“You’ve heard of Storm’s doings lately?”
“News filters through, but I’ve little use for gossip—especially of friends.”
“Aye, you were always partial to Storm, and I fair loved the dog myself. Best of his kind, he was—knew how to round ewes up the pastures like a marvel—till he fell from grace.”
“We all do, Stephen, time and time.”
“You’re partial to him, as I said. But a dog that takes to worrying sheep, and feeding on ’em, is a cannibal—eats his own flesh-and-blood, as you might say.”
“You trained him to be jealous, Brant?”
“Shepherds do. A dog that’s any man’s dog means as much as a bunch of windle-straws.”
“Yet I could always whistle him from your side.”
“Aye,” growled the shepherd— “and see what comes of it. A sheep-stealer, he, and me with a gun in my hands. That’s what is coming to Storm, for I’ve news of him this way.”
“Then likely he’s back in the Logie country by this time. Either way, bad luck to your shooting, Stephen.”