The Strange White Doves Read Free Page A

of the Masked Brotherhood who called at Marshy Point; (2) there was plenty of it every evening for everyone; and (3) Marshy Point, glory be, was a safe place to dine.
    It would have taken something like that to entice a well-fed raccoon so far. And, knowing man for the murderous wretch he is, they would never have accepted personal handouts from the creature without the assurance that there would be no treachery. Even so, our big gray visitors were very wary at first, nor did they ever approach as close as the other raccoons who lived near us.
    As I considered that raccoon experience, I felt that I had taken a definite step into the unknown, on the track of something strange.
    A dog named Turk gave me even more to think about.…

4
    WILD DOG
    M Y NEIGHBOR the beekeeper lives alone down the valley in an old weather-beaten cottage on the mountainside. He is not really alone, for, besides his bees, he has a host of friends in the branches overhead and in the forest behind him. With most of them—the cardinals, the chickadees, assorted songsters, and one trusting doe—he is on close speaking terms. If he has any real hate in him, it is reserved for two kinds of creatures only—deer hunters and wild dogs.
    When I told him about the raccoons, he did not seem surprised. “News gets around in the woods,” he said quietly.
    â€œHow?” I asked.
    He shrugged. “Don’t ask me how. It just gets around. Those raccoons prove it. An’ it’s the same with the deer. If a hunter’s on the prowl, they’ll know it. If I put out a fresh block of salt for the doe, they’ll know that too. It’s a queer thing.”
    I was tempted to tell him about Turk, for I wanted his opinion on the matter. But I decided it would be better if I didn’t. On the subject of wild dogs he can become grim indeed. “If you ever saw one of those devils catch a doe with a fawn …,” he muttered once, shaking his head.
    I have seen wild dogs at work, and I hate them too. So does everyone in the valley. But Turk was different. Most dogs that go wild in the mountains run in packs, and they have homes of sorts they can return to on occasion. Turk had no home. He was a loner, and he had no use for man. But he did like Alice.
    All animals like Alice. Maybe, unconsciously, she sends out waves of love for four-footed things, to which they cannot help responding. If there is a stray cat in the valley, it always finds her. I have lost count of the number of stray or abandoned dogs that have come to her to be fed and helped.
    Naturally, it was she who saw Turk first and called my attention to him. He was about fifty yards upstream from the house, motionless on the bank of the creek that rushes down past the studio. The fearless and yet calculating way he stood looking back at us made me think of a wolf. He was about the size of a wolf, but he had the short yellow hair of a dingo, and the same broad, flat head and powerful shoulders.
    Alice placed food out near the terrace wall for him, but he refused to come close until we had gone back into the house. We were feeding two other dogs at the time, and when both arrived unexpectedly at the eating area, I was sure there would be trouble. There wasn’t. Turk merely glanced at them, gave the faintest of growls, and they instantly knuckled under like a pair of cowed privates before a general.
    The next day he wagged his tail happily at Alice and permitted her to pet him, but ten feet was as close as he would allow me to come. At that distance he would look at me hard and, though he made no sound, his lip would curl ever so slightly. He seemed to say, Keep away from me, and I’ll not bother you.
    The message was absolutely clear. If I had been stupid enough to miss it, the little chill that went up my back would have set me straight in an instant. He was willing to tolerate me because of Alice, but I must stay well away and never attempt to touch him.
    Wild