Up to that moment he had supposed that the two men had not seen him, and that the dog had been sent to pick up what might appear “unclaimed property.” But the command given to the animal, with the scornful laugh, at once cured him of his delusion, and he turned toward them with a scowl that might have terrified bolder spirits than theirs.
It did not check his rising wrath to perceive that they were a brace of young “bloods” out on a pleasuring excursion. Perhaps all the more did he feel sensible of the insult.
He who had wandered far and wide; who had tracked Comanches on the war-path; had struck his sword against a chevaux-de-frise of Mexican bayonets, to be mocked after such fantastic fashion, and by such fellows!
“Command the dog back!” he shouted, in a voice that made the rocks re-echo. “Back with him; or, by heaven, you shall both rue it!”
“Come on, Bruno?” cried they, reckless, now they had committed themselves. “Good dog! Fetch it! fetch it!”
He in the shirt-sleeves stood for a moment irresolute, because feeling himself helpless. The animal had got out of his reach. It would be impossible to overtake it. Equally so to swim out to the boat, and wreak his wrath upon the rowers, whose speech continued to torture him.
Though seeming to him an age, his inaction was scarce of a second’s continuance. On looking around to see what might be done, his eye rested upon the gun, still lying upon the ledge where he had left it.
With an exulting shout he sprang toward the piece, and again held it in his grasp. It was loaded with large shot; for he had been sporting for water-fowl.
He did not wait to give warning. The scurvy behaviour of the fellows had released him from all ceremony; and hastily raising the piece, sent a shower of shot around the shoulders of the Newfoundland.
The dog dropped the coat, gave out a hideous growling, and swam, crippled-like, toward the boat.