Code Name: Omega (Jameson Force

Security Book 10) Sawyer Bennett

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 CODE NAME:
OMEGA
By
SAWYER BENNETT
 CODE NAME:
OMEGA
By
SAWYER BENNETT
 All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2022 by Sawyer Bennett

Kindle Edition

Published by Big Dog Books

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval
systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a
review.

Find Sawyer on the web!

sawyerbennett.com
www.twitter.com/bennettbooks
www.facebook.com/bennettbooks
 All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2022 by Sawyer Bennett

Kindle Edition

Published by Big Dog Books

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval
systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a
review.

Find Sawyer on the web!

sawyerbennett.com
www.twitter.com/bennettbooks
www.facebook.com/bennettbooks
 Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
About the Author
 Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
About the Author
 CHAPTER 1
Kellen

MY TEAMMATE CAGE nudges my ankle, and my eyes fly open. I hadn’t been sleeping. Merely relaxing
and listening to music.
He sits across from me. I pull out my earbuds—goodbye, Soundgarden—and raise my eyebrows
in question.
Cage nods at the airplane window. We’re on approach for landing.
I bring my seat into an upright position and note that one of the flight attendants had taken my
empty highball from the tray that still hovers over my lap.
There were no announcements to have done those things prior to landing, since we’re on a private
plane owned by Jameson Force Security, and they don’t care if we have our seats upright or tray
tables put away.
Have to say… I love this mode of travel. Another perk of working for Jameson.
Cage taps Malik next to him. He was sound asleep and now blinks at us with bleary eyes.
“Getting ready to land,” Cage says.
Malik grunts and closes his eyes again, crossing his arms over his chest. Cage shoots me a smirk
and I grin back.
It was an absolute fucking pleasure to work this last mission with Cage and Malik, providing
private security for a group of American engineers traveling through Mexico to evaluate bridge
structures. It wasn’t hard-core stakes like hostage rescue, but we were in some dangerous territory,
and the threats were real. It’s one of the reasons I love this job—I can be a bit of an adrenaline junkie.
This is my third international mission since coming to work at Jameson three months ago, and
while I’ve rotated among various teams, Cage and Malik have actually become close friends. We
hang out a lot outside of work and have a lot in common, given Cage was a Navy SEAL and Malik
was in the Marine Corps like me.
Yeah… it didn’t take long.
I’ve settled in as a full member of this dynamic group specializing in high-end security services,
and there’s no doubt I made the right decision to move back east. The original intent was to leave
California and get closer to my parents in upstate New York, but after meeting Jameson’s owner,
Kynan McGrath, at a security conference, I knew he was the man to work for. I applied, had three
separate interviews with him, and rejoiced when he offered me a spot.
It’s been a good few months.
“Want to get a beer?” Cage asks. The landing gear unfurls and locks into place, bumping under my
feet.
“Nah,” I say, looking at my watch. “I’m beat.”
“That’s just loser code,” Malik drawls, his eyes still closed, “that he misses his dog way too
much and would rather spend time with him than with his buds.”
Cage cackles, and Malik’s eyes open slightly as he smirks at me.
 Can’t help but laugh at them laughing at me, and I don’t deny Malik’s appraisal. I miss the fuck out
of Bubba. While I really dig my new teammates and hang out with them regularly, I love my dog a lot
more. I’ve been gone eight days in Mexico, and I know he’s missed me just as much.
“Bubba’s way more fun than you two.” My head rolls on the seat rest, and I watch out the window
as the ground comes closer and closer until we touch down with a slight jolt.
Nabbing my phone from the console between my seat and the empty one to my right, I go to my
texts.
ng As expected, I have one from the dog sitter, Julie. Simply a picture of Bubba curled up in his bed
with his favorite stuffy between his paws. He has his head tipped quizzically toward the camera and
wslooks beyond adorable.
Below the picture, three simple words: He missed you.
Can’t help but smile. I missed that furry bastard too.
my Bubba is more than just a dog and calling him a pet is a sacrilege. Bubba—real name Omega, but
somehow I started calling him Bubba as a nickname and it stuck—was my partner while I was in the
teMarines. A Belgian Malinois, Bubba was a single-purpose working military dog trained to detect
ayexplosives. We inspected cars that came through entry points at Camp Baharia and cleared streets in
Fallujah. We called Iraq home on two different tours of duty, stationed in California between
deployments.
But the United States started pulling out of Iraq and Bubba was getting a little too old to continue
such strenuous work. When we returned stateside, my enlistment was up, and Bubba was ready to be
rkretired. It made sense for us to leave the Corps together, so I adopted my boy and gave him a life of
luxury. Soft beds, good treats, and lots of stuffed animals, which he loves to shove into his mouth
ngwhile he sleeps.
ge Bubba is still a working dog with me at Jameson. He’s game to cover events, and we walk venues
ry,together as an extra service Jameson provides. A few hours on his feet doesn’t bother him at all, but
e.at eight years of age, with early arthritis setting in, anything longer isn’t good for him.
nd I flip my phone around and hold it out for Cage and Malik—who has now chosen to sit up and
Westay awake—to see. “Isn’t he the cutest pupper in the world?”
ik Cage rolls his eyes. “Yeah… cute as a button for an animal that could rip out my throat if you gave
a one-word command.”
Malik chuckles, but they both know that’s not true. Bubba isn’t an attack dog, although he looks
es,intimidating enough. He’s been trained to have a keen nose only, although he is territorial about our
vehouse and will snarl and bark viciously at anyone who approaches. Malik, Cage, and all the members
er,of Jameson have heard me prattle on and on about my dog, and while they love to give me shit about
eeit, they understand the special bond we have. They all know that you can’t walk along streets in a
foreign country with the stress of knowing your dog could get blown up if he’s not good at his job.
They have the utmost respect for Bubba because he put himself in harm’s way, day in and day out,
mywhile on the job. Any given day that dog woke up, it could’ve easily been his last if he’d set off a
charge while doing detection.
Before I can even turn the phone back around, a new text chimes, and Cage’s smile goes sly as he
oosees who it’s from. “Your stalker is back.”
I curse under my breath as I flip the phone so I can see the screen, grimacing at the message from
Adriana. Just checking in to see how you’re doing. I miss you.
 ut My former girlfriend, who can’t seem to grasp that we are undeniably over and won’t ever be
otgetting back together.
Cage and Malik—as well as most of my mates at Jameson—know about her.
w They were, in fact, expecting her to come to Pittsburgh with me. She’d been in California,
wrapping up the packing of my house where we’d been living together prior to the offer to come to
myJameson. She did most of the work, getting it ready to go on the market so I could get a jump on my
new job in Pittsburgh. I went back to California in mid-April with the intent that Adriana, Bubba, and
edI would drive the U-Haul and her vehicle east to start the next chapter in our lives.
nd All plans were ruined when I arrived a day early to surprise her. I surprised her a little too well
when I caught her fucking the lawn maintenance guy in our bed.
There were no dramatics on my part. I mean, sure… I was pissed, but I didn’t think twice about
leaving her ass back on the West Coast. While there were tears and apologies and promises of fidelity
utif I gave her another chance, I wasn’t swayed. You give me a reason to earn my trust, it’s given with a
hesolemn vow to uphold it in return. You break trust with me, and you’re cut from my life forever.
ct I’m a simple guy.
in I don’t respond to Adriana because that will only fuel renewed apologies and pleas. She’ll go
enseveral days, even sometimes a few weeks, without contacting me, but then she’ll get lonely—and
most likely drunk—and reach out. I made the mistake once of trying to just be kind about it, insisting
ueshe needed to move on and wishing her the best of luck. She took my kindness as perhaps a change of
beheart and hasn’t let up since. I’ve found it best to ignore her.
of Now slightly irritated by Adriana, I change my mind about Cage’s offer. “I’ll grab a beer with you
uthguys if we can do it somewhere close by.”
“That’ll work,” Cage says easily. The guys live in the city, just east of the airport, but I live thirty
esminutes south of Pittsburgh.
ut Another perk of flying Jameson style is that it takes us all of about five minutes to grab our
luggage, deplane, and head to our vehicles in the parking lot of the private hangar. We agree on a bar
ndMalik googled, located a few miles from here, and once we’ve got beers in hand, we shoot the shit as
only guys can.
ve That involves a vigorous debate with Cage about baseball. He’s jumped on the Pittsburgh
bandwagon since he’s lived here awhile, but I root for my New York team I grew up with. Malik
ksdoesn’t follow baseball, but why would he when his two brothers play professional hockey for the
urCarolina Cold Fury?
rs Not only doesn’t he participate, but he ignores us, engrossed in a text conversation on his phone.
utTaking in the lazy smile on his face and the speed of his fingers flying over the screen, I have a good
aidea who has his attention.
I lean over intrusively, nosily checking out what he’s doing. Anna’s name is at the top of the
ut,screen, so I nudge him playfully. “Dude… pay attention to us. You’ll be seeing Anna soon enough.”
a “Yes, I will,” he says with enough innuendo that tells me there’s not going to be a lot of talk when
he gets home. “Her mom has Avery for the evening.”
he “Score!” Cage laughs.
I’ve come to learn a lot about my new teammates these last few months, but there’s no other as
mcompelling as Malik and Anna’s history together. They went through a lot to get to where they are.
Anna’s husband was killed in the line of duty on a mission where Malik was taken hostage. He was
beheld prisoner for months until Jameson rescued him.
When he returned, he wasn’t the same. Neither was Anna, for that matter. Pregnant when her
husband was killed, Anna had since given birth to their daughter, Avery. She also worked as Kynan’s
a,assistant, and over time, she and Malik grew close.
to Very, very close, as in they fell in love, despite the complicated nature of their circumstances.
mySome might consider it too messy, but I think those are the best love stories.
nd And make no mistake about it… I’m a romantic. That I wasn’t all that broken up about Adriana’s
infidelity only tells me she wasn’t the one.
ell Of course, I think I’d actually been feeling that way all along, but things had been comfortable and
easy, so I didn’t make an exit when I probably should have.
ut “Let me ask you guys something,” Malik says as he puts his phone on the bar top.
ty “Shoot,” Cage says, swiveling on his stool and leaning forward so he can see Malik on the other
h aside of me.
“Do you think it’s too soon to ask Anna to marry me?”
Dead silence. I blink at Malik, and a quick glance in the mirror behind the bar shows Cage with
gothe same blank expression.
nd “For fuck’s sake,” Malik growls, picking up his beer and taking a sip. “Don’t everyone rush to
ngreassure me all at once.”
of Cage shakes his head as if jolting out of a stupor. “My hesitation isn’t in reassuring you. My
hesitation is in wondering why you even need to ask. I just assumed y’all were going to get married at
ousome point. You haven’t proposed yet?”
Malik shakes his head. “It’s complicated.”
ty “It’s really not,” I say, thinking back on how easy it was to split from Adriana. I think the reverse
is also true. You just know when to do the right thing.
ur “You don’t understand the complexities—”
ar “I understand your story just fine.” Clapping a hand on his shoulder, I lean an elbow on the
ascounter. “You’re worried what people might think, and I’m here to tell you, they’d think it’s about
fucking time you two got married.”
gh Malik doesn’t look convinced, and I let my hand fall away. I get his worry, though. Marrying the
ikwoman who lost her husband during a mission you were also on could raise some eyebrows in
hecertain circles.
But not the Jameson circle. I’ve been able to tell since starting here that everyone at this company
ne.is part of a very close-knit circle. It feels like family, and no one would stand in the way of Malik and
odAnna’s happiness.
“You know you’re not disrespecting Jim’s memory at all,” Cage adds. “If anything, I know damn
hewell he’s happy knowing Anna is taken care of. Avery, too, for that matter.”
Malik’s eyes go soft at the mention of Avery. Anna and Jim’s daughter just turned one last week,
enand she is the apple of Malik’s eye. He may not have given her DNA, but he’s been a father to her in
every way.
His expression focuses, eyes moving back and forth between me and Cage. “I love Anna with the
asentirety of my being. I want to officially adopt Avery. I want her legally recognized as my daughter,
e.but I know the first step is to marry her mother.”
as Frowning, a thought strikes me. “Are you worried Anna will say no?”
 A quick shake of his head. “She’ll say yes.”
er “Then what in the fuck are you waiting for?” Cage exclaims.
n’s “Maybe I was waiting for some reassurance. That I’m not treading on anyone’s memory by doing
so.”
es. It’s a brave and bold proclamation. An admission of vulnerability, which men aren’t keen on
doing. I admire him for it.
’s “I suggest sooner rather than later.” I grab my beer and hold it up to him.
“I echo that sentiment,” Cage says and pushes his beer toward mine.
nd Malik grins, knocks the neck of his bottle against ours, and we drink. While Cage and I lower our
beers after a sip, Malik keeps his head tipped back and he downs the rest of his bottle.
He smacks his lips, eyes twinkling, and slides the empty bottle away from him. “I’m out of here.
erI’ve got an important question to ask Anna.”
My jaw drops as Malik gets off the stool. “Like, right now? You’re going to propose to her right
now?”
th Malik digs into his pocket for his keys. “Like Cage says… what in the fuck am I waiting for?”
“A ring, for one,” I point out.
to His grin is sly. “Already bought it.”
Laughing, I point toward the door. “Then get out of here. You have something far more important
Myto do than drink another beer with us.”
at “That I do,” Malik says, and then he’s gone.
Cage and I share a moment, reveling in happiness for our friend. He glances down at my bottle.
“Want another?”
se “Nah, man.” I laugh. “Got the love of my life waiting for me at home.”
“Bubba is the love of your life?” Cage asks dryly.
“That he is. Jealous?”
he “Hardly.” Cage finishes his beer, and we both rise from our stools. “Got a hot wife waiting at
uthome who always knows how to welcome me back in just the right way.”
“TMI, dude,” I chastise with a laugh as we head out of the bar.
he
in

ny
nd

mn

k,
in

he
er,
 A quick shake of his head. “She’ll say yes.”
“Then what in the fuck are you waiting for?” Cage exclaims.
“Maybe I was waiting for some reassurance. That I’m not treading on anyone’s memory by doing
so.”
It’s a brave and bold proclamation. An admission of vulnerability, which men aren’t keen on
doing. I admire him for it.
“I suggest sooner rather than later.” I grab my beer and hold it up to him.
“I echo that sentiment,” Cage says and pushes his beer toward mine.
Malik grins, knocks the neck of his bottle against ours, and we drink. While Cage and I lower our
beers after a sip, Malik keeps his head tipped back and he downs the rest of his bottle.
He smacks his lips, eyes twinkling, and slides the empty bottle away from him. “I’m out of here.
I’ve got an important question to ask Anna.”
My jaw drops as Malik gets off the stool. “Like, right now? You’re going to propose to her right
now?”
Malik digs into his pocket for his keys. “Like Cage says… what in the fuck am I waiting for?”
“A ring, for one,” I point out.
His grin is sly. “Already bought it.”
Laughing, I point toward the door. “Then get out of here. You have something far more important
to do than drink another beer with us.”
“That I do,” Malik says, and then he’s gone.
Cage and I share a moment, reveling in happiness for our friend. He glances down at my bottle.
“Want another?”
“Nah, man.” I laugh. “Got the love of my life waiting for me at home.”
“Bubba is the love of your life?” Cage asks dryly.
“That he is. Jealous?”
“Hardly.” Cage finishes his beer, and we both rise from our stools. “Got a hot wife waiting at
home who always knows how to welcome me back in just the right way.”
“TMI, dude,” I chastise with a laugh as we head out of the bar.
 CHAPTER 2
Kellen

WHEN I LEFT Adriana behind in California, I also left behind the house I’d owned for almost five
years. In between deployments, I was stationed at Camp Pendleton and liked the area very much. San
Diego has the perfect weather year-round, and I thought it would be a good place to put down roots
once I got out of the Corps.
Luckily, the house sold after only two days on the market, and with the proceeds, I purchased a
house in Washington, Pennsylvania, just south of Pittsburgh. I’m not a city boy, having been raised in
the dairy-farm hills of upstate New York, and I couldn’t see myself staying among the glass, concrete,
and steel of downtown. I don’t mind the commute and love that my little neighborhood sits off a
winding, two-lane road with beautiful views of the mountains and rolling hills.
The house isn’t huge—just an average split-level that could use some updating. My first project
will be redoing the kitchen because I like to cook and spend a lot of time in that room. This house
stood out more, though, for its fenced-in backyard for Bubba and a small work shed at the back for my
tools. I’ve got quite the collection and can fix most household failures as well as do minor carpentry.
I turn onto the driveway and pull into the carport attached to the house. I’d like to remove it at
some point and add an actual garage, but that’s after the interior renovations, which could take a
while.
My ears perk up as I exit, pulling my travel duffel out and slinging it over my shoulder. Usually,
I’d hear Bubba barking at the sound of my car, but it’s eerily silent. I enter the house through the side
door that leads into the kitchen, and my chest clenches slightly that my dog isn’t there to greet me.
“Bubba,” I call out and give a shrill whistle.
Relief rushes through me when I hear the scrabble of his nails on the wood floor, and he comes
around the corner from the living room. Tail is wagging—obviously delighted I’m home—but he’s
moving weird. Head slunk low, and he looks uncomfortable.
Letting the duffel slide to the floor, I squat with arms outstretched so he comes into me. “What’s
wrong with you?” I ask gently, accepting licks on my face as his tail continues to wag. But I can tell
he’s not feeling well.
I run my hands along his ribs, over his haunches, and through his thick brown and black fur, under
to his belly where I press in to see if that causes him any pain, but it doesn’t.
Taking his face in my hands, my eyes lock with his soulful brown ones. “I wish you could talk,
buddy. I can tell something is off, but I’m not sure what.”
That earns me a lick from chin to nose, and I laugh, followed by a long rub on the side of his neck.
I press my forehead to his and stand up. “How about some dinner?” I ask.
Normally, that word sends him into fits of rapture, accompanied by excited barks, but now he just
stares up at me with mild interest. I frown, because my dog is food motivated, and he’s clearly feeling
ambivalent. Still, his tail is wagging, a sign of contentment—probably because I’m home—so I put
my fears aside.
 I tell Bubba all about my adventures in Mexico as he sits and watches me prepare his meal. Only
the best for my boy, which includes high-end kibble that I mix with a dehydrated brand for flavor. I
add fresh green beans for his constitution and set the bowl on the floor.
Bubba doesn’t move, but that’s his training. He’s not allowed to eat until I give him his release
command.
“At ease,” I say, motioning toward the bowl. Any other day, he’d make a diving launch for the
food, but now he just saunters over and sniffs. His eyes lift to mine. “Go ahead… eat, buddy.”
ve He samples some of the food but then turns away from the bowl.
an What in the fuck is going on?
ots I follow Bubba back into the living room. He doesn’t lie on his bed, though, instead pacing around
while intermittently panting. I whip out my phone and call Julie.
a The adult daughter of my neighbors across the street, she’s been Bubba’s dog sitter since I moved
inhere. She lives with her parents due to a recent divorce and works as a dental hygienist. She’s a dog
te,lover and has taken over the role of his caretaker when I’m on missions, so I don’t have to board him.
aDuring the day while she’s at work, one of her parents comes over to let Bubba out and check on him,
and then Julie stays with him at night.
ct I know she’s at work and have no clue if she’ll answer. I’m relieved when she does on the third
sering.
my “Hey, Julie,” I say as soon as we’re connected. “I’m home, and Bubba’s acting a little weird.
Wouldn’t eat dinner.”
at “That is weird,” she says, knowing my dog’s love of food very well. “He was fine this morning.
aAte his regular breakfast, did fine on our walk. Want me to call my parents to see what they say? I
know they were just there at lunchtime.”
ly, “No, I can do that.” I thank Julie again, and as soon as I disconnect, I e-transfer her money owed
defor her services as I’d forgotten to pay her.
I consider calling Julie’s parents, Rae and Dwight, but my gut tells me no matter what they say,
I’m not going to be able to sit back and wonder if this is serious or not.
es “Let’s go for a ride,” I say to my dog, and his ears perk up. The word ride is usually right there
’swith the word dinner on the excitement scale. Bubba’s tail wags harder, and he runs to the kitchen
door where his leash hangs.
t’s It makes me pause because, at this moment, he seems fine.
ell But he wasn’t fine when I got here and when he wouldn’t eat.
So hard to know what to do when your dog can’t speak your language. There’s really no debate
erneeded, though, because I’ll always err on the side of caution. A trip to the vet is money well spent if
it helps him and gives me peace of mind.
k,
♦
k.WHEN I MOVED to Pittsburgh, one of the first things I did was find a good veterinarian. I thoroughly
checked out Cove Lake Veterinary Practice and was pleased to learn that the vet had been there for
ustalmost thirty years. I met with her—Dr. LeAnne Schoen—and liked her a lot. She gave Bubba a good
ngexam, but it was essentially a meet and greet, as he wasn’t due for any vaccinations.
ut That’s where I head now, grateful her clinic is only about a mile and a half from my house.
 ly Situated on twenty-seven acres, the clinic sits beside Dr. Schoen’s large, white farmhouse she’s
. Irestored over the years. She told me it was built in the late 1800s, and she’s done an amazing job on
it, at least from what I can see on the exterior.
se Her vet practice is in a stand-alone building set about a hundred yards off to the left of the house
and has its own access from the road. I pull in, and there’s only one car parked in front.
he When I let Bubba out of my SUV and clip his leash, I give him a few minutes to do his business if
he needs to. He sniffs around the lush summer grass and starts pulling up chunks to eat.
That definitely indicates an upset stomach.
“Come on.” I give him a gentle tug, and he follows me into the white one-story building. A young
ndgirl sits behind an L-shaped reception counter, but she’s not the same one who greeted me on my first
visit. She smiles cheerily, glances at Bubba, then back to me. “Hi. Can I help you?”
ed “I don’t have an appointment, but Bubba is a patient of Dr. Schoen’s. I just got back from an
ogextended trip, and he’s not feeling well.”
m. Concern etches her face as she leans up to look over her desk at him. “Poor baby boy,” she coos
m,before settling back down. “And what seems to be the problem?”
“He was happy to see me, but not overly exuberant like he normally is. He wouldn’t eat his
rddinner, and he’s been pacing like he’s uncomfortable. His dog sitter said he was normal this morning
and ate all his breakfast.”
d. The receptionist nods with an understanding smile. “Dr. Schoen’s not here, but Dr. Blackburn is.
Would you like to see her?”
ng. “Yeah, that would be great.”
? I The receptionist swivels to a computer and asks for my name.
“Kellen McCord.”
ed She taps a few keys, takes a moment to study the screen, and smiles. “There you are. And this is
Omega?”
ay, “Yeah, but he answers to Bubba.”
“He looks more like an Omega. Bubba should be for hounds or something.”
re I laugh with a nod. “You’re not the first person to say that.”
en She smiles and reaches for the phone, presses a button, and says, “Dr. Blackburn… got a patient
up here for you.”
I blink in surprise at how casually this is all being done. At the vet clinic in San Diego, we’d get
checked in, then wait, then a vet tech would lead us into a room to do preliminaries, and then we’d
tewait patiently for the doctor to come in.
if But a swinging door pushes open, and a young woman walks through. I have no clue if she’s the
vet because she’s dressed in jeans, Converse tennis shoes, and a Rolling Stones graphic T-shirt.
And well… she’s gorgeous in a very unconventional way. Her midnight-black hair is cut very
short, right to the nape of her neck. The top is a little longer and swept to the side to hang over her
forehead. She has an eyebrow piercing, which only makes me focus in on her seafoam-green eyes, so
lybright they look like jewels.
or She’s not wearing makeup other than some mascara, and her skin is a flawless ivory with
odnaturally rosy cheeks. Hard also to miss those full lips that are devoid of any artificial coloring but
have a slight shine to indicate maybe some gloss.
The woman doesn’t spare me a glance, her attention immediately on Bubba. She moves to him, no
 ’shesitation, and squats. “And who do we have here?”
on “Bubba,” I say, but the receptionist talks over me.
“He’s an eight-year-old Belgian Malinois. Established with Dr. Schoen two months ago. Retired
seMWD, early onset arthritis. Prescribed Rimadyl to take as needed. Otherwise, no health complaints
and current on all vaccinations.”
if Well, damn. She apparently gleaned more from his computer file than I gave her credit for.
The woman—who I have to assume is the vet—rubs behind Bubba’s ears to make him
comfortable. “And what’s wrong with you, fur ball? Your eyes are bright, but that doesn’t always tell
ngthe story for noble creatures like you.”
rst Bubba grins a doggy smile and licks her face. I’m surprised because I’m the only one he usually
shows affection to. While he is by no means vicious, nor has he been trained to be that way, he is a
anwell-disciplined dog that holds himself in reserve.
She laughs in delight, gives Bubba a pat on the side of his neck, and rises. Holding out a hand, she
ossays, “I’m Abby Blackburn.”
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Blackburn.” Although she’s petite and fine-boned, her shake is strong and
hisconfident. “Kellen McCord.”
ng She grimaces. “Just call me Abby. I’ve never been one to insist on conventional titles.”
I laugh but feel the need to clarify. “But you are, in fact, a veterinarian?”
is. Abby laughs, soft and tinkling. “Yes, I am a veterinarian. Just not… conventional.”
“As long as you help Bubba, that’s all I care about.”
“A former military working dog,” she says with a tip of her head at the receptionist. “Were you
his handler?”
“Yeah, we were together five years. My enlistment ended right around the time he was being
isretired, so I was able to adopt him.”
“Awesome,” she says with an open smile before her expression turns serious. “So, what seems to
be the problem?”
I recount everything I’d already told the receptionist, adding, “I know that doesn’t sound like a lot,
but—”
nt “If you think he’s off, then I take your word for it. It could be a simple upset tummy. Could be a
blockage. Better safe than sorry.”
get Reaching out, she takes the leash from me. “If you want to have a seat, I’ll examine him in the
’dback. But X-rays are really the best way to go if we suspect a blockage. I’ll have to give him a mild
sedative, though, so he doesn’t move.”
he “Yeah, that’s fine… run whatever tests you need,” I say without hesitation, bending over and
wrapping my arms around Bubba. I press my face into his fur and whisper words of encouragement.
ryMy stomach twists, knowing that it could be serious, but I push the fear back. No sense getting
erworked up about something that could be an upset stomach.
so Abby disappears through the swinging door and Christy follows her, leaving me with only my
thoughts.
th When Bubba and I were in the Marine Corps, his life was in serious danger many a day. But I was
utable to compartmentalize that. I couldn’t afford to have my concern affect my attention and focus. He
couldn’t afford that either.
no In civilian life, though, it’s not so easy to push away the worries. He’s my pet now, not my partner,
 and that means I can’t help but feel nervous about the possibilities. I can’t go into cool Marine mode
where danger is part of the job. We’re civilians now, and I don’t want anything to happen to my dog.
ed I ignore the seating bolted into the wall and pace the lobby. Back and forth past displays of
ntsspecialty pet foods, toys, and treats. I check my watch a dozen times. I pull out my phone once,
thinking I could surf Instagram for a bit but close it right back down when I see Adriana sent another
message with a more insistent request for me to call her so we can talk about “things.”
m Everyone says I need to block her, and I absolutely would, except for one very complicated
ellreason—we have a tangled financial tie that hasn’t been sorted out yet. About a year ago, I helped
Adriana open a vegan health-food store and fronted her the start-up costs. As such, I have a fifty
lypercent ownership of the business. It does well, so we decided to keep it when it looked like we
awere moving to Pittsburgh. Adriana would train a good manager, and we considered opening another
location when we settled here.
he That’s obviously not going to happen. Adriana continues to run the store, but the profit margin
right now is slim. I want out of the entire thing, but Adriana doesn’t have the funds to buy me out just
ndyet. So I’m stuck until she can get financing to buy my half of the business. Right now, we’ve agreed
to a low monthly payment that she can afford, but I’d prefer she take out a loan to let me out
altogether. Part of me thinks she’s dragging her feet as a means to keep me involved because she holds
out hope I’ll take her back.
Which will never happen. I don’t feel anything for her other than a faint distaste, like she was a
bitter drink that I can’t quite wash out of my mouth.
ou I return to pacing.
It seems like hours, but when I look at my watch as Abby walks through the swinging door, it’s
ngonly been about forty-five minutes.
“Is he okay?” I blurt out, amazed at how panicky I sound. I’m normally cool as a cucumber under
tohorrible stress. I mean, for fuck’s sake… I did bomb detection work, and I just spent eight days
protecting civilians traveling through a dangerous country.
ot, Abby smiles reassuringly. “He’s fine. A little sleepy, but it does look he ingested something.”
“Like what?” I ask dumbly. Bubba’s a well-trained dog. He’s not even a chewer, much less an
aindiscriminate snacker.
Abby’s eyes twinkle. “Sadly, our technology isn’t that advanced yet, but it does appear to be some
hesort of soft material. Maybe a sock, a stuffed toy.”
ld “Stuffed toy?”
She nods.
nd “He sleeps with one. I mean… he has several, but all he does is hold them in his mouth when he
nt.sleeps. He started doing that after he retired. I thought that was him starting to show his fun-loving
ngdoggy side after spending years doing serious work.”
“But he’s never ingested them before?” she asks.
my “No. Never.”
“Have there been any stressors on him?” she inquires.
as I frown, wondering if there’s something I missed. I’m usually so in tune with him. “I don’t think
Heso.”
“You said you just came back from a trip,” she prods.
er, “For eight days to Mexico. It’s the—” And then it hits me like a ton of bricks. “It’s the longest I’ve
deever been away from him. Most trips I’ve taken since we moved to Pittsburgh have only been for a
few days… three at most.”
of “That could be it,” she surmises. “But let’s talk about what this means.”
e, I listen attentively as she explains the foreign material is in his colon, which means it’s passed
eralmost all the way through his digestive system. “It appears to be moving okay and not creating any
blockages, but that doesn’t mean it won’t.”
ed “Do you have to operate?”
ed “No,” she replies quickly, her voice calm, which calms me. “Only if it doesn’t move on its own.
ftyWhat we’d normally do in this situation is put him on IV fluids to sort of help lubricate things and
wemonitor him. I’d like to keep him overnight, and hopefully by tomorrow, he’ll pass whatever it is he
erate.”
“But what if he’s in distress during the night? It’s why I don’t ever board him but rather have a
insitter stay at the house. I don’t like the idea of him being alone in case something happens. We’ve
ustbeen through way too much together, and I can’t put him in any type of situation—”
ed Abby rests a hand on my forearm. It’s light, without much weight, but it immediately settles me.
ut “I sound like a fucking fool, don’t I?” I grumble with a sheepish grin.
ds She squeezes and shakes her head before her hand falls away. “Not at all. You sound like a good
dog dad to me. But you don’t need to worry. I live here… an apartment above the garage of Dr.
aSchoen’s house, so I’ll come check on Bubba. I don’t anticipate any problems, but if there are, I’ll
call you.”
The huge gust of breath—pure relief—loosens the tightness in my chest. Jesus… when did I
t’sbecome such a pansy where my dog was concerned? Especially since he’s done stuff that has put his
life in jeopardy more times than I can count and I never felt panicked like this.
er “Want to see him?” she asks.
ys My eyebrows jet upward. “Can I?”
“Sure,” she replies. “We don’t have any other people in, and we’re getting ready to close up for
the day. Christy’s settling Bubba into one of our super large kennels, so he’ll be very comfortable.”
an I follow Abby through the swinging door to find myself in a large, open space with three
examining tables in the center, glass cabinets filled with supplies, and stainless-steel countertops
merunning underneath laden with laptops, microscopes, and other medical machines that do God knows
what. Through a set of double swinging doors with glass panels, I see what looks like an operating
room. It’s clean and bright and looks far more sophisticated than what I would’ve anticipated for a
small country vet.
he My eyes fall on a massive corner cage—four Bubbas could fit inside. He’s lying on a soft bed of
ngtowels with an IV taped to his shaved right front leg. Christy kneels next to him, murmuring soft
words as she hangs the bag of saline solution.
Bubba sees me and raises his head, his tail thumping weakly. His eyes are glassy, and he looks
stoned.
Exiting the cage, Christy motions. “Want to sit with him for a bit?”
nk I look back to Abby, but she’s at one of the counters typing on a laptop, perhaps updating Bubba’s
chart.
The cage is large enough for me to crawl in and sit comfortably at his side. Bubba settles his head
veon my lap, thumps his tail twice, and closes his eyes with a deep sigh. Within seconds, he’s snoring.
 a “Will he sleep all night?” I ask no one in particular, but it’s Abby who answers.
She swivels on her stool. “Yeah, but I’ll come and walk him at least twice. He’ll need to pee with
all that saline running through him. Hopefully, we’ll get a big poop out, too, with what I’m guessing is
eda stuffed animal.”
ny I shake my head, still amazed he’d eat it. Was the stress of me being gone what caused this? Did
Julie not take good care of him? I mean, she’s nice and all, but I just met her a few months ago. Maybe
I made a mistake not boarding him.
n. “I can see the wheels turning in your head,” Abby says thoughtfully. “Wondering what you did
ndwrong.”
he “That obvious?”
“Obvious enough. I’d say cut yourself a break.” She hops off the stool and crosses over to a set of
alarge wire kennels on the far wall. Christy has disappeared. I stroke Bubba’s fur as I watch Abby
vefeed the dogs and cats housed there. I like that she doesn’t mind doing the low-level work. I’ve
always been impressed with people who don’t mind doing whatever it takes to get the job done.
“How long have you worked here?” I ask as she pours out food in bowls, attaches them inside the
wire cages, and refills water bottles.
od Abby nods. “For two years now. She’s going to sell me the practice when she retires, which is
Dr.coming sooner rather than later, I think. She’s been doing a lot of traveling lately.”
’ll She moves with surety and efficiency, but she also has a grace about her that’s hard to describe.
Amazing posture, fluidity to her movement. Like a dancer, perhaps.
I I know she’s stunning. Despite being dressed in jeans and a graphic tee, she almost seems
hisaristocratic with her delicate facial features. Not many women can pull off that haircut, but her face
almost demands it.
She’s a doppelgänger for Audrey Hepburn, except her eyes are light green instead of brown, and
her hair is midnight black. “Are you from here?”
or Abby doesn’t pause in her work, merely shaking her head. “Kentucky.”
Fascinating, and not what I was thinking. “You don’t have a Southern accent.”
ee She laughs, again sweet, delicate, and tinkling, which matches her petite frame. “Oh, get a few
psbeers in me, and the accent comes right out. But I’ve been gone almost ten years now, so I think it’s
wstempered a bit.”
ng Abby moves to a cage with a golden retriever inside who looks to be in rough shape. Her eyes are
adull, hair matted, and she’s shivering. Rather than put the bowl inside, Abby leaves the kennel door
open and sets the food bowl on the floor.
of Stepping back, she squats low and murmurs encouragement. “Come on, sweet girl. I know you’re
ofthungry.”
The dog wags her tail as she slinks out of the cage, looking left and right cautiously.
ks “Why is she walking funny?” I ask as the dog steps tentatively, picking each paw up high from the
floor, as if the tile hurts in some way.
Abby grimaces, shooting me a pained look. “She was rescued from a puppy mill. She was a
’sbreeding bitch and has never walked on anything other than the cage she lived in.”
I sit up straighter. “Excuse me?”
ad Abby nods, but then pins her gaze back on the pathetic dog who seems to be starving and is now
wolfing down the food as if she hasn’t eaten in weeks. “Her whole life has been nothing but living in
 a cage and giving birth to puppies. I’d estimate her to be about five years old, and I bet she’s had
thtwelve litters so far.”
is “That’s barbaric.”
“That’s only the tip of the barbarism in these puppy mills,” Abby says with a forlorn sigh.
id “What will happen to her?” My eyes are glued to the poor dog who continues to shake like a leaf
beas she eats, and yet her tail wags with what I think must be happiness to be out of her cage. Abby
moves closer and strokes the dog’s snarled coat. She lifts her head and stares at Abby with what I
idswear is pure gratitude before lowering to the bowl again.
“There are some good foster parents in the area. I’ll get her healthy, and then she’ll get fostered.
Hopefully, a nice family will adopt her, and she’ll be able to run and appreciate grass under her
oftoes.”
by Bubba lets out a tiny yip, and my eyes snap to him as his body jerks repetitively. Only a dream.
ve I rub my hand down his fur, and he settles.
When I look back up, the golden retriever is snuffling into the bowl for the last bits of kibble.
heWhen she’s done, she doesn’t even look around but scurries into her cage, huddling in the back.
Abby utters some curses under her breath, but they’re loud enough to carry across the room.
isMotherfucking assholes.
Can’t disagree with that sentiment if that’s how this dog was treated.
e. Or rather, mistreated.

ms
ce

nd

w
t’s

re
or

re

he

w
in
a cage and giving birth to puppies. I’d estimate her to be about five years old, and I bet she’s had
twelve litters so far.”
“That’s barbaric.”
“That’s only the tip of the barbarism in these puppy mills,” Abby says with a forlorn sigh.
“What will happen to her?” My eyes are glued to the poor dog who continues to shake like a leaf
as she eats, and yet her tail wags with what I think must be happiness to be out of her cage. Abby
moves closer and strokes the dog’s snarled coat. She lifts her head and stares at Abby with what I
swear is pure gratitude before lowering to the bowl again.
“There are some good foster parents in the area. I’ll get her healthy, and then she’ll get fostered.
Hopefully, a nice family will adopt her, and she’ll be able to run and appreciate grass under her
toes.”
Bubba lets out a tiny yip, and my eyes snap to him as his body jerks repetitively. Only a dream.
I rub my hand down his fur, and he settles.
When I look back up, the golden retriever is snuffling into the bowl for the last bits of kibble.
When she’s done, she doesn’t even look around but scurries into her cage, huddling in the back.
Abby utters some curses under her breath, but they’re loud enough to carry across the room.
Motherfucking assholes.
Can’t disagree with that sentiment if that’s how this dog was treated.
Or rather, mistreated.
 CHAPTER 3
Abby

FLIPPING THROUGH MY contacts, I tap on Cecile Tambry’s number and pray she’ll hear me out.
She answers on the second ring. “What can I do for you, Abby?”
I wince because her tone is curt and standoffish. “I have a sweet girl in need of a foster home.”
“Is she tatted?”
Three words that tell me Cecile will turn me down just like the prior two ladies I talked to this
morning. My circle of dog fosters shrinks with every call. “Yes, but—”
“No buts,” Cecile says with a huff. “I’m not getting involved in that. You’re bringing trouble to my
doorstep, and it’s illegal.”
“No, not at all,” I rush to assure her. “She was loose, and I captured her.”
“Bullshit,” Cecile snaps. “You know damn well Levi Hellman isn’t about to let a single one of his
bitches get loose. Just as I know you’ve somehow managed to steal that dog.”
I lose my temper at Cecile’s sanctimonious tone. “How can you think it’s wrong for me to liberate
these—”
“Steal, Abby. You’re stealing.”
“I’m giving these dogs a chance at life,” I snap back.
“And I admire your gumption… I really do. But you asking me to foster these poor creatures that
you steal from Hellman is asking me to hold stolen property, and I’m not about to get arrested for you
or for any dog.”
“Then you don’t love dogs the way you claim to,” I say quietly.
I expect her to rail at me some more, attempt to make me feel guilty for my crusade, but instead
she hangs up on me.
“Damn it,” I mutter and toss my phone onto the desk. I angle my head toward the kennel where the
golden retriever is sleeping. She’s curled into a ball, wound tightly in a defensive position, and my
heart breaks even further.
So… yeah, I didn’t find the dog running loose. I sneaked onto Levi Hellman’s property, a massive
fifty-acre complex of three huge, corrugated metal buildings that hold nothing but rows and rows of
stacked cages, and within those cages, fertile dogs whose sole purpose is to get pregnant and give
birth. More cages hold puppies and even more cages hold the sires that “donate” their sperm. It’s not
a good life for them either, because the only time they’re let out is to impregnate a female.
My crusade has turned me into a thief. I only saved the one female dog night before last, but it was
at least one life. No matter how much I’ve protested, called legislators, and attempted to educate
people to put boots on the ground to close these puppy mills, I’ve not made any real headway. I did
get arrested once—apparently, peaceful protesting is called disorderly conduct in this state and
carries a hefty fine.
But as I stare at the broken golden dog in the kennel, I’d get arrested a hundred times over just to
save one of these sweet creatures.
 “Abby.” I jolt and swivel on my chair toward the door where Christy’s head peeks through. “Mr.
McCord is here for Bubba.”
“Oh, okay.” I rise from the stool.
Christy steps all the way through the door and lets it shut. Fanning herself, she whispers, “You are
not going to believe how hot he looks today.”
I smirk at her. She thought he looked unbelievably hot yesterday when he brought Bubba in.
And she wasn’t wrong about that.
The man is walking sin and temptation all rolled together. Tall, broad shoulders, and muscles.
Strong jaw, beautiful blue eyes, and capable hands.
Yes, I noticed his hands and the way they held Bubba’s leash and stroked his fur.
Kellen McCord has scorching sex appeal.
his “Why don’t you let him come on back here, and I’ll go over the discharge instructions with him.”
“Sure thing,” Christy says. She turns for the door, takes a deep breath, and smooths her scrub shirt.
myTossing her ponytail back, she lets the air out of her lungs and heads into the lobby. I hope to God she
doesn’t solicit the man for a date as that would be totally unprofessional and something Dr. Schoen
would have a fit about if she heard.
his Not that I’d tell, but if she offends Mr. McCord in any way, it could get back to Dr. Schoen.
As I move to Bubba’s cage, I smile at the gorgeous and perfectly mannered Belgian Malinois. I
teremoved his IV about two hours ago, and he’s bright-eyed with good energy.
The swinging door opens, and Bubba’s owner sticks his head through and locks eyes with me. “I
was told to come back.”
“Hi, Mr. McCord,” I say as I unlatch Bubba’s kennel door. “Your boy is as good as new.”
hat “Kellen,” he says with a smile as Bubba flies out toward his dad. I watch with a satisfied smile
ouas the man squats and envelops the dog in a big hug. He glances up at me as Bubba wiggles with
excitement. “I take it he’s okay?”
“Oh yeah.” I laugh as I move to them, squatting to pet the dog. “He had a major poop at about six
ada.m., and I confirmed that, sadly, he murdered what appeared to be a stuffed bunny.”
“Hugo,” Kellen says with a shake of his head. “That was Hugo.”
he I burst out laughing. “His stuffed animal had a name?”
my “Animals,” he corrects me. “As in plural. He has at least seven.”
“Does he know them all by name?”
ve “He does,” Kellen says, a proud smile in place. “But now I’m wondering if I need to take them
ofaway.”
ve “I definitely wouldn’t let him have one unsupervised. This could have been a onetime event, or he
otcould have developed a fondness for them in his belly.”
“God, I hope not.”
as “It could’ve been the stress of you leaving,” I surmise. “Next trip, you might want to have your
tesitter pay a little closer attention.”
id “She’s not with him all the time. Mostly she stays the nights, and then he’s let out a few times
ndduring the day.”
“Maybe you should board him, then. Just to be safe,” I suggest.
to Kellen grimaces. “Yeah… I know. I just hate it.”
A surge of fondness wells within me. This is a man who has an extreme love for his dog.
Mr.Someone who probably would break the law for Bubba’s welfare.
Without even realizing it, the words slip out freely. “I don’t mind watching him when you’re gone.
He’s so well behaved, he can stay here in the clinic during the day. We’ll put a bed out there with
reChristy, and he can stay at my place at night.”
Kellen blinks at me in surprise, his mouth curving in a smile. “I’ll take you up on that. I’d pay you,
of course.”
I wave a hand. “You don’t need to. Maybe buy me a drink sometime.”
es. “Dinner,” he says with a grin. “I’ll take you out to dinner.”
Wait! Would that be a date? Because I wasn’t soliciting for one. At least I don’t think I was when I
mentioned a drink.
Shaking my head, I rise and motion toward the counter. “I’ve got his discharge instructions over
here that I can go over with you.”
rt. Kellen stands straight, and I hadn’t realized just how tall he is until he’s standing right beside me.
heI’m on the short side at five two, but he towers more than a foot over me.
en And yes… Christy is right. He looks somehow hotter today than yesterday, but I’m thinking that’s
because yesterday, he was in jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt, and today he’s in workout shorts and a
tank top, which showcases his muscular arms and legs as well as sexy tattoos on his chest and biceps
. Iand one on his calf.
I’m partial to tattoos—except the ones horribly etched inside dog ears to indicate ownership by a
“Iparticular puppy mill. The golden retriever has a crude one on the soft underside of her ear—HK.
Hellman Kennels.
It should just be called Hell Kennels because the living conditions are akin to that.
le The lobby door swings in, and Christy comes through, her expression pale. “Levi Hellman is out
ththere with two other guys, and they have a gun.”
“What?” I exclaim.
ix “Well, he’s wearing his sidearm on his belt,” Christy clarifies. “He’s demanding you give him
back his dog.”
“Shit,” I mutter, turning to Kellen. I press a hand to his chest and give a short command. “Stay
here.”
His head drops, looks at my hand on his sternum, and then his eyes come back to mine. Such a
pretty blue I could get lost if I didn’t have something more pressing.
m “I’ll be right back,” I say before spinning away from Kellen and rushing through the door into the
lobby, Christy on my heels.
he Levi Hellman stands on the other side of the reception counter, and I recognize his two teenage
sons, Levi Jr. and Abel. They’re both in their teens and I hate that their father brought them to witness
what’s going to be a confrontation, but I suspect he considers this part of their training on how to be
urassholes.
Levi is in his late thirties, tall and thin with a protruding Adam’s apple. His face is plain, hair a
essandy blond, his eyes a dull brown. He considers himself a legitimate businessman and drives a
brand-new Mercedes. Today he’s wearing a pair of jeans and a nice button-down shirt, which doesn’t
fit with the gun holstered on his hip.
There’s always a bland smile plastered on his smug face that’s completely disingenuous.
g. “Dr. Blackburn,” he says, clasping his hands before him. The gun is threatening enough, he doesn’t
 need to call attention to it. I see it. “I’d like my bitch back.”
ne. “No clue what you’re talking about,” I reply, standing directly opposite him with the desk counter
thbetween us.
His lip curls in a sneer. “Don’t play stupid with me. I have you on video.”
u, “If you had me on video, you’d have the sheriff here arresting me.” That was a big gamble. I knew
he had cameras, and I did my best to skirt around them, but I was mostly banking on him being too
damn cheap to actually keep them in good working order. The fact he’s here and not law enforcement
tells me the gamble paid off.
n I “How about we just go into your back room and let me take a look around?” he says, taking a step
to the right.
er Before I can protest or move an inch, a deep voice sounds behind me. “This is private property,
and you’re not allowed in the back.”
me. I angle toward Kellen, who somehow came through the door so quietly, no one saw or heard him.
He stands with his hands tucked casually in his pockets, acting like he doesn’t have a care in the
t’sworld. But his bulging muscles are probably enough to let Hellman know they’re going to have to go
athrough him if they want into the back.
ps If Kellen didn’t dissuade him, the hundred-and-twenty-pound Belgian Malinois standing at
attention probably did. I’d learned that Bubba was an explosives detection dog and probably wasn’t
y atrained to attack, but he sure looks like he could rip out a throat or two.
“Who’s that?” Levi demands, cutting to Kellen and Bubba.
“Just the owner of a patient,” I reply, garnering his attention back on me. “But he makes a good
point. This is private property, and I’d like you to leave.”
ut “You got my fucking bitch, bitch, and I mean to get her back.”
My eyes slide to his sons, neither one yet an adult, and they’re grinning like Cheshire cats. Yup.
Assholes in the making.
m “Those your boys?” Kellen asks, and my head snaps his way.
Levi’s eyes narrow. “What’s it to you?”
ay “Stay,” Kellen says to Bubba whose butt hits the tile floor. He then heads toward Levi. “You
might want to ask your boys to step outside, because I’m getting ready to beat your ass for calling Dr.
aBlackburn a bitch.”
I gasp, Christy chokes, and the Hellman boys look at each other in shock. Levi takes the threat
heseriously, though, and backpedals toward the door, holding out his hands. “Now you just wait a
minute… You can’t—”
ge My mouth gapes as Levi’s back slams into the door, stopping his progress. But Kellen keeps
ssmoving right toward him.
be Fear hikes Levi’s voice by a few octaves. “You stay back from me. Don’t make me shoot you.”
My stomach pitches at the threat, but rather than reach for his gun, Levi makes a push against the
adoor with his backside and stumbles out. His boys bolt after him.
a Kellen doesn’t stop, so I scramble from around the desk and rush that way. I have no need to
n’tworry because all Kellen does is hold the door open so that the Hellmans can hear him. “Consider
this your official notice. You are not allowed back on this property. Next time one of you even slows
your vehicle going by, the police will be called. Understood?”
n’t None of them respond but instead jump into Levi’s Mercedes and peel out of the gravel parking
 lot.
er I press my hand against my chest, trying to quell the hammering of my heart. That was intense.
Kellen turns to face me, one eyebrow raising. “Did you steal that man’s dog?”
“What?” I try my best to sound offended, but it comes off as guilty. “No. No way. Why would I do
wsomething—”
oo Before I know what’s happening, Kellen takes my elbow and turns me around and marches me
ntinto the back clinic area. Christy’s eyes go round as she watches him manhandle me.
Through the swinging door, Bubba on our heels, Kellen escorts me through and lets go as soon as
epthe door shuts.
He moves right to the kennel with the golden retriever and squats before it. Bubba moves to his
ty,side and sniffs at the door latch while the other dog watches with curious eyes.
Head twisting, Kellen looks over his shoulder at me. “I never would’ve pegged you as a
m.criminal.”
he “Levi Hellman’s the criminal,” I retort, stomping over and pointing at the cage. “That poor
gocreature is only one of about four hundred dogs he’s exploiting.”
“So you could only grab one?” he asks.
at And though I hear his subtle teasing, I launch into a diatribe. “He has warehouses full of dogs.
n’tWire cages, barely big enough for dogs to stand in, stacked on top of each other three high. The dogs
are not let out of the cages, so all feces and urine from the top cages fall on the dogs below. It coats
their fur, gets in their food and water, and makes them sick. They have festering wounds, eye
odinfections, and their toenails grow so long and curved, they can’t walk when they’re let out. That’s
why this sweet girl walks funny, because she doesn’t know how to. They breed the females over and
over again, giving them no time to recuperate. They don’t give them proper nutrition, so they’re sick
p.and starved. The puppies are jerked away from their mothers at four weeks, far too young to be fully
weaned, and are shipped off to pet stores to sell, the store owners knowing full well the atrocities
going on to get those puppies. And when dogs outgrow their use or a puppy is born with
imperfections, they take a hammer to the head because why waste money on bullets, or they drown the
oudogs. So yeah… I stole this dog, and I’ll steal others. I would have taken more, but I heard someone
Dr.coming, so I had to make do with saving just one this time.”
Kellen blinks as he stares up at me. “Wow.”
at I huff a frustrated breath, brushing my bangs to the side. “Yeah… wow.”
a I straighten my shoulders and wish he had not seen all this.
“I’m sorry you had to witness that. And yes, I did something legally wrong but what I feel is
psmorally right. I appreciate your help in running Levi Hellman out of here, but that only puts you in his
sights. He has friends in high places.”
Kellen rises, once again towering over me. “I’m not worried about Levi. I’m a bit more
heconcerned he’s going to come after you. If I hadn’t been here, I bet he would have barreled through
this door and found this dog.”
to He points down at the cage, and I heave a sigh. “I’m trying to find a foster, but the ones I know
erdon’t want anything to do with one of Hellman’s dogs. They’re scared of him and of getting in
wstrouble.”
“But you’re not.” Simple statement, and not a question.
ng “Yes, I’m scared. Not for me, but for these dogs.”
 “Quite the crusader, aren’t you?” he murmurs.
My eyes narrow at the words, choosing to ignore his soft tone. “Don’t make fun of me.”
Kellen’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and he holds out his hands. “Not making fun of you at all.
doI admire a good crusade. Just don’t like people getting hurt while on them.”
“I won’t get hurt.”
me “That man had a gun. I’m guessing that you’re messing with his profits. There are people who will
harm and even kill when you mess with their money.”
as I can’t argue with that. Most people wouldn’t kill, but Levi is cold and heartless. Maybe he
would, but I have to believe he loves his money and fancy cars more than he loves prison.
his “He’ll probably come back,” Kellen says.
I frown at the surety in his voice as he glances down at the golden retriever. “I’ll take her to my
aapartment above the garage.”
“I’ll take her,” Kellen says, eyes sliding back to mine.
or “Excuse me?”
“I’ll take her until you can find someone to adopt her,” he says easily. “She seems sweet but a
little shy. Bubba’s a good boy and will give her companionship. I don’t think it’s a good idea for her
gs.to stay on this property at all.”
gs “Um…”
ats “Is she in heat?” Kellen asks. “Because Bubba-boy isn’t neutered.”
ye “No, and her last litter was probably only four to six weeks ago. Her mammary glands are still
t’sexpressing milk and her belly skin is pretty loose.”
nd “Isn’t that too young to be taking puppies from their mother?”
ck “Physically, the puppies can survive. They start to wean around three to four weeks and are
lyusually on solid food by five to six weeks. Socially, it’s too young, but you have pet stores buying up
esthese puppies as fast as they can to make a profit, so they’re shipped out as soon as they can pull them
thfrom the mothers.”
he Kellen grimaces and shakes his head. “Just tell me how to care for her until you can get her
neadopted, finish up Bubba’s discharge papers, and I’ll take her with me.”
“I couldn’t possibly impose—”
“Not imposing,” he cuts me off. “I’m insisting.”
“But… it’s illegal,” she says, leaning in to whisper.
Kellen grins, leans right back toward me. “I doubt the dogs will rat us out.”
is Wow. This close and his eyes are mesmerizing. His smile is gorgeous and whatever he showered
hiswith this morning smells delicious. I try not to inhale too strongly and even step back because his
presence alone is overpowering.
re Not giving me a chance to argue, he unlatches the kennel door and beckons the golden retriever to
ghcome out. She needs a little encouragement, but it’s her interest in Bubba that eventually draws her.
She does her high step as the tile floor feels weird under her paws and freshly cut toenails, but she
wshould be better with this in a day or two.
in “I bathed her last night,” I say as Kellen gives a command to Bubba to hold still to let the other
dog sniff him. Her tail wags tentatively. “But some of her hair is so matted, I’m going to need to shave
her. It will let me also make sure her skin looks okay. I was going to do it after you picked up Bubba.”
“Well, let’s get it done,” Kellen says, as if he’s officially a member of the “let’s destroy all the
 puppy mills” team. He squats again, this time calling softly, not to the golden but to Bubba.
I watch in amazement as Bubba comes to Kellen and the golden follows along, still curious about
ll.the big black and brown boy. Kellen uses the opportunity when the golden approaches to stroke her
back gently. She jolts slightly as she turns to look at him. He talks in a low murmur, praising her
beauty and sweet eyes, and within seconds, her tail is wagging hard, and she pushes in closer to him. I
illcan’t help but laugh when she turns, positioning his hand so it scratches right at her lower spine, and
whines in ecstasy. It’s probably the first time someone has shown her genuine affection for no other
hereason than to please her.
“What’s her name?” Kellen asks, glancing up at me.
“Number two seven one,” I reply bitterly. “At least, that’s the number tattooed on her ear.”
my Kellen’s hazel eyes flash with ire as he looks back to the sweet dog soaking up his ministrations.
“How about Princess? Because she’s going to be treated like one from here on out.”
My heart absolutely melts over his proclamation, and I actually get a little choked up. I cough to
clear my throat. “That sounds perfect.”
a He grins bigger and brighter, and holy hell, my knees almost buckle. He’s got a perfect dimple on
ereach side of that smile.
A hot former Marine with hypnotizing eyes, muscles, tattoos, and dimples, who is a crusader for
dogs?
I better be careful, or I might just fall in love.
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Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
vorace. La libbra e mezza di salmone seccato al sole, che costituiva
la sua razione giornaliera, sembrava non fosse nulla per lui. Non ne
aveva mai abbastanza, e soffriva perpetue fitte di fame. Ma gli altri
cani, perchè pesavano meno ed erano nati per quella vita,
ricevevano una sola libbra di pesce e riuscivano a mantenersi in
buone condizioni.
Egli perdette rapidamente quella schifiltà che aveva caratterizzato la
sua vecchia vita. Mangiatore accurato e lento, aveva scoperto che i
suoi compagni, terminando prima, lo derubavano della parte di
razione che gli rimaneva. Non vi era maniera di difendersi. Mentre
egli scacciava due o tre, il cibo spariva nella bocca degli altri. Per
rimediare a ciò, mangiò in fretta come loro; e, tanto la fame
rincalzava, che egli non aveva ritegno a prendere anche la parte
altrui. Osservò e imparò.
Quando vide Pike, uno dei nuovi cani, furbo ipocrita e ladro,
destramente rubare una fetta di lardo affumicato, nel momento in cui
Perrault voltava le spalle, egli duplicò il furto, il giorno seguente,
portando via l’intero pezzo. Ne seguì un gran baccano, ma egli non
fu sospettato; mentre Dub, maldestro e pasticcione che si faceva
sempre cogliere in fallo, era punito per le malefatte di Buck.
Questa prima ruberia mostrò che Buck era adatto a sopravvivere
nell’ostile ambiente delle terre nordiche. Confermò la sua
adattabilità, la sua capacità ad adeguarsi a condizioni mutate; qualità
questa la cui mancanza avrebbe significato una rapida e terribile
morte. Segnò, inoltre, il decadere o frangersi della sua natura
morale, cosa vana, e un fardello nella furiosa lotta per l’esistenza.
Ottima cosa nel Sud, protetti dalla legge dell’amore e del
cameratismo, il rispettare la proprietà privata e i sentimenti personali;
ma nel Nord, sotto la legge della mazza e dei denti, chi prendeva
queste cose in considerazione era un pazzo, che per quanto si
poteva osservare intorno, non avrebbe certo prosperato.
Non che Buck facesse tutto questo ragionamento. Era adatto, ecco
tutto; e inconsciamente s’accomodava al nuovo modo di vita. In ogni
giorno, della sua vita, qualunque fosse il dissidio, egli non s’era mai
sottratto a una lotta. Ma la mazza dell’uomo dalla maglia rossa gli
aveva inculcato un codice più fondamentale e primitivo. Incivilito, egli
sarebbe stato capace di morire per una idea morale; per esempio,
per la difesa del frustino del giudice Miller; ma, ora, la perdita
assoluta d’ogni senso di civiltà era messa in evidenza dall’abilità che
usava nel sottrarsi alla difesa di una idea morale, per salvarsi il
fianco. Non rubava per la gioia di rubare, ma per le imperiose
necessità del suo stomaco; e non rubava apertamente, ma
nascostamente e con furberia, per timore della mazza e dei denti. In
breve, le cose che faceva, le faceva perchè era più facile farle che
non farle.
Il suo sviluppo (o regresso) fu rapido. I suoi muscoli divennero duri
come il ferro; egli divenne indifferente a tutte le pene ordinarie; e si
regolò secondo una perfetta economia interna oltre che esterna.
Poteva mangiare qualsiasi cosa, nauseante e indigesta che fosse; e,
mangiatala, i succhi del suo stomaco ne estraevano, sino alle più
minute particelle, tutto il nutrimento, che il sangue portava poi alle
più lontane estremità del corpo, costruendo i più saldi e duri tessuti.
La vista e l’odorato gli divennero straordinariamente acuti; mentre
l’udito s’era acuito al punto che nel sonno udiva il più leggero suono
e distingueva se era segno di pace o di pericolo.
Imparò a strapparsi il ghiaccio coi denti, quando gli si formava tra le
dita delle zampe; e allorchè aveva sete e vi era un grosso strato di
ghiaccio sull’acqua, lo rompeva saltandovi sopra con le quattro
zampe irrigidite. La sua abilità più straordinaria era quella di odorare
il vento e di prevederlo una notte prima. Qualunque fossero le
condizioni atmosferiche, quand’egli scavava il suo covo accanto ad
un albero, ad un monticello, il vento che soffiava più tardi lo trovava
sempre ben riparato, coperto e caldo.
E non soltanto egli imparava per esperienza, ma perchè si
ridestavano in lui istinti da lungo tempo scomparsi. Si separavano da
lui le generazioni addomesticate; vagamente ricordava cose lontane
della giovinezza della sua razza, di quando i cani selvatici erravano
a torme per le primitive foreste e uccidevano per nutrirsi l’animale
che riuscivano ad abbattere. Non gli era difficile imparare a
combattere tagliando e strappando, col rapido morso del lupo. In
quel modo avevano combattuto obliati antenati, che ravvivavano in
lui il senso dell’antica vita, così che le vecchie abilità ed astuzie
ch’essi avevano impresso ereditariamente alla razza, diventavano le
sue abilità e le sue astuzie. Gli venivano naturali, senza ricerca o
sforzo, come se le avesse sempre pensate. E allorchè, nelle notti
serene e fredde, puntava il naso verso una stella e ululava a lungo
alla maniera dei lupi, erano i suoi antenati, morti, in polvere, che
puntavano il naso alle stelle e ululavano attraverso i secoli e
attraverso lui. E le sue cadenze erano le loro cadenze, che
esprimevano la loro miseria e il silenzio e il freddo e le tenebre.
Così, a dimostrare che specie di buffoneria è la vita, l’antico canto
rinasceva in lui ed egli ritornava ad essere se stesso; e ritornava ad
essere se stesso perchè gli uomini avevano scoperto un metallo
giallo nel Nord, e perchè Manuele era un aiuto-giardiniere il cui
salario bastava appena a soddisfare i bisogni della moglie e di varie
piccole copie di sè.
 CAPITOLO III.
LA BESTIA PRIMORDIALE
PREPONDERANTE.

La bestia primordiale preponderante era molto forte in Buck, e in

quelle terribili condizioni della vita sul duro sentiero del Nord, crebbe
ogni giorno più. Cresceva, tuttavia, segretamente. La nuova
perspicacia gli dava senno e ritegno. Era troppo occupato ad
accomodarsi alla nuova vita, per sentirsi a suo agio; e non soltanto
non cercava litigi, ma li evitava sempre, quando poteva. Una certa
ponderatezza caratterizzava i suoi atti. Egli non era soggetto a
sventatezze o ad azioni precipitate: e nel profondo odio che correva
tra lui e Spitz, non tradiva alcuna inesperienza, evitando qualsiasi
atto offensivo.
D’altro canto, forse perchè presentiva in Buck un rivale pericoloso.
Spitz non perdeva alcuna occasione di mostrargli i denti. Egli si
disturbò persino a minacciarlo, cercando sempre di incominciare lui
una lotta che poteva finire soltanto con la morte dell’uno o dell’altro.
Il che sarebbe accaduto, a principio de! viaggio, se non fosse
successo un accidente poco piacevole. S’erano accampati
tristemente e miseramente sulla riva del Lago Le Barge. Neve
violenta, un vento che tagliava come un coltello di fuoco e tenebre li
avevano costretti a cercare a tastoni un luogo dove accampare.
Difficilmente avrebbero potuto trovarsi peggio. Dietro loro sorgeva
una parete rocciosa perpendicolare, e Perrault e François erano stati
costretti ad accendere il fuoco e a stendere la roba per dormire sul
ghiaccio del lago stesso. Essi avevano scaricata la tenda a Dyea,
per viaggiare più leggeri. Alcuni pezzi di legno trovati lì, sulla riva,
servirono a fare un fuoco che si spense nel ghiaccio, lasciandoli, a
mezzo della cena, all’oscuro.
Buck scavò il suo giaciglio accanto alla roccia protettrice. Egli vi
stava così comodo e caldo che a malincuore ne uscì quando
François distribuì il pesce che aveva disgelato sul fuoco. Ma quando
Buck finì la sua razione e ritornò alla sua buca, la trovò occupata. Un
ringhio minaccioso gli fece capire che l’offensore era Spitz. Sino
allora Buck aveva evitato di avere contese col suo nemico; ma
quello era troppo. La bestia in lui ruggiva. Si lanciò su Spitz con una
furia che li sorprese entrambi, e specialmente Spitz, che per
esperienza era giunto alla convinzione che Buck fosse un cane
eccezionalmente timido, che riusciva a difendersi solo per il peso e
la grandezza.
Anche François rimase sorpreso, quando li vide piombar fuori dalla
buca rovinata, confusi insieme e indovinò la causa della lite. «Aaah!»
gridò a Buck, «Dàgli, dàgli, perdio! Dàgli, a quello sporco ladro!».
Ma anche Spitz era disposto a darle. Ringhiava con estrema rabbia
ed ardore mentre girava avanti e indietro in attesa del momento
opportuno per balzargli addosso. Buck non era meno ardente, e non
meno cauto, mentre anch’egli girava indietro e avanti in cerca di un
momento di vantaggio. Ma fu allora che accadde l’inaspettato, la
cosa che lanciò la loro lotta per la supremazia lontana nell’avvenire,
al di là di molte tormentose miglia e sentieri e fatiche.
Una bestemmia di Perrault, il risuonare di un colpo di mazza su delle
ossa e un acuto urlo di pena annunciarono l’inizio di un pandemonio.
Si vide che l’accampamento era improvvisamente popolato di villose
forme striscianti — un centinaio di cani affamati, che avevano
subodorato l’accampamento da qualche villaggio indiano. S’erano
avvicinati strisciando, mentre Buck e Spitz stavano combattendo, e
allorchè i due uomini balzarono in mezzo ad essi con grosse mazze,
quelli mostrarono i denti e si rivoltarono. Erano pazzi per l’odore dei
cibi. Perrault ne trovò uno con la testa affondata nella cassa delle
provvigioni. La sua mazza cadde pesantemente sulle scarne costole
della bestia, e la cassetta si capovolse per terra. Ed ecco, in un
istante, una torma di affamati bruti azzuffarsi per il pane e il lardo
affumicato. Le mazze caddero su di essi senza pietà. Essi strillarono
e ulularono sotto la pioggia di colpi, ma non cessarono egualmente
di lottare con disperazione finchè l’ultima briciola non fu divorata.
Nel frattempo, i cani della slitta, stupiti, erano balzati dalle loro
buche, per la paura di essere assaliti dai terribili invasori. Buck non
aveva mai visto cani come quelli. Sembrava che le loro ossa
dovessero bucare la pelle. Erano scheletri rivestiti da cadenti pelli
infangate, con occhi fiammeggianti e bocche piene di bava. Ma la
pazzia della fame li rendeva terrificanti, irresistibili. Non vi era
maniera di opporsi ad essi. I cani della slitta furono ricacciati sin dal
primo momento, contro la parete rocciosa. Buck era assediato da tre
di essi, e in un attimo ebbe la testa e le spalle lacerate e ferite. Il
baccano era spaventevole. Billee piangeva, come al solito: Dave e
Sol-leks, grondanti sangue da una ventina di ferite, combattevano
bravamente, a fianco a fianco. Joe morsicava come un demonio.
Una volta, i suoi denti si chiusero sulla zampa davanti di uno dei cani
spezzandola di netto; Pike, l’infingardo, saltò sull’animale sciancato
e gli ruppe il collo con un lampo dei denti e una scossa. Buck afferrò
per la gola un avversario bavoso, e fu spruzzato di sangue quando i
suoi denti s’affondarono nel giugulare. Il caldo sapore del sangue
nella bocca lo stimolò ad una maggiore furia. Si lanciò su un altro, e,
allo stesso tempo, sentì dei denti affondare nella propria gola. Era
Spitz, che l’attaccava a tradimento da un lato.
Perrault e François, avendo liberato la loro parte d’accampamento,
s’affrettarono a salvare i loro cani. L’onda selvaggia delle bestie
affamate indietreggiò davanti a loro e Buck si liberò dalla stretta. Ma
solo per un momento. I due uomini furono costretti a correre indietro
per salvare i viveri, e allora i cani affamati tornarono all’assalto di
quelli della slitta. Billee, divenuto coraggioso per lo spavento, balzò
attraverso il cerchio selvaggio e fuggì via sul ghiaccio. Pike e Dub lo
seguirono da presso, col resto dei compagni dietro. Mentre Buck
stava spiccando il salto per seguirli, vide, colla coda dell’occhio, che
Spitz si lanciava su di lui coll’evidente intenzione di rovesciarlo. Una
volta a terra sotto quella massa di cagnacci, non vi sarebbe stata più
speranza per lui. S’aggiustò a sostenere il colpo dell’attacco di Spitz,
e poi fuggì anch’egli sul lago.
Più tardi, i nove cani della slitta si riunirono e cercarono rifugio nella
foresta. Benchè non fossero inseguiti, erano in condizioni pietose.
Non ve n’era uno che non fosse gravemente ferito. Dub aveva una
zampa posteriore rovinata; Dolly, l’ultimo cane aggiunto al tiro a
Dyea, aveva la gola lacerata; Joe aveva perduto un occhio; mentre
Billee, l’allegro, con un occhio maciullato e in brandelli, pianse,
gemette tutta la notte. All’alba si trascinarono faticosamente
all’accampamento e trovarono i predoni scomparsi e i due uomini di
pessimo umore. Avevano perduto metà dei loro viveri. I cagnacci
avevano rosicchiato anche le cinghie e le coperture di tela della
slitta. Infatti, nulla avevano risparmiato di quanto fosse lontanamente
mangiabile. Avevano mangiato un paio di scarpe di pelle di cervo, di
Perrault, pezzi dei finimenti, e persino due piedi della striscia di cuoio
in fondo alla frusta di François. Egli si destò dalla dolorosa
contemplazione di tanta rovina per esaminare i suoi cani feriti.
«Ah, amici miei», diss’egli dolcemente, «può darsi che vi facciano
diventare idrofobi, tutti questi morsi. Possono essere tutti idrofobi,
sacredam! Che ne pensi, eh, Perrault?».
Il corriere crollò il capo dubbiosamente. Con quattromila miglia di
cammino ancora davanti, per arrivare a Dawson, non poteva
facilmente permettersi il lusso di avere cani idrofobi. Due ore di
bestemmie e di sforzi rimisero a posto i finimenti, e i cani ripresero
penosamente il cammino, faticando per le ferite e la strada ch’era la
più dura che avessero ancora fatta, e in vero la più dura che ci fosse
fra essi e Dawson.
Il Fiume dalle trenta Miglia era tutto disgelato. Le sue acque
impetuose sfidavano il gelo; soltanto ai margini e nei punti tranquilli il
ghiaccio resisteva. Furono necessari sei giorni di spossanti fatiche
per superare quelle trenta terribili miglia. E terribili erano davvero,
perchè ogni passo era fatto a rischio della vita del cane e dell’uomo.
Una dozzina di volte, Perrault, fiutando la via, cadde giù attraverso i
ponti di ghiaccio, salvato dalla lunga pertica che portava con sè,
ch’egli teneva in modo che ciascuna volta cadesse traversalmente al
buco fatto dal suo corpo. Ma aveva luogo a quel momento un
cambiamento subitaneo di temperatura e il termometro registrava
cinquanta gradi Fahrenheit sotto zero, e ciascuna volta che
s’immergeva nel ghiaccio era costretto, se non voleva morire, ad
accendere un fuoco e ad asciugarsi gli abiti.
Non v’era nulla che lo spaventasse: e appunto perchè nulla lo
spaventava, era stato scelto come corriere governativo. Egli
affrontava ogni genere di rischi, ficcando risolutamente il suo volto
secco e tagliente nel gelo, faticando dai primi albori sino alla sera
oscura. Girava intorno alle rive a picco, sul ghiaccio degli orli che si
piegava e frangeva sotto il piede e sul quale non osavano fermarsi.
Una volta la slitta s’affondò nel ghiaccio con Dave e Buck, che erano
mezzi gelati e quasi annegati quando riuscirono a trarli fuori. Il solito
fuoco fu necessario per salvarli. Poichè erano rivestiti solidamente di
ghiaccio, i due uomini li fecero correre intorno al fuoco, facendoli
sudare e disgelare, così vicino ai tizzi, che i cani furono
abbruciacchiati dalle fiamme.
Un’altra volta il ghiaccio si ruppe sotto Spitz, il quale si tirò dietro
l’intero tiro, sino a Buck, che fece leva con tutta la forza delle sue
quattro zampe sull’orlo sdrucciolevole del ghiaccio che tremava e
scricchiolava tutt’intorno. Ma dietro di lui vi era Dave, che pure tirava
indietro con tutte le sue forze, e dietro la slitta vi era François che
tirava sino a far scricchiolare i tendini delle braccia.
Una volta, poi, il ghiaccio si ruppe davanti e dietro loro, e non vi era
altra via di salvezza che su per la rupe a picco della riva. Perrault le
diede la scalata per miracolo, mentre François pregava appunto per
quel miracolo; e con tutte le corregge che avevano e le cinghie della
slitta, e servendosi anche del più piccolo pezzo di finimento,
attorcigliati e legati ad una lunga fune, issarono i cani, l’uno dopo
l’altro, sulla cresta della rupe. François salì per ultimo, dopo la slitta
e il carico. Poi dovettero cercare un luogo per la discesa, discesa
che fu alla fine fatta con l’aiuto della fune; e la notte li ritrovò
nuovamente sul fiume, con un solo quarto di miglio a credito di
un’intera giornata di pena.
Quando giunsero all’Hootaluiqua e al ghiaccio buono, Buck era
sfinito. Anche gli altri cani erano nelle stesse condizioni; ma Perrault,
per riprendere il tempo perduto, li spingeva avanti. Il primo giorno
percorsero trentacinque miglia, sino al Grande Salmone; il giorno
dopo trentacinque ancora sino al Piccolo Salmone; il terzo giorno
quaranta miglia, spingendosi molto innanzi verso le Cinque Dita.
I piedi di Buck non erano così saldi e duri come quelli degli altri cani.
S’erano indeboliti e ammorbiditi durante le molte generazioni che
erano passate dal giorno che l’ultimo suo antenato selvaggio era
stato domato da un abitatore delle caverne o del fiume. Zoppicava
tutto il giorno penosamente, e allorchè l’accampamento era fatto, si
gettava a terra come morto. Affamato com’era, non si muoveva per
prendere la sua razione di pesce, e François era costretto a
portargliela. Inoltre egli gli fregava i piedi per mezzora ogni sera
dopo cena, e sacrificò la parte superiore dei suoi moccasins, i
sandali indiani di pelle di daino, per farne quattro per Buck. Fu un
gran sollievo per Buck, che fece sorridere persino l’aggrinzita faccia
di Perrault, un mattino che François dimenticò i moccasins e Buck
giacque sulla schiena, con le quattro zampe che s’agitavano
nell’aria, a mo’ di appello, e rifiutando di muoversi senza di essi. In
seguito, i suoi piedi divennero duri, e i piccoli sandali, già logori,
furono gettati via.
Al Pelly, una mattina, mentre stavano attaccando la slitta, Dolly, che
non era mai stata buona a nulla, impazzì improvvisamente. Ella
rivelò la sua condizione con un lungo doloroso ululato da lupo, che
fece rizzare il pelo dalla paura, a tutti i cani; e poi si lanciò diritta
contro Buck. Egli non aveva mai visto un cane diventare pazzo, nè
aveva alcuna ragione per temere la pazzìa, e tuttavia ne comprese
subito l’orrore e fuggì via preso da panico. Corse davanti a sè come
una saetta, con Dolly che gli ansava bavosa un salto indietro; nè
essa poteva guadagnare terreno su di lui, tanto grande era il suo
terrore, nè egli poteva distanziarla, tanto grande era la pazzia della
cagna. Egli si tuffò nel seno boscoso di un isolotto, volò giù alla riva
più bassa, attraversò un canale interno pieno di grosso ghiaccio sino
ad un’altra isola, guadagnò una terza isola, piegò dietro il corso
maggiore del fiume, e, disperato incominciò ad attraversarlo. E tutto
mentre, sebbene non guardasse, poteva udire il ringhiare affannoso,
un salto indietro, della cagna pazza. François lo chiamò, un quarto di
miglio lontano, ed egli tornò indietro di colpo, guadagnando un salto
avanti, ansando penosamente, chè gli mancava il respiro, ponendo
tutta la sua fede in François, che l’avrebbe salvato. Il conduttore di
cani teneva alzata in mano la scure, e allorchè Buck gli passò
accanto come una saetta, la scure precipitò con fracasso sulla testa
della pazza Dolly.
Buck cadde contro la slitta, esausto, singhiozzando per respirare,
smarrito. Spitz, colto il destro, si lanciò su Buck e due volte i suoi
denti s’affondarono nell’inerme nemico lacerandogli e squarciandogli
la carne sino all’osso. Allora entrò in gioco la frusta di François, e
Buck ebbe la soddisfazione di vedere Spitz bastonato come non era
ancora mai stato alcuno del tiro.
«È un diavolo, quello Spitz!», osservò Perrault. «Un maledetto
giorno, egli ucciderà Buck».
«Buck vale due diavoli», fu la risposta di François. «Più lo osservo, e
più ne sono sicuro. Senti: un maledetto giorno diventerà pazzo come
un diavolo e allora egli masticherà tutto Spitz e lo risputerà sulla
neve. Certo. Lo so io».
Da quel momento, vi fu guerra, tra i due cani. Spitz, come cane
conduttore e capo riconosciuto del tiro, sentiva la sua supremazia
minacciata da quello strano cane del Sud. Buck, infatti, gli appariva
molto strano, perchè dei molti cani del Sud che aveva conosciuto,
nessuno s’era mostrato di qualche valore nè al tiro, nè
all’accampamento. Erano tutti troppo delicati, e morivano per la
fatica, il freddo e la fame. Buck era un’eccezione. Egli solamente
sopportava e prosperava, uguale agli «Luskygs» del nord per forza,
selvatichezza e furberia. E poi era un cane dominatore; reso
pericoloso dal fatto che la mazza dell’uomo dalla maglia rossa gli
aveva tolto ogni impulso cieco o impazienza nel suo desiderio di
dominare. Egli era eminentemente scaltro e furbo, e poteva
aspettare il suo tempo con pazienza davvero primitiva.
Era inevitabile che avvenisse il cozzo per la supremazia; e Buck lo
voleva. Lo voleva perchè era della sua natura; perchè era stato
irretito dall’orgoglio senza nome e incomprensibile per il tiro della
slitta e pel cammino — quell’orgoglio che sostiene i cani nella fatica,
sino all’ultimo respiro, e li alletta a morire pieni di gioia nei finimenti,
e spezza il loro cuore, se ne sono distolti. Era l’orgoglio di Dave,
cane da stanga, di Sol-leks, mentre tirava con tutte le sue forze;
l’orgoglio che s’impossessava di loro quando il campo era tolto,
trasformandoli da bruti doloranti e torvi in creature ambiziose, piene
di ardore; l’orgoglio che li spronava tutto il giorno e li abbandonava
allorchè s’accampavano, ripiombandoli in cupa irrequietezza e
scontento. Questa ambizione animava Spitz e lo faceva ringhiare
contro i cani della slitta, quando sbagliavano o non tiravano o si
nascondevano al mattino, al momento d’essere attaccati. Questa
stessa ambizione gli faceva temere Buck come un possibile cane
guidatore; ciò che Buck voleva appunto, per orgoglio.
Egli minacciava apertamente la supremazia dell’altro; s’intrometteva
tra lui e i rilassati che egli doveva punire. E lo faceva
deliberatamente. Una notte vi fu una grande nevicata, e al mattino
Pike, l’infingardo, non apparì. Era certamente nascosto nella sua
buca, sotto un piede di neve. François lo chiamò e cercò invano.
Spitz era pazzo dalla rabbia. Girava furioso per l’accampamento,
annusando e scavando in ogni possibile luogo, ringhiando così
terribilmente che Pike l’udì e ne tremò nel suo nascondiglio.
Ma quando, alla fine, fu scoperto, e Spitz si lanciò su lui per punirlo,
Buck si lanciò con pari furia, tra loro. Fu un assalto così inatteso, e
condotto con tanta abilità, che Spitz finì ruzzoloni. Pike, da pauroso
e tremante qual era prese coraggio da quell’aperta ribellione, e si
gettò sul suo capo rovesciato a terra. Buck, pel quale la lealtà nella
lotta era codice obliato, si lanciò pure su Spitz, ma François,
sogghignando per l’incidente, non deviando tuttavia dai suoi criteri di
giustizia distributiva, fece fischiare la frusta, con tutta la sua forza, su
Buck, e non riuscendo con ciò ad allontanarlo dal prostrato rivale,
usò il manico. Mezzo stordito dal colpo, Buck cadde indietro e la
frusta s’abbattè ripetutamente su lui, mentre Spitz puniva duramente
l’infingardo Pike.
Nei giorni seguenti, mentre s’avvicinavano sempre più a Dawson,
Buck continuò ancora a interporsi tra Spitz e i colpevoli; ma lo faceva
astutamente, quando non c’era François. Con la subdola ribellione di
Buck, sorse e s’accrebbe una disobbedienza generale. Dave e Sol-
leks rimasero immutati, ma il resto del tiro peggiorò ogni giorno più.
Nulla più procedeva bene; v’erano continue contese e contrasti,
costanti ragioni e possibilità di disordine, e Buck ne era la colpa. Egli
teneva sempre preoccupato e affaccendato François, poichè il
conducente di cani temeva sempre che avesse luogo la mortale lotta
tra i due, lotta ch’egli sapeva essere, prima o dopo, inevitabile; e più
di una notte, il rumore delle discordie e delle risse tra gli altri cani lo
faceva alzare dal giaciglio spaventato che Buck e Spitz fossero alle
prese.
Ma l’occasione non si presentò ed essi entrarono in Dawson, un
tetro pomeriggio, e la grande lotta non era ancora avvenuta. V’erano
là molti uomini e innumerevoli cani, e Buck li trovò tutti al lavoro.
Sembrava che fosse nell’ordine naturale delle cose che i cani
lavorassero. Tutto il giorno essi correvano su e giù per la strada
principale, in lunghi tiri, e durante la notte si udiva passare il tintinnio
dei loro campanelli. Trascinavano travi da costruzioni e legna da
ardere, destinati alle miniere, e facevano ogni specie di lavoro, come
i cavalli nella Valle di Santa Clara.
Qua e là Buck incontrava dei cani della terra del Sud, ma, per la
maggior parte, tutti i cani erano della razza dei lupi selvatici. Tutte le
notti, regolarmente, alle nove, alle undici e alle tre, essi alzavano un
canto notturno, un canto magico e strano, al quale Buck si dilettava
di prender parte. Con l’aurora boreale che fiammeggiava fredda in
alto, o le stelle saltellanti nella danza del gelo, e la terra intorpidita e
gelata sotto il suo manto di neve, il canto degli huskies pareva la
sfida della vita; soltanto, era espressa in tono minore, con lunghi
lamenti e mezzi singhiozzi, ed era piuttosto la supplica della vita,
l’articolato travaglio dell’esistenza. Era un vecchio canto, vecchio
quanto la stessa razza — uno dei primi canti del mondo più giovane,
quando i canti erano tristi. Recava l’impronta dei dolori di
innumerevoli generazioni, questo lamento che tanto stranamente
commoveva Buck. Quel lamento a singhiozzi esprimeva oltre che la
pena dei viventi, la pena dei loro selvatici progenitori; e la paura e il
mistero del freddo e delle tenebre, di ora e d’allora. Ed egli si
commoveva a quel canto sembrandogli ritornare con tutto il suo
essere, attraverso alle età del fuoco e del tetto, ai nudi primordi della
vita, delle età degli urli.
Sette giorni dopo il loro arrivo a Dawson, essi scendevano il ripido
banco accanto alle Barracks sulla Yukon Trail, diretti a Dyea e Salt
Water. Perrault riportava dispacci ancor più urgenti di quelli recati a
Dawson; egli era poi preso dall’orgoglio della rapidità, e si proponeva
di compiere il viaggio più rapido dell’anno. Lo favorivano in questo
parecchie cose. Il riposo di una settimana aveva rimesso in piena
efficienza i cani. Il sentiero che prima avevano penato ad aprirsi, era
stato poi ben battuto da altri; inoltre la polizia aveva stabilito in due o
tre luoghi dei depositi di viveri per i cani e gli uomini, e così si
viaggiava con carico leggero.
Il primo giorno raggiunsero Sixty Mile, che rappresenta una corsa di
cinquanta miglia; e il giorno dopo erano ben innanzi lungo il Yukon
verso Pelly. Ma quelle splendide corse non erano ottenute senza
grandi pene per François. La insidiosa rivolta incominciata da Buck
aveva distrutto la solidarietà del tiro. Non era più come un sol cane
che tirasse la slitta. L’incoraggiamento che Buck dava ai ribelli,
induceva questi ad ogni specie di meschine cattiverie e
insubordinazioni. Spitz non era più il capo da temersi tanto. Il
vecchio timore scomparve, e divennero tutti uguali nello sfidarne
l’autorità. Pike gli rubò una notte mezzo pesce, e l’ingoiò sotto la
protezione di Buck. Un’altra notte Dub e Joe s’azzuffarono con Spitz,
e lo costrinsero a rinunciare alla punizione ch’essi meritavano. E
persino Billee, il bonario, era meno bonario e non gemeva più, nè
implorava così, come nei primi tempi. Buck non s’avvicinava mai a
Spitz senza ringhiare minacciosamente col pelo irto. Infatti, la sua
condotta era simile a quella di uno che intendesse provocarlo: ed
egli si dava delle arie di spavalderia minacciosa sotto il naso di Spitz.
L’infrangersi della disciplina influiva pure sui rapporti tra cane e cane.
Si disputavano e azzuffavano più che mai tra di loro, tanto che certe
volte l’accampamento era un inferno di ululati: François tirava giù
delle strane bestemmie barbare, e pestava i piedi sulla neve,
vanamente furioso, e si strappava i capelli. La sua frusta sibilava
continuamente tra i cani, ma con scarsi risultati. Appena volgeva le
spalle, essi ricominciavano. Egli sosteneva Spitz con la frusta,
mentre Buck sosteneva il resto del tiro. François sapeva che in
fondo a tutto ciò c’era Buck, e Buck sapeva ch’egli sapeva, ma era
troppo furbo per farsi cogliere nuovamente sul fatto. Egli lavorava
fedelmente sotto il tiro della slitta, poichè quella fatica era diventata
un piacere per lui; ma era un piacere ancora maggiore suscitare una
rissa fra i suoi compagni e ingarbugliare così i tiranti.
Alla foce del Tahkeena, una notte, dopo cena, Dub scoprì un coniglio
dalle zampe bianche, e gli si lanciò sopra; ma non lo colse. In un
momento l’intero tiro fu in moto. Cento metri più in là vi era
l’accampamento della Polizia del Nord-ovest, con cinquanta cani,
tutti huskies, che s’unirono nella caccia. Il coniglio filò veloce giù per
il fiume, voltò per un piccolo ruscello, e sul letto gelato di esso
continuò a fuggire rapido. Correva leggero sulla superficie della
neve, mentre i cani fendevano lo strato gelato con il solo peso. Buck
era alla testa del branco dei cinquanta, seguendo il tortuoso corso
del ruscello, senza riuscire a guadagnar terreno. Procedeva, basso,
nella corsa, ululando, avido, col magnifico corpo lanciato come una
saetta, salto dopo salto, nel pallido chiarore lunare. E salto dopo
salto, come un pallido fantasma di ghiaccio, il coniglio dalle zampe di
neve filava innanzi a lui.
Tutto quell’agitarsi di vecchi istinti che a dati periodi spinge gli uomini
fuori dalle frastuonanti città nelle foreste e nelle pianure per uccidere
con pallottole di piombo lanciate chimicamente, la brama del
sangue, la gioia di uccidere, tutto ciò provava Buck con qualche
cosa di più profondamente intimo. Correva alla testa del branco, per
abbattere la preda selvatica, la carne vivente, per uccidere con i suoi
denti e immergere il muso sino agli occhi nel sangue caldo.
Vi è un’estasi che segna il culmine della vita, oltre il quale la vita non
può andare. E tale è il paradosso della vita, che quest’estasi
avvenga quando si è più vivi, come un completo oblìo d’esser vivi.
Quest’estasi, quest’oblìo della vita, viene all’artista avvolto e rapito in
una gran fiamma; viene al soldato, impazzito nella furia della lotta,
che non dà quartiere; e venne a Buck mentre conduceva il branco e
risuonava l’antico grido del lupo, sforzandosi egli di raggiungere il
cibo ch’era vivente e gli fuggiva leggero dinanzi nella luce lunare.
Stava scandagliando le profondità della sua natura, e di parti della
sua natura ch’erano più profonde di lui, ritornando nel seno del
tempo. Egli era dominato dal fluire impetuoso e puro della vita,
dall’onda della marea dell’essere, dalla perfetta gioia di ciascun
muscolo separato, da ciascuna articolazione, e da ciascun tendine,
in quanto erano tuttociò che non è morte, in quanto erano infiammati
e sfrenati, esprimendo se stessi in movimento, volando esultanti
sotto le stelle e sopra la faccia di materia morta e immota.
Ma Spitz, freddo calcolatore anche nei momenti supremi, lasciò il
branco e attraversò una stretta striscia di terra intorno alla quale
girava il ruscello. Buck non ignorava la cosa, e quando girò la curva,
con il gelido spettro del coniglio che fuggiva innanzi a lui, vide un
altro gelido e più grande spettro balzare dalla sponda soprastante il
letto del corso d’acqua, proprio innanzi al coniglio. Era Spitz. Il
coniglio non poteva tornare indietro, e mentre i bianchi denti gli
spezzavano la schiena a mezz’aria, egli strillò terribilmente, come
potrebbe strillare un uomo colpito a morte. A quel suono, al grido
della Vita che cadeva dall’apice della Vita nella stretta della Morte,
l’intero branco alle calcagna di Buck alzò un infernale coro di gioia.
Ma Buck non gridò. Non rallentò il suo slancio, ma piombò su Spitz,
spalla contro spalla, con tanta violenza da sbagliar la gola.
Ruzzolarono insieme più volte nel polviscolo della neve. Spitz balzò
in piedi istantaneamente come se non fosse stato gettato a terra,
lacerando la spalla di Buck e saltando da un lato. Due volte i suoi
denti, batterono insieme, come i denti d’acciaio di una tagliola,
mentre indietreggiava per prendere posizione, con le scarne labbra
alzate, sibilanti e ringhianti.
In un lampo Buck comprese. Era giunta l’ora. Era per la morte.
Mentre giravano intorno, ringhiando, con le orecchie basse,
cercando intensamente un vantaggio, la scena assumeva per Buck
un aspetto familiare. Gli sembrava di ricordare ogni cosa: i boschi
bianchi, e la terra, e la luce lunare, e il fremito della battaglia. Al
biancore e al silenzio sovrastava una calma spettrale. Non vi era il
più debole filo d’aria, nulla si moveva, non tremava foglia; il visibile
fiato dei cani s’alzava lentamente e pigramente nell’aria gelata.
Avevano spartito rapidamente il coniglio dalle zampe di neve, questi
cani ch’erano dei lupi male addomesticati: e s’avvicinavano ora in un
cerchio di avida attesa. Essi, pure, erano silenziosi, con gli occhi che
scintillavano e i respiri che salivano lentamente nell’aria. Per Buck
non era nuova nè strana, quella scena d’altri tempi. Era come se
fosse sempre stata la necessaria vicenda delle cose.
Spitz era un combattente pratico. Dallo Spitzberg attraverso le Terre
Artiche, e per il Canadà e i Barrens, egli s’era battuto con ogni
specie di cani ed era riuscito a vincerli. Terribile furia era la sua, ma
mai furia cieca. Preso dalla passione di sbranare e distruggere, non
dimenticava mai che il suo nemico era preso dalla stessa passione
di sbranare e distruggere. Non si lanciava mai all’attacco prima di
essere preparato a ricevere un attacco; non attaccava mai prima di
avere difeso quell’attacco.
Invano Buck si sforzò di affondare i denti nel collo del grosso cane
bianco. Ogni qual volta i suoi denti miravano alla carne più soffice,
incontravano i denti di Spitz. Denti contro denti, e le labbra erano
tagliate e sanguinavano, ma Buck non poteva penetrare nella
guardia del suo nemico. Allora si riscaldò e avvolse Spitz in un
turbine di attacchi. Ripetutamente tentò di afferrare la gola candida,
dove la vita palpitava alla superficie, e ciascuna volta Spitz lo feriva
e saltava da un lato. Allora Buck prese a slanciarsi contro Spitz
come se mirasse alla gola, improvvisamente piegando la testa da un
lato, battendo con la spalla contro la spalla di lui, come un montone,
per rovesciarlo. Ma invece di rovesciarlo, la spalla di Buck era
lacerata dai denti di Spitz, che balzava subito via leggero.
Spitz non era tocco, mentre Buck grondava sangue e respirava
affannosamente. La lotta diveniva disperata. E intanto il cerchio
silenzioso e lupino attendeva per finire qualsiasi cane soccombesse.
Mentre Buck annaspava, Spitz, incominciò a sua volta a lanciarglisi
contro, tanto che egli penava a mantenersi in piedi. Una volta Buck
cadde, e l’intero cerchio dei sessanta cani balzò in piedi; ma egli si
rimise, quasi a mezz’aria, e il circolo si gettò giù ad aspettare.
Ma Buck possedeva una qualità fatta per la gloria e la grandezza:
immaginazione. Combatteva per istinto, ma poteva combattere pure
con la testa. Si lanciò come se volesse ritentare il vecchio colpo di
spalla, ma all’ultimo istante s’abbassò rapido rasente la neve e colpì.
I suoi denti si chiusero sulla zampa sinistra, anteriore, di Spitz. Si udì
uno scricchiolìo d’osso spezzato, e il cane bianco gli tenne testa su
tre zampe. Tre volte cercò di rovesciarlo, e poi ripetè il colpo e gli
spezzò l’altra zampa davanti. Nonostante la pena e l’impotenza,
Spitz lottò disperatamente per tenersi ritto. Vedeva il cerchio
silenzioso, con occhi luminosi, lingue a penzoloni e fiati argentei,
salire e chiudersi sempre più su di lui, come aveva visto cerchi simili
chiudersi su vinti antagonisti nel passato. Soltanto questa volta egli
era il vinto.
Non vi era alcuna speranza per lui. Buck era inesorabile. La
compassione era una cosa serbata per climi più miti. Preparò l’ultimo
attacco. Il cerchio s’era ristretto tanto ch’egli poteva sentire l’alito
degli kuskies ai suoi fianchi. Poteva vederli, oltre Spitz e da ogni lato,
mezzi rannicchiati per lanciarsi, con gli occhi fissi su lui. Seguì come
una pausa. Ogni animale era immobile, come pietrificato. Soltanto
Spitz tremava col pelo irsuto mentre barcollava, ringhiando
terribilmente e minacciosamente, come se volesse spaventare la
morte imminente. Alla fine, Buck balzò avanti e balzò indietro, ma in
quell’ultimo balzo in avanti egli aveva alla fine raggiunta la gola del
suo nemico. L’oscuro cerchio divenne un punto sulla neve innondata
dalla luce lunare, allorchè Spitz scomparve. Buck rimase da un lato
a guardare, campione fortunato, primordiale bestia dominante che
aveva ucciso e che aveva trovato piacere nell’uccidere.
 CAPITOLO IV.
COLUI CHE HA GUADAGNATO IL PRIMATO.

— Eh! Che dicevo? Dicevo il vero quando asserivo che Buck vale
per due diavoli.
Fu questo il discorso di François la mattina dopo, quando scoprì che
mancava Spitz e che Buck era coperto di ferite. Lo tirò vicino al
fuoco e alla luce del fuoco mostrò le ferite.
— Quello Spitz combatte come un diavolo, — disse Perrault, mentre
esaminava gli squarci e i tagli.
— E questo Buck combatte come due diavoli. — fu la risposta di
François. — Ed ora potremo guadagnar tempo. Non più Spitz, non
più disordine, per certo.
Mentre Perrault impaccava gli attrezzi dell’accampamento e caricava
la slitta, il conducente incominciò a porre i finimenti ai cani. Buck
trottò subito al posto che Spitz avrebbe occupato come capo del tiro;
ma François, non badando ad esso, condusse Sol-leks alla bramata
posizione. A suo giudizio, Sol-leks era il miglior cane che rimaneva
per dirigere il tiro. Buck si slanciò furioso su Sol-leks, spingendolo
via e prendendone il posto.
— Eh? eh? — gridò François battendo le mani allegramente. —
Guardate un po’ Buck. Ha ucciso Spitz, e crede ora di prenderne il
posto.
— Via! via di qui, stupido! — gridò, ma Buck non si mosse.
Afferrò Buck per la collottola del collo, e benchè il cane ringhiasse
minacciosamente, lo trascinò da un lato e rimise a posto Sol-leks. Il
vecchio cane non era punto contento, e mostrava chiaramente che
aveva paura di Buck. François era cocciuto, ma quando voltò le
spalle, Buck scacciò via nuovamente Sol-leks, che era contento di
andarsene.
François si stizzì. — Ora, perdio! t’insegno io a ubbidire! — gridò,
ritornando con una pesante mazza in mano.
Buck, che ricordava l’uomo dalla maglia rossa, si ritirò lentamente,
nè ritentò di scacciare Sol-leks quando fu rimesso a posto. Girava
intorno, fuori del tiro della mazza, ringhiando furiosamente e
amaramente; e mentre girava intorno, teneva d’occhio la mazza per
schivarla se mai François gliela avesse gettata contro, giacchè era
diventato saggio nei rapporti con le mazze.
Il conducente continuò i suoi preparativi, e chiamò Buck quando fu il
momento di porlo al vecchio posto davanti a Dave. Buck indietreggiò
di due o tre passi. François lo seguì, ma il cane continuò a
indietreggiare. Dopo un po’ di questo gioco, François depose la
mazza, pensando che Buck temesse d’essere picchiato, ma Buck
era, invece, in piena rivolta. Non voleva sfuggire alla mazza, ma
avere il comando del tiro. Gli apparteneva di diritto. Se l’era
guadagnato, e non avrebbe rinunciato.
Perrault venne a dare una mano a François. Tutt’e due lo rincorsero
per quasi un’ora. Gli gettarono mazze: egli le schivò. Lo maledirono,
e maledirono i suoi genitori, e la sua semente sino alle più remote
venture generazioni, e tutti i peli del suo corpo e ogni goccia di
sangue delle sue vene; ed egli rispondeva ad ogni maledizione con
ringhi e si teneva lontano dal loro raggio d’azione. Egli non cercò di
scappare, facendo intendere chiaramente che quando l’avessero
accontentato, sarebbe rientrato al suo posto e sarebbe stato buono.
François alla fine si sedette grattandosi la testa. Perrault guardò
l’orologio e bestemmiò. Il tempo fuggiva, ed essi avrebbero dovuto
essere in cammino già da un’ora. François si grattò nuovamente la