His wizened hand on the dog’s ruff, he strode back to the house, shutting the door loudly behind Treve and himself.
It was late when Royce Mack got back from Ova, that evening. Joel was sitting up for him. Royce said nothing to his partner, but went at once to Treve, who had come slowly forward to meet him.
His hands roamed remorsefully over the dog, and he seemed trying to say something. Treve was looking up into Royce’s face with that same strickenly reproachful expression that the man had not been able to get out of his memory all evening.
“If you’re huntin’ for broken ribs or for rupture,” commented Joel as he watched his partner’s exploring hands, “there ain’t any. Small thanks to you; an’ by a mir’cle of heaven. Treve’s all right. Except you’ve smashed suthin’ in the heart an’ the soul of him that you can’t unsmash. That’s all you done.”
The old man’s toneless voice irked Mack.
“Can you blame me?” he challenged. “What else could I do? I saw him spring at her and knock her down. I thought he was killing her. It seemed the only way to—”
“To prove you’re a born fool?” supplemented Joel. “You didn’t need to prove it to me. Nor, when she’s knowed you a while longer, you won’t need to prove it to her, neither. Why would he be killin’ her? Hey? We’ve had him all these years; an’ he never yet did a thing that wa’n’t wiser’n the wisest thing you ever did. Nor yet he never did anything that was rotten. You might ’a’ knowed he had some reason for actin’ so. Anyhow, there’s lots better ways for a man to show he’s a dog’s inferior, than by kickin’ him.”
“Let it go at that!” muttered Royce, sullenly; harder hit than he cared to show, by the look in his collie chum’s dark eyes. “I’ll make it up to him, somehow. I—”
“Make it up to him?” mocked Fenno. “How? By tellin’ him you’ve forgave him, maybe? Or by gettin’ him a nice gold watch an’ wearin’ it for him till he’s old enough to take care of it? ‘Make it up to him!’ Lord!”
Royce turned wrathfully on his expressionless partner.