Shepherds of the Wild/Chapter 29
Chapter XXIX
Almost in a breath Shep's ferocity passed away. He eyed the still form for a sign of life, but quickly the fierce yellow lights died from his eyes. The avenger, the remorseless slayer was gone, and just the shepherd, rare comrade and fellow guardian of the flocks, remained. His tail wagged in friendship, the stiff hairs began to lie down at the animal's shoulders. And he looked up in inarticulate appeal to the girl's face,
"It's no use, old boy," the girl told him. "I'm tied fast and I can't go with you. And—yes—the fire is coming."
She told the truth. It had still a long way to go before it encompassed the floor of the draw, but it was steadily, remorselessly drawing nearer. The dog whined softly.
The girl shook her head. "I can't go, old boy," she repeated. "We're lost—you and I and your master, too. You've helped us all you can."
The animal seemed to understand. A great, brooding sorrow came into his intelligent eyes. Here was the third of them that had given his all for the sheep, one who had stayed for his work when his swift legs and sure instincts could have saved him from the fire; and when all is said and done, mostly for the same reason that Hugh had stayed with his sheep,—because it was the inner law of the breed from which he sprung. He was the shepherd dog, and he had fulfilled his obligation even to the death. Many of his breed before him had done as much. Many would come after—humble, unlauded—and obey to the inevitable end the same laws. The high schemes of the Universe were dimly before her eyes.
The dog barked again, then encircled the tree and licked softly at her hands. It occurred to the girl that she might try to make her position plain to the dog, urging him to bring his master to her aid. Yet she couldn't gesture with her pinioned arms, and the understanding of Shep did not go out to words alone. She couldn't write a note to fasten to the dog's collar. "Help me, Shep," she pleaded. "Go and get help." The dog whined again, and she felt his warm tongue at her palm. "Can you hear me, Shep? Can't you understand?"
As if in obedience, the dog turned and sped away. But in this last fearful hour she could not make herself accept even this shadow of a hope. Besides, Hugh was probably already dead or hemmed in by the two converging crescents of fire. She found herself wishing that the dog had stayed. He would be company for her in that last awful moment just before the shadow would drop down for good and all. She found herself dreaming that if he had only stayed, perhaps his kindly fangs would play—just one little time—at her throat, saving her from the final agony. He had always understood so well: perhaps he would have helped her cheat those stealing tongues of red that ever crept nearer. She couldn't reach the pistol at her waist to cheat them herself. At least, she might have partaken of Shep's own great spirit of strength.
She was alone and afraid at the dark frontier of death. There was no help, no mercy from the flames: the shadows hovered close. She wished she had stayed with Hugh. Death and its agony would not seem so fearful then, in the shelter of his arms. Now his kiss was cold upon her lips; but with their love to sustain them they could have faced bravely their remorseless doom. Smoke drifted around her. Most of it was carried up and away, yet perhaps it would bring merciful unconsciousness before the flames should creep up to her.
Running at top speed, Shep circled around the flock to Hugh's side. The man was standing up to receive him. He had seen his speeding form a long way off through the dim clouds of smoke: the only creature that moved in the whole breadth of the forest. The sheep themselves were making no further effort to flee from the flames. Far or near, the wall had encircled them; and they stood as if stricken dead, heads close to the ground.
"Great God, Shep!" the man cried. "Have you come back to see it through with me?"
And a light that had no kinship with the dreadful glare of the fire flashed to the man's face. Shep was returning to his flocks. He had kept faith, after all. He was only a dog, yet to Hugh his fidelity was a clear, bright shaft of light in an impenetrable darkness. No scales of earth could measure the difference that it made to him.
Yet Shep did not come to nestle in his strong arms. Memories were flashing over him, and he remembered a morning, months ago, when one of his wards had been in danger and he himself had been powerless to save. A lamb had fallen into the torrent, and his master had gone quickly to his aid. When he was within a few feet of Hugh he paused, barking, then ran a little way back.
"What is it, Shep?" the man asked. "What do you want me to do?"
The dog barked louder, running forward again and pausing to see if his master followed. Hugh gazed at him with widening eyes. At first it did not even occur to him that Alice was in distress. He supposed that she had fled to safety long since. Yet the dog was frenzied in his eagerness, just as in times past when some beast of prey had menaced one of the sheep. And Hugh remembered that never once had the dog urged him forward without cause.
"What is it, old man?" he cried. "There's no way out. Let's stay with the sheep—and see it through."
But still the animal entreated. The fire raged and roared, burning slowly on the descents, leaping with incredible fury as it mounted the ridges, advancing steadily down the floor of the valley. East, west, south and north,—everywhere a wall of flame. There was no way out. Yet he could not doubt the urgency of this appeal. And all at once the instinct came to answer it.
Perhaps it was because of his abiding faith in the animal's intelligence, perhaps just that in this final hour he knew that any miracle might come to pass. He sprang up, and he didn't try to keep up with the dog at a walking pace. He ran from the first step.
The dead logs across the trail, the hills and steeps, the narrow passes between the walls of brush did not check his pace at all. The air surged into his lungs in great sobs, his muscles ached and burned as if the flames had already reached them. He knew—by token of a clear voice within himself—that he was running for a life—one that was very dear to him and must be saved at all cost.
Her arms still pinioned, Alice sat waiting for the end. It was hard to be brave in the ever-nearing presence of the flames. If there had been a cheering word from one she loved, one touch of a friendly hand, the moments would not seem so terrible and long. But she was helpless and alone, and all hope of aid was gone.
The way out of the fire trap was irremediably closed. True, there was a territory of large extent behind her not yet burned over, and she knew that if Hugh and his flock still lived they were in that space. In all directions raged the fire, and now the flames had stretched their terrible barrier clear across the little canyon in which she was a prisoner. Even if by some miracle her arms should be freed she could not escape. No human being could pass that flaming wall in front and yet live. Because she was in the deepest part of the canyon, its shadowed mouth where it met the broader canyon of Silver Creek, the fire had not yet burned down to her, but by no thousandth chance could this last little space of forest be spared. A few moments or many: the issue was unmistakable in the end. If the fire continued its present slow advance, perhaps the fevered cycle of her blood might be repeated many times; but at any instant a falling pine top from the flaming forest above might catch the tree against which she was bound and bring the end. There was only one thing left to pray for, now. There was still the fond wish that by some miracle the passing might come swiftly, that her soul might wing its way swift and free, not struggling from a pain-racked body, out of this dreadful land of glaring sky and glaring fire. Perhaps the out trail might be level and easy, after all.
Her thoughts no longer held quite true. Strange fancies swept her; and back of them was the clear, rational, unconfused voice of hope that perhaps these portended an unconsciousness that would spare her the cruelty of the end. The night must be far advanced by now, she thought. Uncounted centuries had come and dragged away since Hugh had pressed his lips to hers and she had ridden into the greenwood. The heat of the fire above her grew steadily fiercer, and she saw with a strange sorrow that the little mountain flowers—hardy, lovely things that had weathered the drought—were withered and dying. The smoke poured in billowing storms across the mouth of the canyon. The bark of the tree felt scorching hot against her bare arms. And still the frightful glare of the sky lighted up, as if in dreadful enchantment, the little space of unburned forest where she was confined.
And now the jaws of the flame were closing behind her. Only a little island was left, and any instant the faint night wind would blow the red tongues into the thicket beside her. It was the end. Perhaps the smoke—rarely unbearably dense, rangers know, even at the very edge of the forest fire—might bring unconsciousness after all. She felt herself drifting.
Sobbing words were at her lips. "Be merciful," she pleaded to the Powers of whom mercy is the eternal spirit. "Don't make it last any longer! Let me go to sleep " Yet no ear, it seemed to her, could hear her above the frightful roar of the fire. And even her arms were bound so that she could not stretch them up in supplication.
And it was as if her prayer had been heard. At least she was not to endure the end in loneliness. A sharp, high bark pierced through the angry crackle and roar of the fire, and Shep leaped to her side. Only a narrow path remained between the two converging walls of flame behind her: a dreadful place of blasting heat and blinding smoke and darting flame tongues, yet the dog had sprung through like a winged creature. Behind him, still brave and strong and enduring, came his master.
He also sprang bravely through the closing barrier of flame. A great spirit of undying strength was on him, and the red arms reached for him in vain. He swung to her side, a dim, strange figure that at first seemed only a figment of fancy born in her prayers. He did not speak to her. Only strangled sobs were at his lips. His white-bladed hunting knife flashed at her bonds.
He snatched off his coat, wrapping it in one motion about her head and shoulders. He knew how those fire tongues he had just passed through would receive her tresses. And then she felt muscular arms go around her. As lightly and as strongly as if on the wings of Death itself he lifted her to his breast. He sprang forward with all his strength. And the three of them fought their way back—through the gates of peril—to the last remaining island in the sea of flame.