The Seventh Man, Max Brand [jenna bush book club .TXT] 📗

over her hand. It was so horrible that the cry froze in the throat of Gregg, yet the child, with only a little murmur of anger, reached over with her other hand and caught the wolf by the nose.

“Bad Bart!” she whispered, and raised the hand which he instantly released. White marks showed on the pudgy tan. “Bad dog!” she repeated, and beat his neck with an impotent little fist. The wolf-dog cringed, and turned from the door.

“Come in,” invited Gregg. He was surprised to find his voice thin, apt to swing up to a high pitch beyond his control. A shower of golden curls tossed away from her face as she looked to him. “Oh!” she cried, still with a guarded voice. She leaned far over, one hand buried in the ruff of Bart's neck to secure her balance, and with the other she laid hold of his right ear and drew him around facing the door once more. This time he showed his teeth but submitted, only twitching the ear back and forth a time or two when she relaxed her hold.

“Come in,” repeated Gregg.

She canted her head to one side and considered him with fearless blue eyes.

“I want to,” she sighed.

“Why can't you, honey?”

“Munner says no.”

He attempted to turn further towards her, but the pain in his right shoulder prevented. He found that his arm was bandaged to the elbow and held close to his side by a complex swathing.

“Who is your mother?” asked Vic.

“Munner?” she repeated, frowning in wonder. “Why, munner is—my munner.”

“Oh,” smiled he, “and who's your pa?”

“What?”

“Who's your father? Who's your dad?”

“Daddy Dan. You ask a lot of things,” she added, disapprovingly.

“Come on in,” pleaded Vic Gregg, “and I won't ask nothin' more about you.”

“Munner says no,” she repeated.

She employed the moment of indecision by plucking at the hair of Bart's shoulders; he growled softly, terribly, but she paid not the slightest heed.

“Your mother won't care,” asserted Vic.

“I know,” she nodded, “but Daddy will.”

“Spanking?”

She looked blankly at him.

“What will he do, then, if you come in to see me?”

“He'll look at me.” She grew breathless at the thought, and cast a guilty glance over her shoulder.

“Honey,” chuckled Gregg, weakly, “I'll take all the blame. Just you come along in and he'll do his lookin' at me.”

He thought of the slender fellow who had rescued him and his large, gentle brown eyes, but to a child even those mild eyes might seem terrible with authority.

“Will you, true?” said the child, wistfully.

“Honest and true.”

“All right.” She made up her mind instantly, her face shining with excitement. “Giddap, Bart.” And she thumped the wolf-dog vigorously with her heels.

He carried her in with a few gliding steps, soundless, except for the light rattle of claws on the floor, but he stopped well out of reach of the bed and when Vic held his left hand as far as he could across his chest, Bart winced and gave harsh warning. Vic had seen vicious dogs in his day, seen them fighting, seen them playing, but he had never heard one of them growl like this. The upper lips of the animal twitched dangerously back and the sound came from the very depths of his body. It made the flesh crawl along Vic's back; one rip of those great teeth could tear a man's throat open. The child thudded her heels against the ribs of Bart again.

“Giddap!” she cried.

The wolf-dog shuddered but would not budge an inch.

“Naughty Bart!” She slipped off to the floor. “I'll make him come,” she said.

“If it's the same to you,” said Vic, rather hastily, “I'd just as soon he stayed where he is.”

“He's got to do what I want,” she answered. She shook a tiny forefinger at him. “Bart, you just come here!”

The dog turned his blazing eyes on her and replied with a growl that shook his sides.

“Stop!” she ordered, and struck him sharply on the nose. He blinked and lowered his head under the blow, but though the snarling stopped his teeth flashed. She caught him by both jowls and tugged him forward.

“Let him be!” urged Vic.

“He's got to come!”

And come he did, step by halting step, while she hauled him, and now the snarling hoarse intakes of breath filled the room. Once she moved a little to one side and Vic caught the glint of two eyes, red-stained, which were fixed undeviatingly upon her face. Mixed with Vic's alarm at the great fighting beast was a peculiar uneasiness, for there was something uncanny in the determination, the fearlessness of this infant. When she stepped away the wolf-dog stood trembling visibly but his eyes were still not upon the man he hated or feared to approach but upon the child's face.

“Can you pat him now?” she asked, not for an instant turning to Gregg.

“No, but it's close enough,” he assured her. “I don't want him any closer.”

“He's got to come.” She stamped. “Bart, you come here!”

He flinched forward, an inch. “Bart!” Her hands were clenched and her little body quivered with resolution; the snake-like head came to the very edge of the bed.

“Now pat him!” she commanded.

By very unpleasant degrees, Vic stretched his hand towards that growling menace.

“He'll take my arm off,” he complained. Shame kept him from utterly refusing the risk.

“He won't bite you one bit,” declared the child. “But I'll hold his nose if you're afraid.” And instantly she clasped the pointed muzzle between her hands.

Even when Vic's hand hovered above his head Bart had no eye for him, could not divert his gaze from the face of the child. Once, twice and again, delicately as one might handle bubbles, Gregg touched that scarred forehead.

“I made him come, didn't I?” she cried in triumph, and turned a tense little face towards Vic, but the instant her eyes moved the wolf-dog leaped away half the width of the room, and stood shivering, more devilish than ever. She stamped again.