“Ain’t you ever heard about coyote dogs?” returned Hotchkiss. “Why, they’re that vengeful they hold a grouch for years until they pay it off. Abuse a coyote dog, by thunder, and he’ll make it a p’int to get even. How about it, Bleek?”
Bleeker nodded solemnly.
“Go on,” jeered Clancy; “you can’t make me swallow any such stuff as that.”
“You don’t know coyote dogs same as us fellows that live out in these parts,” persisted Hotchkiss. “Over at Sacatone a miner kicked one o’ those tramp curs and broke its leg. Six months after that the miner was found dead in the trail, all chewed to pieces.”
“Maybe it was a panther did that,” suggested Frank.
“Not on your life, Merriwell! The footprints around the miner were those of a dog. Lots o’ things like that have happened.”
“I’m glad, Chip,” chuckled Clancy, “that you and I are on the safe side. We did what we could for that homely brute, so he ought to feel sort of friendly toward us.”
“I guess, fellows,” said Chip, with a laugh, “that there’s a whole lot of superstition wrapped up in those yarns about coyote dogs. What’s a coyote dog, anyhow?”
“Just enough coyote in him to make him savage and wild, and just enough tame dog in him to make him want to be around where human bein’s congregate. People who know, treat an animile like that with consideration, but those who are ignorant make a big mistake when they try to shoot such a brute, or to hit it with a club.”
“Much obliged for the tip, Hotch,” grinned Frank. “Whenever I meet a coyote dog, after this, I’ll treat him with consideration. So long, fellows. Clancy and I have got to be going.”