Short Stories
down slowly and with infinite caution on the three-legged stool.
"BON!" he said. "BON! De good sun!" And he stretched out
his wasted hands and washed them in the warmth.
Then his gaze fell on the dog, and the old light blazed back in
his eyes. He touched the missionary lightly on the arm. "Mon
pere, dat is one beeg devil, dat Batard. You will bring me one
pistol, so, dat Ah drink de sun in peace."
And thenceforth for many days he sat in the sun before the
cabin door. He never dozed, and the pistol lay always across his
knees. Batard had a way, the first thing each day, of looking for
the weapon in its wonted place. At sight of it he would lift his lip
faintly in token that he understood, and Leclere would lift his
own lip in an answering grin. One day the missionary took note
of the trick.
"Bless me!" he said. "I really believe the brute comprehends."
Leclere laughed softly. "Look you, mon pere. Dat w'at Ah
now spik, to dat does he lissen."
As if in confirmation, Batard just perceptibly wriggled his
lone ear up to catch the sound.
"Ah say 'keel'."
Batard growled deep down in his throat, the hair bristled
along his neck, and every muscle went tense and expectant.
"Ah lift de gun, so, like dat." And suiting action to word, he
sighted the pistol at Batard. Batard, with a single leap, sideways,
landed around the corner of the cabin out of sight.
"Bless me!" he repeated at intervals. Leclere grinned proudly.
"But why does he not run away?"
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