The Seventh Man. Max Brand
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carried her in with a few gliding steps, soundless, except for the light rattle of claws on the floor, but he stopped well out of reach of the bed and when Vic held his left hand as far as he could across his chest, Bart winced and gave harsh warning. Vic had seen vicious dogs in his day, seen them fighting, seen them playing, but he had never heard one of them growl like this. The upper lips of the animal twitched dangerously back and the sound came from the very depths of his body. It made the flesh crawl along Vic's back; one rip of those great teeth could tear a man's throat open. The child thudded her heels against the ribs of Bart again.
“Giddap!” she cried.
The wolf-dog shuddered but would not budge an inch.
“Naughty Bart!” She slipped off to the floor. “I'll make him come,” she said.
“If it's the same to you,” said Vic, rather hastily, “I'd just as soon he stayed where he is.”
“He's got to do what I want,” she answered. She shook a tiny forefinger at him. “Bart, you just come here!”
The dog turned his blazing eyes on her and replied with a growl that shook his sides.
“Stop!” she ordered, and struck him sharply on the nose. He blinked and lowered his head under the blow, but though the snarling stopped his teeth flashed. She caught him by both jowls and tugged him forward.
“Let him be!” urged Vic.
“He's got to come!”
And come he did, step by halting step, while she hauled him, and now the snarling hoarse intakes of breath filled the room. Once she moved a little to one side and Vic caught the glint of two eyes, red-stained, which were fixed undeviatingly upon her face. Mixed with Vic's alarm at the great fighting beast was a peculiar uneasiness, for there was something uncanny in the determination, the fearlessness of this infant. When she stepped away the wolf-dog stood trembling visibly but his eyes were still not upon the man he hated or feared to approach but upon the child's face.
“Can you pat him now?” she asked, not for an instant turning to Gregg.
“No, but it's close enough,” he assured her. “I don't want him any closer.”
“He's got to come.” She stamped. “Bart, you come here!”
He flinched forward, an inch. “Bart!” Her hands were clenched and her little body quivered with resolution; the snake-like head came to the very edge of the bed.
“Now pat him!” she commanded.
By very unpleasant degrees, Vic stretched his hand towards that growling menace.
“He'll take my arm off,” he complained. Shame kept him from utterly refusing the risk.
“He won't bite you one bit,” declared the child. “But I'll hold his nose if you're afraid.” And instantly she clasped the pointed muzzle between her hands.
Even when Vic's hand hovered above his head Bart had no eye for him, could not divert his gaze from the face of the child. Once, twice and again, delicately as one might handle bubbles, Gregg touched that scarred forehead.
“I made him come, didn't I?” she cried in triumph, and turned a tense little face towards Vic, but the instant her eyes moved the wolf-dog leaped away half the width of the room, and stood shivering, more devilish than ever. She stamped again.
“Bad, bad, bad Bart,” she said angrily. “Shall I make him come again?”
“Leave him be,” muttered Vic, closing his eyes. “Leave him be where he is. I don't want him.”
“Oh,” she said, “it's hard to make him do things, sometimes. But Daddy Dan can make him do anything.”
“Humph!” grunted Vic. He was remembering how, at the master's order, Bart had crouched at his feet in the wood, an unchained murderer hungrily waiting for an excuse to kill. There was something very odd about the people of this house; and it would be a long time before he rid himself of the impression of the cold, steady eyes which had flashed up to him a moment before out of that baby face.
“Joan!” called a voice from beyond, and the soft fiber of it made Vic certain that it belonged to the rider of the black stallion. The little girl ran a step towards the door, and then stopped and shrank back against the bed.
“If you're afraid your Dad'll find you here,” said Vic, “just you run along.”
She was nervously twisting her hands in her dress.
“Daddy Dan'll know,” she whispered without turning. “And—and—he won't let me be afraid—even of him!”
A small hand slipped up, fumbled a bit, found the thumb of Vic Gregg, and closed softly over it. With this to steady her, she waited, facing the door.
Chapter VIII. Discipline
A light step crossed the outer room, with something peculiar in its lightness, as if the heel were not touching the floor, with the effect of the padded fall of the feet of some great cat; there was both softness and the sense of weight. First the wolf-dog pricked his ears and turned towards the door, the pudgy fist closed convulsively over Vic's thumb, and then his rescuer stood in the entrance.
“Hello, partner,” called Vic. “I got company, you see. The door blew open and I asked your little girl in.”
“I told you not to come here,” said the other. Vic felt the child tremble, but there was no burst of excuses.
“She didn't want to come,” he urged. “But I kep' on askin' her.”
The emotionless eye of “Daddy Dan” held upon Joan. “I told you not to come,” he said. Joan swallowed in mute agony, and the wolf-dog slipped to the side of the master and licked his hand as though in dumb intercession. The blood ran coldly in the veins of Gregg, as if he saw a fist raised to strike the little girl.
“You go out.”
She went swiftly, at that, sidled past her father with her eyes lifted, fascinated, and so out the door where she paused an instant to flash back a wistful appeal. Nothing but silence, and then her feet pattering off into the outer room.
“Maybe you better go keep her company, Bart,” said the father, and at this sign of relenting Vic felt his tensed muscles relaxing; the wolf whined softly and glided through the door.
“You feeling better?”
“Like a hoss off green feed. I been lyin' here drinkin' up the sunshine.”
The other stood beside the open window and there he canted his head, his glance far off and intent.
“D'you hear?” he asked, turning sharply.
There was a fierce eagerness in his face.
“Hear what?”
“It's spring,” he murmured, without answering more directly than this, and Vic felt that the other had changed again, grown understandable. Nevertheless, the shock of that sudden alteration at the window kept him watching his host with breathless interest. Whatever it was that the strange fellow heard, a light had gleamed in his eyes for a moment. As he sauntered back towards the bed just a trace of it lingered about him, a hint of sternness.
“Spring?” answered Gregg. “Yep, I smelled spring a few days back and I started out to find some action. You can see for yourself that I found it, partner.” He stirred, uneasily, but it was necessary that the story should be told lest it reach the ears of this man from another source. It was one thing to shelter a fugitive from justice whose crime was unknown, perhaps trifling, but it might be quite another story if