Yet, Trask Frayne was not content. He knew dog-nature, as it is given to few humans to know it. And he could not forget the wily black giant that had led the band of mongrels. The Black was a super-dog, for cunning and strength and elusiveness. That had been proven by certain ultra-devastating features of the raid; as well as by his own escape from the hunters.
And the Black still lived;—still lived, and with no worse reminder of his flight than a bullet-cut on one mighty shoulder. Such a dog was a menace; so long as he should continue alive.
Wherefore Trask Frayne wanted to kick himself for his own ill-luck in not killing him. And he was obsessed by a foreboding that the Valley had not seen the last of the Black. He could not explain this premonition.
He could not explain it, even to himself. For Valley history showed that each battle served as a wholesome lesson to the black dogs for years thereafter. Never, between forays, was one of them seen on the hither side of the Ramapo. Yet the idea would not get out of Frayne’s head.
Trask had hated the necessary job of destroying the mongrels. For he loved dogs. Nothing short of stark need would have lured him into shooting one of them. His own two thoroughbred collies, Tam-o’-Shanter and Wisp, were honoured members of the Frayne household.
Dogs of the same breed differ as much in character as do humans of the same race. For example, no two humans could have been more widely divergent in nature than were these two collies of Trask’s.
Tam-o’-Shanter was deep-chested, mighty of coat, tawny; as befitted the son of his illustrious sire, old Sunnybank Lad. Iron-firm of purpose and staunchly loyal to his master, Tam was as steady of soul as a rock. Whether guarding the farm-buildings or rounding up a bunch of scattered sheep that had broken bounds, he was calmly reliable.
He adored Trask Frayne with a worship that was none the less all-absorbing because it was so undemonstrative. And he cared for nothing and nobody else on earth—except Wisp.
Wisp had been the runt of a thoroughbred litter. He was slender and fragile and wholly lovable; a dainty little tricolour, scarce forty pounds in weight. Not strong enough for heavy work, yet Wisp was a gallant guard and a gaily affectionate house dog—the cherished pet and playfellow of the three Frayne babies. Also, he was Tam’s dearest friend.
The larger collie, from puppyhood, had established a protection over Wisp; ever conceding to him the warmest corner of the winter hearth, the shadiest spot in the dooryard in summer, the best morsels of their joint daily meal. He would descend from his calm loftiness to romp with the frolicsome Wisp;—though the sight of stately Tam, trying to romp, was somehow suggestive of Marshal Joffre playing pat-a-cake.