“They had long legs, sharp noses and big white teeth.”
“Doberman pinschers, I’ll bet. Say! Tim Robbins breeds Dobermans over in Bluff. They make better sheep tenders than shepherds, he claims. Let’s pay him a visit, even if it is late.” He started the jeep.
“What are you planning to do?” Sandy asked sharply.
“If Utes could behave like buffalo, there’s no reason why I can’t be a dog,” Ralph answered.
“But you don’t have a dog skin,” Sandy objected.
“I’m going to get one.”
Old man Robbins was in bed when they arrived at his home on the outskirts of the little mining town. He came downstairs in his nightshirt when he recognized Ralph’s voice, made coffee for his visitors, and listened to their request without surprise.
“Why, sure, I’ve got a few skins,” he said. “Here’s one that belonged to poor Maisie. She died of distemper last year. I was going to upholster a chair with her, but you can have her for a dollar.”
“Mind if I take a look around your runways and kennels, Dad?” Ralph asked.
“Go ahead, but don’t get yourself bit, young feller.” The old man shook his head at the strange ways of all Indians.