follow him. "What's the matter, old boy?" Gaylord asked. "What's up?"
The dog barked again, coming to his arms for more petting. Then the Indian dropped to his knees with a curious little cry.
Pete the guide had an exceedingly good command of English for a half-breed. But in that moment of astonishment the use of the language fell away from him, and his only utterance was an exclamation in his own almost-forgotten tongue. He rubbed his hand over the animal's shoulder.
"What is it, Pete?" Hugh asked quietly.
"He's creased. Dog's been shot—bullet took away a little skin."
"The shot we heard?"
"No. That rifle shot. The dog shot with pistol."
"And how in the world did you find that out?"
"Not know sure—looks heap like a scratch by small-caliber bullet. Couldn't hear pistol shot so far."
"I've heard," Hugh said thoughtfully, "that it isn't good form—for a herder to shoot at his own dog."
"Maybe not that," the Indian went on. His tone was so strange and flat that Hugh whirled to stare at him. "Fire's burning out too—sheep getting restless. Maybe better see where herder is."
