid once, wasn't ya?" Wish pressed.
"Course I was a kid once, but that don't change the fact that I never had no dog!" Pete pushed the blankets off, throwing them over onto the dog who didn't seem bothered in the least. Thinking it all a fine game, the animal inched out from under the wool, grabbed the blanket in his teeth and began dragging it through the dirt, play-growling all the while. Nolan ignored it.
"My pa thought every animal on our place served its purpose; either it worked or we ate it – playin' with dogs only made 'em soft and lazy. So no, Wishbone, I never had no dog! Nor no cat neither."
Dog, not realizing he was being blatantly ignored by the object of his play, now pushed the wet wool into Pete's hand, rumbling happily deep in his throat; his angular body trembling with kinetic energy.
"Well, sure enough looks like you got one now!" Wish observed, wry grin once more firmly in place.
Nolan just sighed.
In the coming days the dog left his master's side rarely. Even a tasty tidbit offered at mealtime from one of the drovers attempting to turn the animal's affections his way proved fruitless. The ploy never worked. Dog was stuck on Pete Nolan and that was that. Mealtimes saw him leaning into Pete's knee as the lanky scout sat and ate his meal. Not once did the dog's gaze leave the man's face, not even when tempted by Mushy or Wishbone – even knowing it was for a plateful of leftovers. The adoration in the dog's eyes was there for all to see. Ultimately and with resignation, Pete Nolan accepted it and the dog.
Naturally there was some jealousy among the men; in particular, one Rowdy Yates. If he couldn't tempt the dog from Nolan with treats or pats, he'd turn the scout's newly found affection to disaffection. Rowdy wasn't sure why he wanted the dog to like him. He just did.
Bathing in the first clear mountain lake the drive had come upon since leaving arid north Texas, Pete Nolan was up to his armpits in cold nirvana. A large bar of brown soap clutched firmly in hand, he lathered it into his thick unruly hair, knowing full well he'd have to repeat the procedure three or four times to get the accumulated grit out, if he was lucky. But he had time and the inclination. Around him the ministrations were repeated as every man not on duty saw fit to take advantage of such a rare treat as a good long bath.
"Hey, Pete...ever hear that old sayin' that after awhile a dog and his owner start to lookin' alike? You ever hear that one, Pete?" Rowdy stood on the bank, a towel slung over one shoulder, a smirking grin on his face.
It didn't take Nolan more than a heartbeat to realize Yates was once again baiting him. All hands turned to look at Pete. Heads swiveled from the man in the water to the dog frolicking on the bank. It took barely two heartbeats for the laughter to start.
"Why it's true, Pete! You and that dog look just alike – hair stickin' straight up on top a your head like wet feathers – just exactly like that dog! And them black eyes a yourn – sorta like a raccoon – well, I swear, just like that danged dog!" Joe meant no harm. He was just stating the truth.
Rowdy's ploy had worked like a charm. Pete got mad; more than mad, he was crazed. Storming out of the water, clad only in summer weight drawers, Nolan drove straight at Yates. The two rolled in the lakeside mud, slinging punches, kicking, biting and tearing into each other with no holds barred. Soon they were in the water where Rowdy had the upper hand. Taller and heavier, he shoved Pete's head under again and again. Pete came up sputtering, but the fight not out of him yet.
On the shore, the dog became highly agitated and dove into the fray, attempting to bite at whatever part of Rowdy was available, yet somehow, in the water, with no scent to help discern who was who, it was Pete who took the brunt of the animal's wrath. By the time the boss waded into the water to keep his ramrod from drowning his scout, Nolan's drawers were in tatters and the man himself a mass of scratches and shallow bites, while Rowdy, the instigator, came out of it relatively unscathed.
Pete was angrier at the dog than at the perpetrator of his near drowning. "What kinda dog are you anyhow?" he yelled at the animal that now recognized his master and capered and cavorted about the underwear-clad legs. "Where the hell's your loyalty? Ain't dogs suppose to be loyal?"
At the dog's slobbering attempt to lick at his scraped and bleeding hands, Pete pushed the animal aside. "Friends like you I don't need."
All that evening the dog attempted to make amends, knowing somehow that he'd done something terribly wrong yet not understanding how to make things right, even crawling on his belly over to where Pete lay on his bedroll and playing the clown, turning over onto his back and waving all four paws in the air. Usually that elicited laughter, but not this night. Hurt, the animal walked over to the fire and dropped down. Not even a plate of dinner brought a spark of interest to the confused canine or the offer of pats or play from the drovers. When Rowdy reached down to scratch him behind the ears, he growled menacingly. The hand jerked back as the jaws snapped shut on thin air.
That night, just as a full moon rose, a raucous encounter of unrivaled magnitude threw the camp into an uproar. The noise centered near Pete Nolan's bedroll - off a ways from the others and beneath an impressive rock outcropping, and sounded like dog and man embroiled in a life or death struggle.
Gil Favor came at a run, gun drawn. For all the world it looked as if the dog was madly attacking Pete who struggled fiercely to get out from within his cocooning blankets all the while yelling incomprehensibly at the top of his lungs. Favor took aim at what seemed to be a rabid dog, but couldn't get a clear shot.
Wishbone ran up, shotgun at the ready, but like the boss, there was no way to get a clear shot with the Greener without hitting Pete.
"What's goin' on here?" Rowdy appeared, breathing hard, obviously wakened by the terrible din. He held no gun, but a stout stick he'd picked up. Instantly taking in the situation, he leaped into the fray before Gil or Wishbone could stop him. Again and again the stick fell. Soon there was only the sound of harsh breathing.
Rowdy struggled to his feet. From one hand dangled the lifeless body of a rattlesnake, its large, diamond-shaped head crushed from Yates' fierce blows. It was fully three feet in length and as thick around as a man's wrist.
Somehow Pete finally managed to unwrap himself from the blankets. Across his legs rested the dog, eyes, as always, raised to the man's face while he attempted, weakly, to lick Pete's hands. Out of the stunned silence came Nolan's soft voice. "He saved my life...the dog. He saved my life." He looked up and into the faces of the men clustered near.
Wishbone handed the Greener off to Jim Quince and knelt at Pete's side. His first thought was to check the man. Nolan had been bitten above the wrist, but Wish's efforts to provide immediate first aid were shunned by the scout.
"I ain't hurt bad! It's him! Look at the dog first, Wish! He's bit. I know he's bit bad! Dammit! I shoulda known better than to put my bedroll so close to the rocks!" Pete agonized.
"Somebody get me my medical bag and hurry it up!" Wish looked over the dog. It had been bitten, not once but numerous times; the mark of fang on muzzle and face.
Sadly, he shook his head. "It's no use. He's bit too many times. I wish it could be otherwise, but it's no use." Wishbone patted the dog gently on the head. Feeble as he was, the animal's tail swished in response.
"Now let's tend you, Pete Nolan, or you won't be in any better shape than Dog." Gently, Wishbone lifted the animal from his master's lap and handed him back to Rowdy.
This time Nolan allowed the old healer to treat his wound, never flinching at the painful ministrations. All his attention focused on Rowdy as the ramrod tended Dog on a blanket near the fire, the animal's soft whimpers tugging at every man's heart.
For days Pete burned with fever, tossing on his pallet and out of his head, raving. The bitten arm ballooned and blackened and Wishbone sliced into the flesh to relieve the swelling. It was touch and go, but Wish never gave up. Pete Nolan would live. And so would Dog.
Wishbone put the final touches on Pete's clean dressing, naturally having to work around the dog which lay in the wagon right next to the patient, one paw on Pete's chest, attention, as always, on his master's face. "You musta got bit first, Pete. There's no way a animal coulda survived bein' bit so many times else most a that venom was used up."
"I don't care what you say, Wishbone. Dog saved my life and that's that! If it wasn't for him, why, I'da gotten bit a bunch more times 'fore I coulda gotten outta that bedroll! He saved my life!" Pete looked over and directly at his former antagonist, Rowdy Yates. Rowdy walked up to the wagon.
"Well, you helped some, too, Rowdy." Pete acknowledged. "Thanks."
"No thanks needed, Pete. You're right. Dog saved your life. I just put an end to one hell of a fight." Yates grinned and reached over to scratch the animal behind the ears. The raggedy tail thumped with enthusiasm. There would be no more growls.
"Guess a dog really is man's best friend, huh?" Pete asked.
"You darned well better be told that one is!" Wishbone concluded.
"If you all are through with your mutual back-slapping, we do have some cattle to move and ain't none of us gettin' any younger!" Gil Favor looked on with supreme satisfaction as his men scurried to their various posts in record time. Only Dog looked up at him with what seemed a too-knowing expression in his dark liquid eyes while an almost human expression of mirth played across the comical face. Gil couldn't resist and reached a hand down to fondle the animal's mismatched ears.
"He's a smart one," Pete said, a gentle fondness and newly acquired respect in his voice.
"Too smart, I'd say," Favor replied with an unveiled smile for the fast-mending scout and his constant canine companion.
Turning from the wagon, Gil took his horse's reins from Hey Soos and swung effortlessly into the saddle. "Head 'em up! Move 'em out!"