In the first fright of surprise, the black’s finger pulled the trigger and his throat loosed an unearthly yell.  Knocked forward on his face, he rolled over and grappled with Jerry, who slashed cheek-bone and cheek and ribboned an ear; for it is the way of an Irish terrier to bite repeatedly and quickly rather than to hold a bulldog grip.

When Harley Kennan, automatic in hand and naked as Adam, reached the spot, he found dog and man locked together and tearing up the forest mould in their struggle.  The black, his face streaming blood, was throttling Jerry with both hands around his neck; and Jerry, snorting, choking, snarling, was scratching for dear life with the claws of his hind feet.  No puppy claws were they, but the stout claws of a mature dog that were stiffened by a backing of hard muscles.  And they ripped naked chest and abdomen full length again and again until the whole front of the man was streaming red.  Harley Kennan did not dare chance a shot, so closely were the combatants locked.  Instead, stepping in close; he smashed down the butt of his automatic upon the side of the man’s head.  Released by the relaxing of the stunned black’s hands, Jerry flung himself in a flash upon the exposed throat, and only Harley’s hand on his neck and Harley’s sharp command made him cease and stand clear.  He trembled with rage and continued to snarl ferociously, although he would desist long enough to glance up with his eyes, flatten his ears, and wag his tail each time Harley uttered “Good boy.”

“Good boy” he knew for praise; and he knew beyond any doubt, by Harley’s repetition of it, that he had served him and served him well.

“Do you know the beggar intended to bush-whack us,” Harley told Villa, who, half-dressed and still dressing, had joined him.  “It wasn’t fifty feet and he couldn’t have missed.  Look at the Winchester.  No old smooth bore.  And a fellow with a gun like that would know how to use it.”

“But why didn’t he?” she queried.

Her husband pointed to Jerry.

Villa’s eyes brightened with quick comprehension.  “You mean . . . ?” she began.

He nodded.  “Just that.  Sing Song Silly beat him to it.”  He bent, rolled the man over, and discovered the lacerated back of the neck.  “That’s where he landed on him first, and he must have had his finger on the trigger, drawing down on you and me, most likely me first, when Sing Song Silly broke up his calculations.”

Villa was only half hearing, for she had Jerry in her arms and was calling him “Blessed Dog,” the while she stilled his snarling and soothed down the last bristling hair.

But Jerry snarled again and was for leaping upon the black when he stirred restlessly and dizzily sat up.  Harley removed a knife from between the bare skin and a belt.

“What name belong you?” he demanded.

But the black had eyes only for Jerry, staring at him in wondering amaze until he pieced the situation together in his growing clarity of brain and realized that such a small chunky animal had spoiled his game.