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Fourteen    The BRONZEMAN

Puppy Love

Proving a Dog, Even Though a Mongrel, Is "Man's Best Friend"
By EDWARD A. NEAL

WILL YOUNG, southern pioneer, had put off the task of repairing his decaying hog-pens for many weeks. Perhaps he would have delayed the work much longer if Cy Hampson, a neighbor whose farm was three miles away, had not stopped by early one morning and told him a wild tale of how some "Blamed varmint" had "snuck" up to his lot on a recent night, killed a fine razorback sow, and destroyed her litter of nine pigs.

"Added insult to injury by eatin' his mid-night lunch right thar on the spot!" Cy had complained.

"Why didn't you put dogs on the track next mornin'?" the much aroused Will had queried; "I bet 'twuz wolves!"

"I'd 'a shore done it Will," Cy had replied, "only that rainstorm as blowed up 'bout daybreak washed away the scent!"

Shouldering a double-barreled shotgun at a careless angle, Will headed for the hog-lot, which was situated down at the edge of the big woods, a few hundred yards away. He had scarcely turned his footsteps down the well-beaten path that led from his back door, when four lean, wiry dogs rushed from under the house, yelping as only hounds know how, and began a race to see which would be the fire over the fence and into the woods. One glimpse of their master carrying a fun had convinced them that he was going hunting. They were well into the woods by the time Will arrived at the hog-lot. They could not know, of course, but penetrating vast and silent forests that day was a thing farthest from the master's mind.

Will was not left absolutely alone, however, because Tiny, a half-grown yellow and white pup, being too small to keep up with the big hounds, was content to "dog" his footsteps in the true sense of the word. So earnestly indeed, did Tiny play his little role, that upon more than one occasion when the master lifted his foot to take a step forward, his heel came in sharp contact with the little beggar's lower jaw.

Will spent the greater part of the day strengthening the hog-pens: because these miniature houses, built in the center of the open lot, must afford protection from unfavorable weather, as well as form marauding, nocturnal beasts. By day, the hogs might be allowed to roam about the open lot and wallow in the shallow pool, but each night must find them locked securely behind the heavy sliding doors that were found in every backwoodsman's lot.

Will had been working faithfully for hours, day-dreaming the while, when he was startled by a shrill, frantic "Yipe!"

In stepping backwards, he had landed on Tiny's foot. 

"Out o' my way, fool!" he roared, having first assured himself that the pup was not really hurt. Tiny retreated quickly. If he blamed anyone for his toes being trod upon, it was perhaps himself for not keeping a respectable distance behind. However, by the time the man had forgotten the incident, either because of sheer forgetfulness, or just pain, unadulterated Puppy Love, Tiny crept back to within twelve inches of Will's heels.

The shotgun was leaning against the fence in a corner of the lot; it was one of the old-fashioned hammer guns, still reliable, but as Will saw it shining there in the sunlight, he thought of buying a new one. He wanted so much to own one of the new hammerless type. He would have had one long ago, only he knew that as a rule that kind was quite a bit heavier than the old type of gun, therefore he feared the extra weight might interfere with his being recognized as the best shot in Bolivar County. Everybody knew that when Will flushed a covey of quails, he never had to raise the gun to his shoulder like the average hunter. He shot from the crook of his right arm, keeping the gun waist high; a trick his father had taught him. Nobody would say that he had met the man who was a more deadly shot than Will, especially when it came to quick firing. The only reason for his bringing the gun along on this occasion was because while feeding the hogs on the day before, he had seen perhaps a dozen squirrels playing "Follow the leader" among the branches of some hackberry bushes that grew along the edge of the woods. He intended to give them a dose of number six shots should they begin cavorting upon this particular evening.

[[image - drawing of a black man wearing overalls, a log sleeved shirt and a brimmed hat. He is holding a double barreled shotgun]]   

All afternoon as he worked, Will listened rather subconsciously to the barking of his hounds. Now they were just a short distance from the clearing; a little later they were so far away that he could not distinguish the barking of Bell, Brue, or Ringwood; but of one thing he was certain; that he had not heard one bark from Knute, the lead hound, since the moment he cleared the fence and plunged into the woods. 

Knute might be just as hot on the trail as any dog in the pack, but he never wasted breath and energy by joining in with the rest in a chorus of continuous barking. Should the scent indicate that a coon had climbed a tree, Knute did not accept this a proof that he was still up that tree; he knew very well that an experienced coon is quite adept at "tapping" a tree; which is to say, he will climb a few feet up a tree, Knute did not accept this as proof that he was still up that tree; he knew very well that an experienced coon is quite adept at "tapping" a tree; which is to say, he will climb a few feet up a tree, spring as far away form it as strength will permit, and