the poor dog could just be thirsty and hungry. There was a good way to find out. Garth uncocked his rifle and climbed down.
He pulled a piece of jerky out of a saddlebag and put it on the ground, then poured some water from his canteen onto a tin plate and set it beside the jerky. Garth climbed back on Boots and rode a short distance away, but remained in plain sight.
When the animal appeared, Garth saw that it was limping. The dog halted about thirty yards away from him and neither growled nor snarled, but just stared.
After a long moment, it moved closer. There was nothing threatening about the move, no indication it intended to attack, so Garth cautiously lowered his rifle.
The dog limped to the food and lapped up the water, then devoured the jerky. Returning the rifle to its sling, Garth grabbed the canteen and climbed down. Still cautious, he kept his right hand on the Colt at his hip, and went over to the animal and poured some more water onto the plate. Although the dog didn’t make a sound, its gaze remained on Garth’s every move. As soon as he stepped back, the dog gulped down the liquid.
Garth had been around domesticated animals his whole life and recognized that this dog was used to being around humans. In all probability, the animal was lost or its owner had perished.
“You lost, fella?” he asked in a gentle tone, and began to stroke him. “And thirsty, aren’t you?” He poured a little more water on the plate. “Not too fast, fella,” he warned, when the dog quickly lapped it up.
Garth broke off another piece of jerky and the dog immediately chewed it up. When it finished eating, the dog stretched out with its head on its paws and stared at him.
Garth fed him another piece of jerky, this time from his hand. “How about letting me take a look at that rear paw, fella?” he asked. When he started to reach for the injured paw, the dog issued a low growl, so Garth got up and walked away to make camp for the night. There was no way he would abandon the injured dog; he could push on to Hope tomorrow.
After unsaddling Boots and feeding him some oats and water, Garth built a fire and filled a small coffeepot, then sat down to wait for it to brew. Rather than use any more of the scarce water preparing a meal, he settled for some hardtack and jerky, which he shared with the dog.
Before bedding down for the night, he decided to try again to examine the dog’s paw. This time the injured dog lay quietly and allowed him to do so.
Blood had caked around a splinter embedded deeply in the pad of the paw. There was no end he could grip to try and pull it out; he would have to dig it out.
“You’re not going to like this, fella,” he warned as he heated his knife. After several attempts he succeeded in removing the splinter; then he poured iodine on the wound and bound it with a bandage.
Throughout the ordeal the dog had twitched at times, but never uttered a whimper or growl. “You did good, fella,” Garth said, patting the dog. “It should feel a lot better by tomorrow.”
After finishing off the remaining coffee, Garth bedded down for the night.
He awoke at dawn the next morning to discover the dog cuddled against him.
6
G arth had been traveling for a good seven hours when he finally reached his destination. He halted at the outskirts of the town encompassed within the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
Although the word Hope was written on the battered sign, the sheriff in Sonora had assured him it would be the town he was looking for, Tierra de Esperanza.
It was the hottest time of the day, and his shirt clung to him in patches of perspiration. He should have had the good sense to have gotten out of the sun; instead he’d kept pushing on, expecting to reach the town over every rise he’d come to.
This trip recalled the tiring trek to California the previous year when he, Clay, and Becky had crossed another part of this mountain range. It had been the same then: blazing
He pulled a piece of jerky out of a saddlebag and put it on the ground, then poured some water from his canteen onto a tin plate and set it beside the jerky. Garth climbed back on Boots and rode a short distance away, but remained in plain sight.
When the animal appeared, Garth saw that it was limping. The dog halted about thirty yards away from him and neither growled nor snarled, but just stared.
After a long moment, it moved closer. There was nothing threatening about the move, no indication it intended to attack, so Garth cautiously lowered his rifle.
The dog limped to the food and lapped up the water, then devoured the jerky. Returning the rifle to its sling, Garth grabbed the canteen and climbed down. Still cautious, he kept his right hand on the Colt at his hip, and went over to the animal and poured some more water onto the plate. Although the dog didn’t make a sound, its gaze remained on Garth’s every move. As soon as he stepped back, the dog gulped down the liquid.
Garth had been around domesticated animals his whole life and recognized that this dog was used to being around humans. In all probability, the animal was lost or its owner had perished.
“You lost, fella?” he asked in a gentle tone, and began to stroke him. “And thirsty, aren’t you?” He poured a little more water on the plate. “Not too fast, fella,” he warned, when the dog quickly lapped it up.
Garth broke off another piece of jerky and the dog immediately chewed it up. When it finished eating, the dog stretched out with its head on its paws and stared at him.
Garth fed him another piece of jerky, this time from his hand. “How about letting me take a look at that rear paw, fella?” he asked. When he started to reach for the injured paw, the dog issued a low growl, so Garth got up and walked away to make camp for the night. There was no way he would abandon the injured dog; he could push on to Hope tomorrow.
After unsaddling Boots and feeding him some oats and water, Garth built a fire and filled a small coffeepot, then sat down to wait for it to brew. Rather than use any more of the scarce water preparing a meal, he settled for some hardtack and jerky, which he shared with the dog.
Before bedding down for the night, he decided to try again to examine the dog’s paw. This time the injured dog lay quietly and allowed him to do so.
Blood had caked around a splinter embedded deeply in the pad of the paw. There was no end he could grip to try and pull it out; he would have to dig it out.
“You’re not going to like this, fella,” he warned as he heated his knife. After several attempts he succeeded in removing the splinter; then he poured iodine on the wound and bound it with a bandage.
Throughout the ordeal the dog had twitched at times, but never uttered a whimper or growl. “You did good, fella,” Garth said, patting the dog. “It should feel a lot better by tomorrow.”
After finishing off the remaining coffee, Garth bedded down for the night.
He awoke at dawn the next morning to discover the dog cuddled against him.
6
G arth had been traveling for a good seven hours when he finally reached his destination. He halted at the outskirts of the town encompassed within the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
Although the word Hope was written on the battered sign, the sheriff in Sonora had assured him it would be the town he was looking for, Tierra de Esperanza.
It was the hottest time of the day, and his shirt clung to him in patches of perspiration. He should have had the good sense to have gotten out of the sun; instead he’d kept pushing on, expecting to reach the town over every rise he’d come to.
This trip recalled the tiring trek to California the previous year when he, Clay, and Becky had crossed another part of this mountain range. It had been the same then: blazing
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