“Did he stop?”
“Stopped for one look, and then one jump into the brush and away he went.”
Westley was almost convinced; he turned to call Reck, with some curious and half-formed notion that he might catechize the dog himself. But when he turned, he found Reck at his side; and the setter was standing steadily, legs stiff and proud like a dog on show, eyes fixed on Proutt. There was no guilt in his attitude; nor was there accusation. There was only steady pride and self-respect; and Westley, at sight of him, could not believe this damning thing.
He said slowly: “Look at him, Proutt. If this were true, he’d be ashamed, and crawling. You saw some other dog.”
Proutt shook his head. “He’s a wise, bold dog, is Reck. Wise as you and me. He’ll face it out if he can.”
Westley pulled himself together, dropping one hand on Reck’s head. “I don’t believe it, Proutt,” he said. “But I’m going to make sure.”
“I am sure,” said Proutt. “You can do as you please. But don’t ask me to keep my mouth shut. You was quick enough to shoot Jackson’s dog when you caught her on that doe.”
“I know,” said Westley; and his face was white. “I’ll be as quick with Reck, when I’m sure.”
“You’ll take pains not to get sure.”
Westley held his voice steady. “Did you ever have to call Reck off deer tracks?”