"White man's dogs would have no show against him," Scott went on. "He'd
kill them on sight. If he didn't bankrupt me with damaged suits, the
authorities would take him away from me and electrocute him."
"He's a downright murderer, I know," was the dog-musher's comment.
Weedon Scott looked at him suspiciously.
"It would never do," he said decisively.
"It would never do!" Matt concurred. "Why you'd have to hire a man
'specially to take care of 'm."
The other suspicion was allayed. He nodded cheerfully. In the silence
that followed, the low, half-sobbing whine was heard at the door and then
the long, questing sniff.
"There's no denyin' he thinks a hell of a lot of you," Matt said.
The other glared at him in sudden wrath. "Damn it all, man! I know my
own mind and what's best!"
"I'm agreein' with you, only . . . "
"Only what?" Scott snapped out.
"Only . . . " the dog-musher began softly, then changed his mind and
betrayed a rising anger of his own. "Well, you needn't get so all-fired
het up about it. Judgin' by your actions one'd think you didn't know
your own mind."
Weedon Scott debated with himself for a while, and then said more gently:
"You are right, Matt. I don't know my own mind, and that's what's the
trouble."
"Why, it would be rank ridiculousness for me to take that dog along," he
broke out after another pause.
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