As Smythe viciously attacked the cold meat and bread set before him, a long, weird howl came floating and trembling on the air. He dropped his fork and sat erect, fear written in his shifting eyes. Once again came the cry, and Smythe arose and went to the window. Through the narrow oaken slabs of the kennel-fence, he caught sight of four heavy-chested, yellow-white dogs. They were creeping slowly across the inclosure with heavy jaws half open and saliva dripping from their red tongues. As the watching man gazed, fascinated, one of them lifted its head and sent a heart-chilling cry upward. Then, chancing to catch sight of the fear-stricken man at the window, the huge dog hurled itself against the solid bars of its prison, only to fall back on its haunches. But it placed its deeply-cloven muzzle against the narrow opening and drew in its breath with a whistling, sobbing sound that sent a shiver to the watcher’s heart, for the dog’s red eyes were fastened hungrily upon him. Colonel Hallibut, entering, noted Smythe’s look, and followed up the impression the dog had made.
“I wouldn’t give a penny for your chance if Trailer there caught you in the open, Smythe,” he said soberly. “Better not watch him if you care to sleep to-night. Guess I’d better get rid of that Trailer. He scares me, and I’m used to him.”
“What do you keep those awful animals for?” asked Smythe with a husky voice.
“Smythe,” said Hallibut, “I’ve kept those dogs—well, because they’ve been good friends to me, and I can’t make up my mind to kill them.”
Smythe shuddered and reached for his cap. He walked slowly from the room and climbed into his saddle. The Colonel watched him take the trail, then, his duty as a host done, he turned into the house with an expression of disgust.
Once Smythe had rounded the clump of bushes, he slashed the sleepy, over-fed mare into a gallop, which was not slackened until he was many miles down the trail. Then he dipped into a hollow, reined up, and whistled softly. Watson came from among the trees leading a bay horse by the bridle-rein. He glanced at Smythe’s face and his own darkened.
“I told you he wouldn’t believe you,” he flashed. “What did he say?”
Smythe leaned forward in the saddle.
“ ‘My friend,’ he answered, ‘tell Watson I hope to see him before he dies.’ ”
Watson did not reply. He sprang into the saddle and the two rode for a mile or two in silence. Then Smythe remarked: