“How about it, boy?” asked Kit, pausing as he passed Oliver. “Do you wish you’d gone back to Touse with Ike?”
“No,” asserted Oliver, stoutly, as with stiffened fingers he stitched at his ragged moccasin, to repair it.
“Thar’s the lieutenant. I reckon he wants you a minute,” continued Kit, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he surveyed Oliver.
Lieutenant Frémont beckoned. Oliver went over to him.
“Boy, we’re about out of meat, except for the animals which we need to break the trail, and for a couple of rabbits; and we ought to be strong to make a good start, in the morning. The men of your mess ask if they may kill your dog, so that we can eat. He’s grown fat, I notice, while the rest of us have been growing thin. What do you say?”
Oliver’s heart swelled into his throat, choking him.
“If—if you think best, sir,” he stammered. “But there’s that other dog. Mine—mine sleeps with me. He’s—a—good—dog; an awful good dog.”
“I know it, Oliver,” replied Lieutenant Frémont. “I know just how you feel. But he may be the means of saving our lives; he couldn’t die in better cause, could he? That Tlamath dog is only a pup; we must save him, to grow. Probably we’ll have to eat him later. But now——” and hesitating, the lieutenant with his piercing blue eyes examined Oliver anxiously. “We wouldn’t ask it if it wasn’t necessary. It will be a little sacrifice, on your part, for the general good.”
“Well——” faltered Oliver, his voice so weak that he was ashamed of it. “I remember—you and Kit told me I might have to eat dog; but I won’t eat him. I won’t! The rest can.” And quickly turning away, for fear that he was going to cry, he stumbled off among the trees.
Soon he heard a shot. That was it. Now his dog never again would nose his hand, or chase rabbits, or snuggle upon his feet, at night.