I must have gone to sleep. The next thing I knew, something energetic had burst into the tent like a cyclone and my face was being licked by a cold, wet, affectionate tongue.
31 THE PUP WAS CRAZY WITH HAPpiness at having found me. He was all over me-all over both of us. Libby woke up with a gasp.
"What-"
"Shhh!" I hissed. "It's just Hank… Easy now, Prince Hannibal. Relax. You'll have them all rushing in here…"
"You mean he's followed us all this way?" Libby sounded incredulous. "My God, how could he? We must be forty or fifty miles from that filling station… Ouch, can't you keep him off my face?"
"Hank, down!" I whispered. "Lie down, boy. Quiet, now!"
It was a wonderful thing. He'd been left at least twenty miles back along the highway. He'd trailed the truck along those twenty miles of pavement to the horses, and then he'd tracked the horses another fifteen miles through the wettest, soggiest country in the world, over mud, running water, and bare rock.
It was Faithful Fido's Fortunes, or Rover's Revenge. It was Lassie with bells on. It was beautiful and touching, man's best friend at his best and friendliest, a real tear jerker. I didn't believe a word of it. I wouldn't have believed it even if he'd been a bloodhound trained on a convict a day; and he wasn't a tracking dog at all but a goddamn bird dog. But if anybody wanted to fall for the gag, I wasn't about to disillusion them.
"Hey, what's going on in there?"
It was Jack's voice. I heard him come charging toward the tent. There was only a moment to make the decision. I sat up as best I could.
I said softly, "Dead bird, Hank. Dead bird."
There's no command for telling a retriever just to get the hell out of wherever he may be, say a confined space in which he can easily be cornered and killed. You've got to send him for something, but even in the dark I could tell that the pup was looking at me oddly, wondering just what the hell kind of dead bird he was supposed to be fetching from inside this nine-by-twelve tent. Jack's footsteps were almost at the door.
I said, "Go get it… Hank!"
He'd been trained to go on his name, and he went, charging off the way I had him pointed, right out the tent door, just as Jack came pounding up. I heard the man stumble and swear.
Holz's voice shouted: "What's the matter over there? Jack?"
"It's the dog, Mr. Wood! It's that damn dog we-~-"
"You're crazy. No dog could have followed-"
"Well, it's too big for a squirrel and too small for a wolf, sir. Look over there by the woodpile. If that isn't that same black mutt, I'll eat it!" There was a little pause. "By God, he must be quite a dog, coming all this way to find his master! Do we have to kill him?"
The Lassie syndrome was at work. Even the hardboiled Jack was falling for it, taking for granted that any loyal dog could perform any kind of a TV miracle to find the man to whom its loving canine heart belonged. Holz didn't answer at once. I had a sudden hope. Maybe I'd found the lever for which I'd been looking.
"Well," Holz said at last, and I could tell that he was remembering a small brown rat in a jail cell, "well, let's see if we can't catch him. But first get your rifle and check the prisoners. It could be a trick. Wake up the cook to give us a hand."
Jack stuck his head into the tent and shone a flashlight at us briefly and disappeared. What followed had a lot of the elements of slapstick comedy; at least the sound effects were ridiculous, considering that they came from a bunch of sinister conspirators who'd kill a man as soon as look at him. But this wasn't a man; it was a miracle dog, and you don't shoot Lassie or Rin-Tin-Tin.
As I'd hoped, once out in the open, away from the tent, Hank proved as elusive as an eel. These were the same people who'd manhandled him before-some of them, at least-and hung him on a fence to choke. He obviously recognized them and would have no part of them, even when they tried to lure him within reach with a nice, juicy piece of meat.
When the chase got really lively out there, I wormed my way out of the blankets and back to the rear wall of the tent. I rapped my bound hands against the canvas lightly.
"Anybody there?" I whispered.
"Here, sir." I recognized the low voice. It went with a red beard. "Watch out, I'm going to cut the tent."
"Are you alone, Davis?"
"No."
"Well, tell Ronnie-"
"It isn't Ronnie, sir. They worked Ronnie over pretty badly; we had to leave him with the lab truck. It's a girl, Mr. Helm. She knocked out the woman they'd left guarding us and cut us loose. She'd picked up the dog where you'd left him. She says you know her. Her name is Pat."
There wasn't time to ponder the implications of that news. I heard the whisper of a knife slicing through canvas.
"All right, sir, stick your wrists out the hole and I'll cut you loose… There you are."
"Thanks. I'll take the knife, if you don't mind. Tell Miss Bellman to keep an eye on the circus and warn me if anybody starts this way. What's the weapons situation?"
"Well, they got ours, but I took a little pistol off the lady guard."
"Hang onto it, but don't shoot unless I give the word."
I heard Holz's voice: "Never mind, let the dog go. He won't leave the neighborhood as long as his master's here. Just don't let him back in the tent."
"Watch out!" Pat Bellman's voice hissed. "The man with the cowboy hat is coming this way. I think he's going to take another look at you."
"I'll handle him," I said. It was about time I handled something. "Let him come in. Get down and keep quiet."
I dropped beside Libby and flipped the blankets over me, holding the little knife. It was a boyscout model, which seemed appropriate: the kind with a screwdriver, can opener, awl, and bottle opener, but no corkscrew because scouts aren't supposed to associate with that kind of bottle. The blade was between two and three inches long and not very sharp. I thought regretfully of the fine Buck knife, carefully sharpened and oiled, that I'd last seen lying on the table in the cook tent.
Then Jack yanked back the canvas door and aimed his flashlight at us. In spite of the glare, I could make out that he was holding a scope-sighted rifle in his left hand; a fine weapon but not very suitable for work at night or at close range.
He frowned at the heap of blankets with the two heads protruding from the far end; then he stepped forward, reached down, and snatched the blankets away for a good look-and I kicked him hard in the pit of the stomach with both feet before he could get the rifle up. He lost his breath with a bellows-like sound and sat down hard. I was on top of him and had his throat cut before he knew he was dead. Outside, somebody was rushing toward the tent.
"Shoot that man, Davis!" I yelled.
A little pistol cracked three times and I heard something fall. I grabbed the rifle Jack had dropped and went out the tent door fast, to stumble over a dead body. Even in the dark I could see that it wasn't the man I wanted but the old Indian cook. The vanishing American seemed to be going fast these days.
A shape recognizable as Holz showed at the dark door of the cook tent, carrying a rifle that seemed to be the twin of mine. Holz threw his weapon to his shoulder as I took aim, or tried to take aim; but in the dark, in that powerful telescope, I couldn't find my target. I couldn't even find the cross hairs. Desperately, I threw myself flat as the other gun fired. The bullet came nowhere near me. Apparently Holz couldn't see his sights any better than I could.
I was trying to line up the fool gun by feel and instinct, without using the sights. I saw that Holz was doing the same thing, but the range was too great-about forty yards-for that kind of trick hip-shooting. We'd both handled firearms too long to do much blasting without a reasonable chance of success. Holz reached inside his coat for a pistol, a better weapon under these conditions; then Davis' little gun cracked, and Holz winced. He turned and ran for the nearest horse, his own, as Davis emptied his undernourished weapon in that direction without any further reaction from the target.