THE SEADOG

He was a yellow brute, mangy, lean, and treacherous-looking. He had been in two ships where dogs were not particularly liked by the officers, and the last one had gone ashore in the darkness during a northeast gale off the Frying Pan. How he had come ashore from the wreck was a detail beyond his reasoning. Here he was on the beach of North Carolina, and not one of his shipmates was left to take care of him.

He had at first foraged among the bushes of beach myrtle and through the pine woods, stealing into the light-keeper’s yard at Bald Head during the hours of darkness, and rummaging through his garbage for a bit of food to keep the life within his mangy hide. He had now been ashore for nearly five months, and during all that time he had shown an aversion to the light-keeper’s society. There was no other human habitation on the island, and the light-keeper had fired a charge of bird-shot at him on two occasions. This had not given him greater confidence in strangers, and that which he had had was of a suspicious kind, born and nurtured aboard ship, where a kick was the usual salutation. He was as sly as a wolf and as wild as a razor-back hog, for he had gradually fallen upon the resources of the wild animal, and his one thought was for himself.

He had broken away into the night howling after the last reception by the light-keeper at the Bald Head tower, and sore and stiff he had crawled into the bushes to pick at the tiny pellets that stung so fiercely. In the future he would be more careful. He must watch. Eternal vigilance was the price for his worthless life. All the evil desires and instincts begotten through a line of rascally curs now began to grow within him. He would not repress them, for was it not manifest that he must exercise every selfish desire to its utmost if he would live? His eyes took on that wild, hunted look of the beast with whom all are at war, and his teeth showed fiercely at each and every sound. A sullen savageness of mind came upon him more and more every day, until after these months of wildness he had dropped back again into the natural state of his forefathers. He was a wild dog in every sense. As wild as the hogs who rooted through the pine woods or tore through the swamp, lean as deer and alert to every danger, the degenerates of the well-bred pigs of the early settlers.

Sometimes he would run along the edge of the beach in the sunlight and watch the surf, but even this was dangerous, for once the light-keeper happened to be out hunting and sent a rifle bullet singing past his ears. He broke for cover again, and seldom ventured forth except after the sun went down. In the daytime he would go slinking through the gloom of the dense thickets with ears cocked and senses alert, watching like a wolf for the slightest sign of danger. A wolf is seldom seen unless he means to be, and the yellow dog soon became as retiring.

Small game furnished food during this season, for the creeks swarmed with fish and crabs, which were often caught in shallows at low water, and gophers were plentiful, but sometimes when the wind was howling and soughing through the forest, and the rain rattling and whistling through the clearings, he would try the light-keeper’s back yard again, and grab a defenseless duck or goose that happened to be within reach. Their squawking was music to his ears, for he remembered the flash and stinging pain following his earlier attempts to procure food, and he would dash furiously through the timber with his prize, nor stop until many miles were between him and the bright eye that flamed high in the air above and could be seen fifteen miles or more up the beach. The lighthouse was an excellent guide for him in all kinds of weather, but it was especially useful on very dark and stormy nights. To him it meant a guide out of danger, even as it did to his earlier masters, and he soon learned to navigate by it.

He grew more and more savage as his life in the wilderness went on, and as his savageness increased so likewise did his cunning.

William Ripley, the light-keeper, and his assistant, were both good hunters. They had plenty of time during daylight to make long excursions along the beach, and through the pine woods, and they often brought home a hog or two. They were worried at the visits from the strange animal who left footprints like those of a dog, and who kept always well out of sight after his first visits, when a glimpse of yellow had flashed through the darkness, giving something tangible to fire at. They had seen the vessel come ashore on the outer shoals, some twelve miles away, and had seen her gradually break up without being able to lend a hand at saving her crew. Nothing had washed on the beach that had signs of life, and it had never occurred to them that a yellow dog had been a survivor of that tragedy. The wreck had been visited afterwards, and the vessel’s name discovered, but nothing was ever heard of the men who had manned her, and who had evidently gone to the port of missing ships. Their interest in the matter ended after getting a few fathoms of line and a bit of iron-work, and the shifting sands of the treacherous Frying Pan soon swallowed up all trace of the disaster.

But ducks and geese were scarce and valuable. There was a thief abroad, and something must be done. The cold weather was approaching, and already frost had turned the leaves of some of the trees. Soon a slight fall of snow announced that winter was upon the coast in earnest.

The cold was hard upon the outcast. His thin hair was but poor protection against the wind, and the food of the creeks was disappearing. He was getting more and more savage and desperate, and the great eye that shone above him through the blackness was attractive, for it showed where there lay plenty. Often, when the gale blew from the northward, and the weather was thick, the wild ducks and geese came rushing down the wind and headed for the eye that shone so brightly in the night. It had a peculiar dazzling fascination for them, and they would go driving at it with a rush of a hundred miles an hour, only to find too late that it was surrounded by a heavy wire net. Then, before they could swerve off, they were upon it with a terrific smash. Headlong into the iron meshes they would drive until, flattened and distorted lumps of flesh and feathers, they would go tumbling down to the ground beneath. In the morning the keeper would see traces of their feathers and sometimes a duck or two, but more often he saw the footprints of the strange animal that so resembled either a dog or wolf.

“I reckon it’s about time we caught up with that un,” said Ripley, one morning; “there aint been no wolves around this here island sence I kin remember, an’ I’m bound to find out jest what kind o’ critter this one is. Why, what d’ye s’pose he done last night, hey?”

“Don’t ask me no riddles when I’m sleepy,” said the assistant.

“Oh, well, it’s no matter, then,” said Ripley, and he turned into the house.

“Well, what?” asked the assistant.

“The first thing he done was to eat the seat out’n your pants you left hangin’ on the line, but that’s no matter——”

“What next?” asked the assistant, awakening a little.

“Well, he chewed the uppers off’n your rubber boots, them ones you said cost five dollars——”

“Name o’ sin, no! Did he? Where’s the gun, quick——”

“Hold on a bit. Wait a minute,” interrupted Ripley. “There aint no hurry about the case. I was jest a-sayin’——” “Go on,” said the assistant earnestly.

“Well, then, don’t interrupt me no more. That blamed critter got old red-head by th’ neck an’ walked off with him, an’ there aint no better rooster ever been hatched. That’s erbout all.”

“You kin hand me down the rifle,” said the assistant; “that critter or me leaves this here island, an’ that’s a fact.”

The track led down the beach, and there was no trouble following it. The assistant started off at a swinging pace, determined to cover the distance between himself and the thief before midday.

But the track soon led into the scrub and was lost. When it was taken up again it was a good half-mile farther down the shore. Here it swung along easily for a short distance until a heavy belt of timber was reached, and where the ground was hard and covered with pine-needles. There all trace of it was swallowed up as soon as it struck the pines. The assistant came home that evening a tired but no wiser man. That night the outcast saw the man-tracks, and knew he had been followed, and the spirit of deviltry entered deeper into his pariah soul. He would make them sorry for his nightly visits. All were enemies to him, and the more harm he could do to everything alive the better it would be. Savagely he snarled at the footprints. As the moon rose he saw the beautiful light silvering the cold ocean, and it stirred something in his hard heart. He raised his nose high in the air and let forth a long howl of fierce defiance and wrath.

Slinking through the darkening shadows of the forest, the outcast made his way to the clearing wherein the great eye rose above the ground to the height of a hundred feet or more. Here he halted upon the outer edge, where the thicket hid him in its black shadow. Then he raised his voice in such a prolonged howl that the fowls secured within the coops of the yard set up a vast cackling. He changed his position in time to avoid a charge of buckshot which tore through the thicket and rattled about the leaves beneath the trees. Then he slunk away for a little while, only to return again and give vent to his feelings in a succession of yelping barks, such as had never disturbed the quiet of the island before. Another charge of shot rattled about him, but he was now far too wary to get hit, and his hatred was greater than his fear. It gave him a savage joy to listen to the crack of the gun or the sharper snap of the rifle, for he knew it worried the keeper to hear him and know he was near. Night after night he now came, and many were the shots fired at him, but all to no avail. He would do any mischief he could, and woe to any duck or chicken that came within his reach. His high, yelping howl resounded through the clearing and sounded above the dull roar of the surf, making night hideous to the keeper on watch in the light above.

Once he caught a loose fowl, and its feathers were strewn about the yard. Again he found a string of fine fish the keeper had hung up for the night. They went the way of the ill-fated. His keen sense of smell told him many things the keepers did not wish him to know, and he managed to keep out of harm’s way.

But this could not last. Ripley was an old hunter, and was not to be disturbed beyond reason. He brought out an old mink-trap, with steel jaws of great power, and he buried it in the sand on the edge of the clearing, smoothing the rumpled surface of the ground so that nothing showed, and strewing the place with dead leaves. Then he killed a sea-gull and dropped it almost directly over the steel jaws. The outcast would doubtless smell it and stop a moment to investigate. He had only to step upon the ground in the near vicinity and his leg would be instantly clasped in a steel embrace.

The first night the keeper watched for him. It was very dark, and the cold north wind soughed through the pines, and the surf thundered. The cold made the keeper’s teeth chatter a little as he watched in silence from his place upon the outer rail of the tower. He had his rifle with him for a finish, should the trap take hold.

The outcast came slinking along late that night. He was hungry and wet, and the light attracted him as it did always on particularly bad nights, for it stood for the mark of plenty, the only thing on the barren island that kept a glimmering of the past in his sullen mind. He noticed a peculiar smell as he skirted the fringe of the cover, and soon spied the dead gull. How came it there, was the question. Gulls did not die ashore. At least, he had never seen one. But he knew them in the air. There was something suspicious in the matter. Why should a gull be dead so close to the lighthouse? He began to investigate, and drew near the danger zone.

But months of wildness had made him cunning. All the sly instincts of the races of animals from which he had sprung had been developing. He approached the bait slowly, barely moving, and touching the ground ever so lightly with his paws. Then he halted. No, it would not do. There was something wrong with that bird, showing like a bit of white in the darkness. He could smell it plainly. It was the scent of a man. He drew slowly off, and began nosing about for the trail, and soon found it. He followed along, and it led straight to the dwelling where the keeper lived. Then he went back a little way into the scrub and sat upon his haunches, and, in spite of his cold and hunger, he lifted up his voice in a long, dismal howl, that to the keeper’s ears had an unmistakable ring of derision.

Night after night the trap was set, but the pariah kept clear. Then, one day, it grew thick, and a cold wind began setting in from the sea. Before night it was howling and snoring away with hurricane force, driving the seas roaring up the sands, and tearing their tops into smothers of snowy spume drift.

The pariah came to the beach and tried to look seaward to see what was coming with that fearful rushing blast, but the wind was so strong and the snow so blinding that he soon took to the cover, and headed for the light, in the hope he might pick up something to eat in the vicinity of the keeper’s dwelling. Before going to the yard he looked again seaward and saw a light flash out. He did not know what it meant, but he knew it was off on the Frying Pan, far out on the treacherous shoals where a thundering smother of rolling whiteness flashed and gleamed now and again. Then he skirted the clearing, and brought up back of the fowl-house, where now all the ducks and chickens were secured at night.

He went forward, trying to smell his way, but the snow was too much for him. Then he stopped a moment. He located the house and started again, when suddenly, “Snap!”

Something had leaped from the ground and seized his foreleg in a viselike grip. He sprang forward and fought to get away, but it was of no use. The thing had him fast with an awful grasp that cut into his flesh and squeezed his leg so tight that it soon became numb. With snarling growls, he fought desperately on, twisting and turning, struggling and biting, but all to no purpose. He was fast. Then the state of affairs began to dawn upon him, and he desisted, for the agony was supreme. Sitting there in the flying snow of the winter’s night, with the roar of the storm sounding over him, he raised his voice in a long, yelping bark of challenge and disdain.

But in spite of his howling no one came near him. The snow grew deeper and the wind roared with terrific force, blinding him so that the great eye above was scarcely visible. He remained quiet now, and waited patiently for the daylight, which would mean his end. His sufferings were terrible, but he could not help it, and soon a sullen stupor came upon him.

In the dim gray of the early morning forms were seen walking about the lighthouse. They were men, and among them was the keeper. The others wore clothes that reminded the pariah of former days, and one stranger seemed to be familiar to him. This was a man, short, broad, and bearded, with bow legs set wide apart, and long arms with huge hands and crooked fingers. He was ugly, and reminded him of the crabs he had seen and captured in the streams during the summer. There was something of the crab about the queer little fellow, and his very ugliness attracted the dog’s attention. It brought back some memory of past days, a memory that was not all unpleasant, yet indistinct and unreal.

As the day dawned and the snow grew deeper the outcast waited no longer. He held up his nose and let forth a howl that was heard above the snore of the gale, and which brought the light-keeper to attention. He came running with a club, and behind him followed the stranger with the crablike body.

“Sink me if I aint got ye at last, ye varmint!” yelled the keeper as he drew near. Then he halted. “A dog—what—jest a common everyday dog? But I’ll make a good dog out o’ ye in a minute. All dead dogs is good dogs, an’ you’ll do.”

He advanced with raised club, and the pariah crouched for a spring. He would try for one last good bite. All the savageness of his mixed blood surged through his fierce mind. He gave a low growl and showed his teeth, and his eyes were like bits of yellow flame.

“Hold on thar, stranger; don’t kill that ’ar dog. Wait a bit,” said the ugly man, waddling up behind. “What, caught ’im in a trap?”

“Sure I got him in a trap. D’ye want me to loose him?” asked the keeper testily.

“That’s erbout the size o’ my games,” said the ugly man. “Yew may think it a go, but that ’ar dog looks uncommon like the one I lost aboard the Seagull when she went ashore hereabouts last year. He ware a good dog, part wolf, part hound, and the rest a mixture I don’t exactly remember. Lemme try ’im?”

“Gwan, man; that critter is been stealin’ chickens since last summer,” said the keeper, but at the same time he allowed the ugly fellow to have his way.

“Hey, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy!” said the ugly sailor. “Don’t yew know me, Sammy?” And he bent forward toward him.

The pariah gazed at him. What did he mean? What was that voice? It sounded like that of the man who had brought him aboard the vessel he had gone ashore in. The only human who had never struck him or offered him harm. He hardly remembered the ugly fellow, for he had only been in the ship a short time before she was lost.

“Strange, that looks like the critter sure enough. I went ashore here in the Seagull a year ago, an’ here I goes ashore agin in this howlin’ wind an’ sees the dog I lost. Strange, keeper, it’s strange, hey?”

“He do appear to know ye, an’ that’s a fact,” said the keeper. “Would ye like me to loose him off? Better do it afore the assistant comes down, fer he’s got it in fer this dog.” “Wait a bit,” said the ugly fellow, and he advanced closer to the outcast. He put out his hand, and the dog wavered. Should he seize it? He could crush it and tear it badly in his teeth before he could withdraw it, and they would probably kill him anyway in the end. But there was something in the ugly man’s eye that restrained him—something that spoke of former times when all was not strife. No, he would not bite him.

“Turn the critter loose; he’s my dog fer sure,” said the ugly man. “All he wants is some grub. I reckon yew’d be savage, too, if yew had been out in the snow all night. I knows I ware when I come in half drowned this mornin’.”

The keeper pried the trap open and the cur went free.

“Come, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy!” said the ugly fellow, and he led the way to the house.

The pariah hesitated. His foot was useless, but he could go on three legs. There was the timber a short distance away. He looked at it for an instant. Then he saw the ugly man beckoning with his great crooked finger. He lowered his head and gave a short whine. Then he limped slowly after him to the house.

A little later the ugly man fed him and bound up the wounded paw, while the assistant mumbled something about rubber boots and breeches worth about seven dollars a pair.

“Messmates,” said the ugly sailor, shifting his crablike body and sticking out his great bushy face with its red beard, “that ’ar dog ware a good dog, part wolf, part hound, an’ the rest I don’t exactly recollect, but he ware a good dog. Treat a dog good an’ he’ll be a good dog. Treat ’im bad an’ he’ll be a bad dog. When ye go erbout more among men, as I does, yew’ll see that what I says is so. An’ men is mostly like dogs.”

The assistant kept quiet, for there was something peculiarly aggressive in that misshapen man. The animal was led away with a string, and went in the boat to Wilmington with the wrecked crew.

Two years later another ship was added to the list of those whose bones rest in the sands of the Frying Pan Shoals. She ran on the outer breaker during the night, and in the morning the keeper saw a floating object on the shore. He went to it and found the body of a man whose peculiar figure he recognized. A life-buoy was strapped about his waist, and in his great crooked fingers was a line. The keeper hauled it in, and on the end of it he found the dead body of the yellow beast that had stolen his fowls. They had gone to their end together.

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