The weekly times-record. (Valley City, N.D.) 1912-1922, 1915-03-18
CHAPTER XIII.
Ono Dogs Day.


There must be a real philosophy in
all proverbs Every dog has his day"
is significant one. It surely was for
Pitchoune. He had his day. 1t was a
glorious one a terrible one, a memor-
able one, and he played his little part
in it. He awoke at the gray dawn,
springing like flash from the foot of
Sabron's bed, where he lay asleep, in
response to the sound Of the reveille,
and Sabron sprang up after him.
Pitchoune in few moments was in
the center Of real disorder. All he
knew was that he followed his master
all day long. The dogs knowledge did
not comprehend the fact that not only
had the native village, of which his
master spoke in his letter to Miss Red
mond, been destroyed, but that Sab
ron's regiment itself was menaced by
a concerted and concentrated attack
from an entire tribe, led by fanatic
as hotminded and as fierce as the
Mahdi Of Sudanese history.
Pitchoure followed at the heels of
his masters horse. No one paid any
attention to him. Heaven knows why
be was not trampled to death, but he
was not. No one trod on him; no
horses hoof hit his little wiry form
that managed in the midst of carnage
and death to keep itself secure and his
hide whole. He smelt the gunpowder,
he smelt the smoke, shifted at it,
threw up his pretty head and barked,
pulled and painted, yelped and tore
about and followed. He was not con-
scious of anything but that Sabron
was in motion; that Sabron, his be-
loved master, was in action of some
kind or other and he, soldiers dog,
was in action, too. He howled at
fierce dark faces, when he saw them
He snarled at the bullets that whis-
tied around his ears and, laying his
little ears back, he shook his black
muzzle in the very grin Of death.
Sabron's horse was shot under him,
and then Pitchoune saw his master,
sprang upon him, and his feelings were
not hurt that no attention was paid
him, that not even his name was
called, and as Sabron struggled on.
Pitchoune followed. It was his day;
he was fighting the natives; he was
part of battle; he was soldiers
dog! Little by little the creatures
and things around him grew fewer,
the smoke cleared and rolled away,
there were a few feet OF freedom
around him in which he stood and
barked; then he was off again close to
his masters heels and not too soon.
He did not know the blow that struck
sabron, but he saw him fell, and then
and there came into his canine heart
some knowledge of the Importance Of
his day. He had raced himself weary.
Every bone in his little body ached
with fatigue.
Sabron lay his length on the bed of
dried-up river, one of those phantom
like channels of desert stream whose
course runs watery only certain times
Of the year. Sabron, wounded in the
abdomen, lay oh his side. Pitchoune
smelled him from head to foot, ad.
dressed himself to his restoration in
his own way He licked his face and
hands and ears, sat sentinel at the be-
loved head where the forehead was
covered with sweat and blood. He
barlsed feverishly and to his attentive
ears there came no answer whatso-
ever, either from the wounded man in
the bed of the African river or from
the silent plains.
Sabron was deserted, He had fallen
and not been missed and his regiment,
routed by. the Arabs, had been driven
into retreat. Finally the little dog.
who knew by instinct that life re-
NAMED in his masters body, set him
self at work vigorously to awaken a
sign of life. He attacked Sabron's
shoulder as though it were prey; he
worried him, barked in his ear, struck
him lightly with his paw. and finally,
awakening to dreadful pain, to fever
and to isolation, awakening perhaps
to the battle for life, to the attentions
Of his friend, the spahi opened his
eyes.
Sabron's wound was serious, but his
body was vigorous, strong and healthy,
and his mind more so. There was q
film over it just now. He raised him
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