CHAPTER XX
GUARD MAKES A MISTAKE
Mr. Horton was returning to the charge when I eagerly caught at an opportunity that now presented itself, of speeding his departure. He was standing with his back to the open door, and had not observed, as we did, that his horse—contrary to the usual habit of mountain ponies—was not standing patiently where his master had left him.
Weary of waiting, he was walking away along the homeward road as rapidly as the dangling bridle reins would allow.
“Mr. Horton,” I said, “your horse is leaving.” A wicked impulse forced me to add: “I am sure you would hate to lose your horse here—as you did a coat button, one night not so long ago.”
It was a reckless speech to make, as I felt when I looked at him. His face turned of a livid pallor; he looked murderous as he stood in his tracks, glaring at me. He was, I am certain, afraid to trust himself to speak, or to remain near me. He bounded out of the house shouting “Whoa! Whoa!” as he ran. Guard was dozing by the doorstep. Mr. Horton’s action and call were so sudden that he sprang up, wide awake, looking eagerly around, under the impression that his services were in requisition. Though nearly full grown he was still a puppy, with many things to learn. The horse, also startled by Mr. Horton’s outcry, raised his head, turning it from side to side as he looked back in search of the creature that had made such a direful noise. He quickened his pace into a trot, checked painfully whenever he stepped on the trailing bridle.
An older and wiser dog than Guard, seeing the saddle and the trailing bridle, would have known better than to attempt to practice his “heeling” accomplishments on the animal that wore them. But Guard, eager to air his lately-acquired knowledge, stopped for no such considerations. Passing Mr. Horton, who was running after the horse, like a flash, he made a bee-line for that gentleman’s mount. Reaching the animal, he crouched and bit one of his heels sharply. As the horse bounded away, he followed, nipping the flying heels and yelping with excitement. Mr. Horton toiled along in their rear and I ran after him—not actuated by any strong desire to come to his assistance, but in fear of what might happen should he succeed in laying hands on Guard. The very set of his vanishing shoulders told me that he was purple with rage and fatigue, and I had good cause to fear for the safety of the dog, to whom I called and whistled, imploringly. After a chase of about half a mile, Guard, making a wide detour around Mr. Horton, came slinking back to me. He was evidently troubled with misgivings as to the propriety of his conduct, and crouched in the dust at my feet, looking up at me with beautiful beseeching eyes. “You did very, very wrong!” I admonished him, earnestly. “You are never—ne-ver—to heel a horse that has a saddle or bridle on. Do you understand?”
Guard hung his head dejectedly, his bright eyes seeming to say that he understood, and would profit by the lesson.
Returning to the house I went in again instead of mounting the waiting horse and getting about my delayed errand.