2. BAD LUCK
Where it flowed into the pool beneath the bridge, the creek maderippling little noises. A swimming muskrat, going upstream and suddenlyseeing the fire and the two beside it, splashed as he dived. Fromsomewhere up in the forested hills there floated an owl's mournful cry.Over all murmured a caressing little breeze which, while still soft withsummer's gentleness, had within it a foretaste of autumn's cold.
Shaken, Jeff stood a moment. It was not the first time anyone had triedto strong-arm his pack away from him, but it was the closest anyone hadever come to succeeding. His fright ebbed away. Tarrant Enterprises,Ltd., had led him into other unusual situations and doubtless would leadinto more. He turned to the dog.
"Welcome, Pal!" he said grandly. "From now to forever you may share thefortunes of Tarrant Enterprises, Ltd.! But what the dickens sent you atexactly the right time?"
The dog quivered with delight. He had wandered for so long, his only aimto find someone who would be glad of his company, and at last his goalwas reached! He wagged a happy tail and licked Jeff's hand with the tipof a moist, warm tongue. Though he would never cringe, the dog wouldappease, and now that he had found someone, in order to stay near hewould appease any way he could. Jeff's exploring hand found the dog'smatted head and ears, and a puzzled frown wrinkled his forehead.
"Whoever you belong to hasn't been taking very good care of you," hemurmured. "Haven't you ever been brushed?"
His hands dropped farther, to the dog's sides, and when he touched theright front shoulder the great animal winced and brought his headquickly around. Jeff had found the place which the chunk of wood hadstruck, and that was painful. But the dog did not bare his teeth orgrowl. Jeff took his hands away.
"You've been hurt, Pal," he said understandingly. "Here, let me feel itonce more."
Very gently, pressing no harder than was necessary, he went over theright shoulder again. He could feel no broken bones, but just beneaththe skin was a jelly-like mass of congealed blood, and when Jeff broughthis hand away his fingers were sticky with blood. Next he found thewound inflicted by the brindle bull, and as he continued to explore hispuzzlement increased.
The dog wore a round leather collar that formerly might have fittedwell, but because he was thin, it now hung loosely. There was no licenseor identifying tag. Starved to gauntness, obviously the animal had beenreceiving neither food nor attention. His long fur was matted, and therewere so many burrs of various kinds entangled in it that there wasalmost no hope of grooming him properly.
The conviction grew upon Jeff that this dog was a stray, and that hehad come to the fire because there was no other place for him. Eitherhe'd lost his master or the master had lost him, and in either event, hewas homeless. Jeff frowned.
The whole success of Tarrant Enterprises, Ltd., hinged on its beingentirely footloose. There were places to go, and often it was essentialto go there in somewhat of a hurry. Obviously, it would be impossible totake a dog this size on a train, and certainly nobody with any sort ofvehicle would be inclined to pick him up.
Jeff said good-humoredly, "Why the dickens couldn't you have been one ofthose flea-sized dogs that I might have tucked in my pocket?"
The dog wagged his tail and looked at this friendly human with happyeyes. Jeff rubbed his huge head and tried to think a way out of hisdilemma. Surely the big fellow had no home and was loose on thecountryside. Familiar with stray dogs, Jeff knew that just one fateawaited them; sooner or later, but surely, they were killed. Ordinarilythe young trader would have confined himself to pity. But this dog hadhelped him when he was in desperate need of help. He must not beabandoned now.
Perhaps, Jeff thought, he could find a family that would give the dog ahome--but he abandoned the notion almost as soon as it glimmered. Howmany families wanted a dog half the size of a Shetland pony? Maybe hecould pay someone to take care of him. But how could he be sure that thedog would be cared for and not abused? There was no way to check. Sixweeks from now, depending on where Tarrant Enterprises, Ltd., led him,Jeff might be a hundred or a thousand miles away. He did not know when,if ever, he would come back. The happy thought that first things must befirst occurred to him.
While the dog looked gravely on, he tilted his bubbling coffee away fromthe fire and unwrapped the chicken. The dog licked his lips and rivetedhis gaze on the fowl. Jeff grinned. He'd been told that dogs should nothave chicken bones. But unless they were always tied or penned, sooneror later most dogs found and ate them. At any rate, the dog had to eatand there wasn't anything except chicken, bread and butter. Jeff slicedboth legs from the chicken and ordered,
"Sit!"
The dog sat; obviously he had had training. When Jeff extended a chickenleg, the dog took it from him so gently that only his lips touchedJeff's hand, but when he had the leg in his mouth he tore all the meatfrom it with one turn of his jaws. Then he ground the bone to bits andswallowed that too. Jeff looked at the two bites he had taken from hisown drumstick.
"Hey!" he protested. "Just because you're company, you don't have togobble everything in sight!"
He looked determinedly away and took another bite of chicken, but hefelt the dog's appealing eyes on him and turned back again.
"If you could talk," he said resignedly, "you could be sales manager forTarrant Enterprises, Ltd. You certainly know how to sell yourself."
Jeff cut a wing, gave it to the dog, and watched in fascination while itwent the way of, and as fast as, the chicken leg. He cut the loaf ofbread into six thick slices, spread an equal amount of butter on each,and saw the dog gulp five of them. Jeff ate as rapidly as he could; ifhe was going to get anything, he had to get it fast. He watched whilethe dog ate all the rest of the chicken and cleaned and swallowed thesplintered bones.
"If you're going to be a partner," he observed, "you'd better learn topay your own way. I'll go broke just feeding you. Oh, well, we canalways have nice fresh air for breakfast. Now I'm going to work on you,Pal. You do look sort of wild and woolly and it might help both of usstay out of trouble if you didn't. Down!"
The dog lay down, eyes glowing happily, and Jeff used gentle fingers tountangle his fur. Where it was matted too tightly, he cut it off with apair of scissors. Separating a hair at a time and using as littlepressure as possible, he worked on the injured right side. Then he tooka brush from his pack and brushed the dog smooth.
When he was finished, the animal still looked huge. His eyes sparked inthe firelight and his flabby jaws loaned him an air of grimness. But hiscoat was no longer tangled or burr-matted. He looked forbidding enoughso that it was easy to understand why the two track workers, seeing himand thinking he was Jeff's, had decided to run. Even though they werearmed with pick handles, anyone at all might well hesitate to make rashmoves around this mammoth creature.
"Now we have to get wood, Pal," Jeff told his new friend. "The nights inmountain country are apt to be on the cool side."
He cast around for driftwood that the creek had thrown onto its banksand when he had an armful, he dumped it near the fire. Always the dogpadded beside or behind him, as though fearful he would lose this kindmaster should he wander more than a foot from him. Jeff threw some woodon the fire and a shower of sparks floated into the air. The dog curledcontentedly near when he lay down with his back against the boulder.
Jeff awakened at periodic intervals to throw more wood on the fire, andin the misty gray of early morning he was aroused by the unmistakablesound of a freight train making up. He listened intently; it paid tounderstand freight trains. He hadn't known how far off Cressman was, buthe knew now. Judging by the sound of the freight train--the railroadyards must be in Cressman--it was about one mile or twenty minutes' walkaway.
Without getting up, the dog bared his gleaming fangs in a cavernousyawn. He rose, stretched, came to Jeff for a morning caress, and drankfrom the creek. Jeff looked admiringly at him. The dog was one of thebiggest he'd ever seen, but he moved with all the grace of a muchsmaller animal. Jeff dipped water, prodded his fire and put fres
h coffeeon to brew. The dog looked expectantly at him.
"You ate it all last night," Jeff explained. "There isn't a thing leftunless maybe you like coffee."
The dog sniffed about to lick up splinters of bone and Jeff looked athis big pocket watch. He lay back against the boulder, pillowing hishead on his hands and blinking into the rising sun.
"Quarter to six," he told his companion. "And we have to time ourarrival in this metropolis almost to the minute. Time waits for no man,but we'll wait for time."
The freight labored toward them, rumbled over the bridge and sent ashower of dust and cinder particles down. Sitting a little ways from thefire, the dog did not even look up. Jeff poured a cup of black coffee,sipped it, and the dog licked his chops. He was not as hungry as he hadbeen, for last night's meal was a satisfying one. But he had been solong without food that he would have eaten had there been anything toeat.
Jeff still lolled idly against the boulder. Dogs were welcome in sometowns and unwelcome in others, and Jeff had never been to Cressman. Butit was a county seat, there was sure to be a court house, and courthouses opened at nine sharp. Jeff wanted to be there at that time butnot before. If the dog had a license, even though some might protest hispresence, they could do nothing about it as long as he was accompaniedby Jeff.
Finishing his coffee, Jeff poured another cupful, drank it and dozed fora while. Though he had had a long rest, it was well to sleep while hecould. Often Tarrant Enterprises, Ltd., walked into a situation wherethere was no possibility of any rest. At exactly twenty minutes to nine,with the dog beside him, Jeff started down the tracks.
Cressman, he saw when he entered its outskirts, was a good-sized townand typical. Neat white houses framed both sides of the street. Thebusiness section would be farther on, and naturally the large buildingwith a flag pole on top would be the court house. Jeff walked swiftly,paying no attention to the stares directed at him. He had expected thedog to arouse notice. The clock over its entrance pointed to nine whenhe reached the court house.
The dog close beside him, Jeff entered and turned down a corridor wherea white-lettered black sign indicated that licenses might be had. Hepaused beside a grilled window behind which was draped a lank,black-haired, heavy-eyed, middle-aged clerk who looked as though he hadnever been fully awake. Without glancing around, the clerk asked aweary, "Yes?"
"I want a license."
"What kind?"
"What kinds do you have?"
"Hunting, fishing, marriage, building, auto, dog, store, cafe--"
"A wide-enough choice. I want a dog license."
Jeff took the yellow form and the pencil that were offered to him andstarted to write. He turned the pencil sideways and pressed until thelead broke. Jeff handed it back.
"This is no good. I'll use one of my own."
His hand stole into the pack and brought forth a mechanical pencil. Notlooking at the clerk, Jeff gave absorbed attention to the yellow form.Under "sex" he wrote "male." When he came to "age" he looked shrewdly atthe dog and penciled in "3 yrs." "Breed" proved difficult, but not forvery long. Sure that nobody else would know it either, Jeff wrote"Algerian boar hound." "Name" was simple. Happily Jeff wrote "Pal" andshoved the slip back through the grill.
The clerk was staring intently at the pencil. "Where'd you get that?"
"This?" Jeff held the pencil up. "It's a Bagstone, the newest thing. Iwouldn't be without one."
"Want to sell it?"
"_Uh-uh._ I have only a couple left and I may need them."
"What's it cost?"
"A dollar."
"License is fifty cents. Can we swap?"
Jeff passed the pencil through the grill, but instead of the expectedfifty cents, the clerk handed him another slip of paper.
"What's this?"
"Peddler's license and you're a peddler. They cost fifty cents, so we'reeven."
Jeff, who had thought the clerk a naive rustic, grinned his appreciationof someone else who knew how to get what he wanted and started down thecorridor. He was still cheerful; he'd bought a dozen of the pencils fortwo dollars, and all except two were sold. It was a good sign, and hemight do a brisk business in Cressman. He hadn't thought so when he camein because there were many stores, and usually people would not buy froma peddler if they could get what they wanted at a store. But Jeff feltlucky.
Coming in, he'd been in too much of a hurry to reach the court house topay much attention to the town. Now he had an opportunity to examine itclosely.
Between 2500 and 3000 people, he guessed, lived in Cressman. They weresupported by the railroad yards and by a sawmill whose screeching sawmade a hideous noise on that end of town which Jeff had not yet visited,and the workers must be well paid because there was every evidence ofprosperity. The wooden sidewalks were well cared for, the dirt streetswere clean, the horses on the streets were good animals that cost a fairamount of money, and there were a few autos with brass-frontedradiators.
These were all good signs. The fact that the stores seemed wellpatronized was bad, but Jeff wouldn't be able to tell until he had donesome canvassing of his own, and he wanted to do that before gettingbreakfast for Pal and himself. Trade ran in cycles. If one Cressmanitewas quarreling with the storekeepers, the chances were good that theperson's friends would be similarly disposed to take an unkind view ofmerchants. If there were several such quarrels, Jeff might do a thrivingbusiness.
The young trader took an unobtrusive stand beside a store whose signread "JOHN T. ALLEN, GENERAL MERCHANDISE." Beneath that, in smallerletters was, "The best of everything for everyone at the lowest prices."Pal sat down as close as he could get and touched Jeff's dangling handwith a cold nose.
There were few people on the street, but that was to be expected at thishour. The workers would be working, the housewives taking care of theirhouses and the children playing. Jeff's eyes roved down the main street.He located and filed away in his mind the doctor's office, the dentist,the stores, the blacksmith shop, the livery stable and other businessestablishments. He knew where the sawmill was and he saw two churchsteeples. With few exceptions, all the rest would be homes. It was agood, substantial town, one of many such that Jeff had visited.
He looked with mingled wistfulness and amusement at a boy plodding downthe sidewalk toward him. About eight years old, the youngster wore afaded shirt, torn pants, and had a dirty face that was lighted by brighteyes and a grin. He shuffled along, being careful to step only on thecracks in the sidewalk and kicking at small objects in his path. Then hesaw the dog. His head went up, his grin became a smile, and he hurriedto pause in front of Jeff and Pal.
"Gee!" he breathed. "Is he ever big! What's his name?"
"Pal," Jeff answered. "Do you like big dogs, son?"
"I like all dogs. Does he bite?"
"Gentle as a kitten. Go ahead and pet him."
Pal stood, his head reaching almost to the youngster's shoulders, andwagged a welcoming tail at the hand stretched toward him. The boytickled Pal's ears and smoothed his muzzle.
"Wish he was mine!" he sighed.
"Don't you have a dog?"
"My paw," the boy said mournfully, "won't let me have one. Well, I gotto go down to Skinner's and get Maw some sugar."
"Take this."
Jeff drew a peppermint stick from his pack and extended it. The boy tookit with the same hand he had used to pet Pal and grinned his thanks.Jeff watched him skip down the street and sighed. He liked everybody,but he had an especially soft spot in his heart for children. Besides,it was good business. Should he decide to make a house-to-house canvass,he had already paved the way in at least one home.
Two women passed, going to the far side of the walk and keeping theireyes averted when they reached Jeff, and a man came from the oppositedirection. Without seeming to, Jeff studied him.
About thirty, the man was slim and supple. Snapping black eyes and apert waxed mustache betrayed his French origin, and from his quick, suresteps he was a woodsman. He swerved into John T. Allen's s
tore and Jeffdecided that he was a man of short temper. A moment later, that opinionwas borne out.
"_Sacre!_" came an outraged roar. "You are a dog among dogs! A pig amongpigs! You cheat the honest people!"
There came a snappish but calmer voice. "Take it easy, Pierre."
"Nev-air!" Pierre shouted. "Nev-air, and nev-air do I come back!" Hebristled out of the store, turned to fling a final "Nev-air, pig!" backinto it, and confronted Jeff.
"You know what he do?" he screamed. "I need the knife, the good huntingknife! For it he wants a doll-air and twenty-five cents!"
"Maybe they're worth that much."
"_Non!_ Nev-air!" He looked seriously at Jeff. "You sell the huntingknife?"
"I do not compete with merchants."
"You sell the hunting knife?" Pierre repeated.
"I--"
"Sell me the hunting knife!"
"But--"
"This I demand! Sell me the hunting knife!"
With every show of reluctance, Jeff drew a hunting knife with athree-inch blade from his pack. Pierre snatched it and his eyes lighteddeliriously.
"How much?"
"A dollar and twenty cents."
"Is good!"
Pierre pressed a rumpled dollar bill and two dimes into Jeff's hand,danced back to the store entrance and waved the knife as though he wereabout to go scalping with it.
"See!" he screamed at the storekeeper. "Dog! See! The pedd-lair, he dobetter than you! I have the hunting knife!"
Pierre stamped fiercely away and Jeff settled back to watch. But onlyfor a moment.
The man who came out of the store was no more than five feet three andso thin that he seemed in imminent danger of collapsing. His nose,covering a fair share of his face, was oddly like a rudder. A fewstrands of blond hair clung precariously to his head and his eyes werefurious.
"Did you sell that man a knife?"
"Yes, I did."
Without further ceremony, but with a roar that seemed incapable ofemerging from one so small, the storekeeper bellowed,
"Joe!"
It was a signal Jeff had heard many times in many voices that expressedit many ways. This was one of the occasions when Tarrant Enterprises,Ltd., had better move fast. The dog fell in beside him as Jeff startedto run. He was too late, though.
It was as though the storekeeper possessed some magical quality thatcould conjure up images at will. Jeff's path was suddenly blocked by aburly two-hundred-and-ten-pound man who wore a gun, a constable's badge,an air of authority, and who had never wasted any time acquiring fat. Heloomed over Jeff as a mountain looms over a knoll.
"What's up?" he demanded.
"This peddler," the storekeeper reverted to his customary snappishvoice, "is interfering with merchants. He sold Pierre LeLerc a huntingknife."
"Did you?" the constable asked Jeff.
"Yes, but I have a license."
"It's not one that allows you to peddle in business districts," thestorekeeper asserted. "Jail him, Joe."
"You comin' peaceable?" the constable asked. "Or should I take you!"
"Peaceable," Jeff answered hurriedly. "Always peaceable."
"Come on, then. Your dog got a license?"
"Look for yourself. Just sort of watch your hand."
"That dog bite?"
"Not usually."
"See that he don't, huh?"
"I'll see," Jeff promised.
He fell resignedly in beside the constable while Pal paced behind him.He thought ruefully of how little a feeling of good fortune could betrusted. Still, by no means would this be the first jail to have him asguest, and probably it would not be the last. He might as well make thebest of it.
"Nice town you have here," he said companionably.
"Yeah," the constable was entirely willing to be friendly, "it's allright."
"How long have you been chief of police in Cressman?"
"Nine years. Say! That's a good title! Chief of Police, huh?"
"You should call yourself that," Jeff asserted. "Do you have muchtrouble?"
The constable shrugged. "It depends."
"There's just one thing I wonder about," Jeff said. "I've met a lot ofpolice in a lot of towns. All the rest had silver badges. How come yoursis brass?"
"It was silver when I got it," the constable said ruefully. "Blame thingturned color on me."
"Why don't you polish it?"
"I do ever' night. Use soap and all. Can't do a thing with it."
"Have you tried Blecker's Silver Polish?"
"What's that?"
"A polish for badges."
"Never heard of it."
"Some store in Cressman should stock it."
"They don't. I've tried everything they have." He looked searchingly atJeff. "Do you have any?"
"Yes but," Jeff laughed nervously, "you've already got me on one charge.I wouldn't care to be up on two."
"Let me see it," the constable urged.
"I'd better not."
"I won't tell a person, and you have the word of Joe Parker for that.Come on. Let's sneak behind this fence and have a look."
"Well--"
In the shadow of the fence, Jeff took a jar of Blecker's Unique SilverPolish from his pack, dipped an end of his handkerchief lightly into it,and carefully rubbed a small portion of the badge. As though by magic,the tarnish disappeared and bright silver gleamed where it had been.
"How much does that cost?" the constable breathed.
"Thirty cents a jar, but you've treated me so nicely, I'll let you havetwo for fifty cents."
"Thanks." The constable slipped the two jars into his trousers pocket,gave Jeff a half dollar, and said, "Guess we'd better get to jail."
"Guess we had."
The constable steered Jeff and Pal back to the court house but took theminto the basement, instead of the main entrance. There were two windowswith a desk beneath them, and behind the desk sat a gray-haired manwith a friendly face but a weary smile. In the dimly-lighted corridorbeyond were four jail cells.
The constable paused at the desk. "Hi, Pop," he greeted the jailer."This peddler was peddlin' near stores. You tell him what to do with hisdog and pack, huh?"
Without another glance at Jeff, Joe Parker turned and started backtoward the entrance. Even as he walked, he industriously polished hisbadge.