By now the new trading post was far enough along for the supplies to be taken over and arranged inside the empty shell. Mr. McLain knew that Wynn needed his one-room office and that I was anxious to have my living quarters back.
The men again tracked through my house to load the wagons with everything that belonged to the store owner. I was relieved to see it go, and yet a little sadness tugged at me too. I had enjoyed the feeling of being needed in the little settlement.
I felt better when we decided that Nimmie and I would continue the distribution; instead of Nimmie coming to my house, now I would make the daily trek into the village.
I had not been there much in the past weeks, simply having no reason to go. Nimmie had come to my house daily, and I saw almost every woman of the village on a regular basis when they came for supplies. And our supplies for the next several months were stored in our own storage room.
Though I had not really missed the little excursions into the village, Kip had. He was restless. I tried to take him for a walk each morning as soon as I had finished my household chores, but he continued to whine at the door.
I had no time to romp with him like I used to and I was afraid to let him out on his own. I was sure he would head for the village and the other dogs, and even though he was no longer a pup, I still did not relish the prospect of a fight. I was sure one would occur if Kip were allowed to run free. I was especially determined to keep him away from Buck, the village fighter, for just as long as possible—my preference was “forever.” But at least I wanted to be sure Kip was full grown so he might have some chance of holding his own. Buck was an experienced fighter and he was mean. No way did I want Kip tangling with him.
So I ran down wooded paths and trails by the river whenever I could work it into my morning schedule, just to make sure Kip’s muscles got some exercise, and in the afternoons when Nimmie and I were busy as storekeepers, I kept him in.
Then even those runs were cut back.
Nimmie and I had been missing our Bible studies together, so we decided that even though we were busy, we would try to work one in each week on Wednesdays. That meant our other duties had to be crowded into the rest of the mornings of the week.
Both the gardens were doing well. We were proud and excited about the growing vegetables. I could hardly wait until they would be big enough to serve. But the garden, too, took work. Though plants grew quickly in the summer sun, the weeds seemed to do even better. It was a big job to keep up with them.
So the summer was a busy one, each day bringing us closer to the first of August. From then on, I wondered if I would be able to sleep for thinking of Nimmie and the coming baby.
One afternoon as I left the house to go to the settlement for the afternoon store hours, my thoughts were busy with Nimmie and the little one she was expecting. When I moved to the door, Kip was there by my side, pushing against me to get out, his eyes pleading as he looked at me and whined. It had been several days since his last run.
He looked so pitiful, his big blue eyes turned to mine.
“All right,” I said, “you can come. But you’ve got to be good. You’ll have to lie quietly in the corner while I do my work.”
Kip’s tail began to wag as he recognized the consent in my voice.
We walked the short distance to the settlement together, Kip managing to get in quite a few side trips. When we reached the store, Kip obediently lay down in the corner I pointed out to him and stayed there.
With the noise of the hammers and hand saws all around us, Nimmie and I often had to raise our voices to one another to get our instructions understood.
The customers did not need to come as often now. The women had organized their households to the point where they had the basics, and many of them were now taking daily trips to the woods for fresh foods. I’m sure they welcomed the additions to their diets as joyfully as I had done.
Nimmie urged me to leave a little early, saying she would stay for a while in case any others came. I called Kip to heel and we started out for our cabin.
I was not paying much attention to Kip as we walked toward home through the late afternoon sunshine. My thoughts were again with Nimmie. She hadn’t said anything, but I thought I noticed weariness about her eyes and slower movements than usual. Was I only imagining it?
As I walked through the settlement, the dogs barked and growled at me, straining at their leashes. I’m sure what provoked them most was seeing Kip invading their territory. I still respected their turf and made sure I detoured a good distance from their tethered ground, but I did not have the fear I once had.
Since there was now plenty of food for the village dogs, they had become round and fluffy again rather than looking mangy and shaggy as they had through the difficult winter months. I decided there was really no reason for their being so aggressive and nasty, so I paid little attention to them. In choosing to ignore the dogs, I tried not to antagonize them. There was no love lost between them and me as they bared their fangs and growled whenever they felt Kip and me getting too close.
Kip ran along beside me, heeling whenever I commanded. We were as yet not far enough out of the village to allow him his side trips. He was still the prettiest dog in the settlement. Wynn said he was now his full height, though he might still put on a few pounds. He was soft and fluffy with the beautiful silver tip to his fur. The children loved him, and even those who had been viciously bitten by a village dog in the past had learned that it was safe to reach out a hand to Kip. Many of the children would wrap their arms around his neck or have a friendly tussle with him on the floor of our cabin.
We were just reaching the last village cabin and I was about to let Kip run free when I saw the hackles raise on his neck. It was not often that Kip responded in this way and I hesitated, wondering what was wrong. My first thought was that some small wild animal had strayed into the village—perhaps a nasty smelling skunk.
And then I saw him. Rushing toward us was Buck, lips curled back and teeth exposed. His hackles were up, too, and I knew that this time Kip would take the challenge. With a flash I remembered the long-ago day when Buck had rushed at Kip, then hardly more than an overgrown pup. He had backed off that time in submission to the older dog. But Kip’s pose was not one of submission now. He was a full-grown dog, and he had his pride.
Buck stopped a few feet short of Kip. I called Kip to heel again, but he acted like he had never heard my voice before nor learned what the word meant. He stepped sideways as though to feel out his ground and make sure of his footing.
I watched in fascinated horror as Buck came in closer and Kip did not back away. His own teeth bared in a snarl and I heard a rumble from deep in his throat.
Slowly they began to circle one another, eyes blazing, throats voicing challenges and threats; and then there was a sudden lunge forward. I don’t know which dog made the first move. I only know they met in midair and shrieked out their rage as bodies clashed and teeth tore.
Both dogs had the protection of a heavy coat. Knowing that, they aimed for throat, for eyes, for face, each time they came together. They struck with lightning fury and then tumbled in the dust of the path, rolling over and over, with grunts and snarls and sharp yips of rage or pain.
I stood rooted to the spot, wanting to stop them, wanting to run, wanting to scream for someone to do something! But I did nothing, only lifted my hands to my face and prayed that it would soon be over.
Horrified, I was too dumbstruck to even cry. Would it never end? They would break and circle and then rush at one another again, falling this way and that, striking for each other’s face or a leg in an effort to fell the opponent. I could see that Kip was bleeding. He had a gash on his cheek that was spilling blood as he rolled back and forth in the dirt.
But Kip wasn’t the only one with an injury. Buck, too, was bleeding on his neck from a torn, ragged cut. Still they lashed and rolled. Over and over, their heads whipping this way and that to strike at their opponent and then jerk clear of his counter strike. This is terrible! I moaned.
At last, with one quick move, Kip clasped Buck’s leg in his teeth and crunched down hard. The older dog screamed in pain and flipped himself forward to jerk free. Kip held firm and as Buck hurled himself away, I heard a sickening snap.
Again they struck, but it was clear that Buck’s front right leg was held up and that it had been broken.
I found my voice then. I screamed for them to stop. As much as I feared and disliked Buck, I did not want to see him injured further. Nor did I want to take chances on Kip getting hurt any more. In spite of his injury, Buck still was determined to lick the younger dog. With a ferociousness I had never seen before, he struck again and another tear appeared on the side of Kip’s jaw.
“Stop it!” I screamed. “Stop it, both of you! Stop it, do you hear?” But I was totally ignored.
They pulled away and circled again, Buck skillfully trying to maneuver on his three good legs. They were both panting heavily, their tongues lolling and their sides heaving.
“Stop it!” I yelled again. “Stop it! Go home, Buck. Go home. Kip, heel.” But they paid no heed to my words.
It was Kip who jumped first. He aimed another blow at Buck’s already torn and bleeding ear, and the big husky yelped in pain and rage.
And then it was over, as quickly as it had begun. Buck was gone, his tail tucked submissively between his legs, his one leg held aloft as he ran.
I ran to Kip and fell to my knees beside him.
“Bad dog,” I scolded him, tears streaming down my face. “Bad dog. You shouldn’t fight. Don’t you know that you shouldn’t fight? It’s bad to fight. It’s bad to fight unless you really have to.” And suddenly I realized that Kip really had to. Buck had challenged him.
“Come on,” I said, “I’ll take you home.”
I led him to the cabin. He heeled beautifully, just as he had been taught. I walked quickly, wanting to get him to the safety of his rug before the fireplace, where I could check and tend his wounds.
After I had closed the door securely behind us, I knelt beside him again and ran my fingers over his body. He was still trembling. His face was blood-covered from the two ragged gashes on his cheeks, but other than that he seemed to be fine.
I started to cry again as I held him. He must have wondered what was wrong with me. I trembled every bit as much as he did.
“You licked him, you crazy dog,” I told him. “You licked the big bully. I didn’t want you to, but you did. You licked the meanest dog in the whole village.”
I straightened up and wiped my tear-streaked face. My voice became firm. “Now you won’t have to fight again—ever. Do you hear?”