Rescue Dog of the High Pass Part 7

"A what?" Franz wrinkled puzzled brows.

With a sweeping circle of his right arm, Anton offered a near-perfect imitation of a dog walking around and around while the meat on a spit roasted. Franz warmed to this huge man. Anton's ice was all on the outside. Inwardly, he was gentle as the fawn of a chamois.

"Not yet," Franz said. "But I know we can teach him."

"Yah," said Anton. "We teach him."

Father Benjamin laughed. "You two seem to be getting along very well together, so I'll leave you alone."

Anton said respectfully, "As you will, Father," and turned to Franz.

"Come."

Franz followed him into the stable, that was windowless, except for rectangles of wood hung on wooden hinges that now swung open to admit the sunlight. The place had a familiar smell the boy was unable to define until he remembered that the same odor dominated his mother's kitchen, and that it was the odor of complete cleanliness.

"Where are the cattle?" he asked.

Anton replied, "Down in the pasture."

"Down?"

"Yah. You villagers bring them up. We take them down. There is no pasture here."

He led Franz to a great pile of hay at one end of the stable and gestured. "You sleep here."

Franz laid his pack down and relieved Caesar of his, not at all displeased. There are, as he knew from experience, sleeping places not nearly as comfortable as a pile of hay.

"We get you some more covers soon," Anton promised. "But for now there is work. You will clean the stable."

"But--" Franz looked in bewilderment at the already spotless stable. "It is clean!"

"Ha!" Anton snorted. He stalked to a rafter, ran one huge finger along it, discovered a tiny speck of dust and showed it to Franz. "See? You will clean the stable."

Franz said meekly, "Yes, Anton."

8: A FREE DAY

It had not been easy to coax Caesar inside, even into a stable, but Franz had succeeded both in getting him in and in persuading the big Alpine Mastiff to sleep at his feet. Now, as the wind screamed through St. Bernard Pa.s.s and the frost cut like a sharp knife, Franz grinned to himself.

He understood that the three other _maronniers_ at the Hospice; the novices, or apprentice priests; the Aumonier, who welcomed guests and dispensed charity; the Clavandier, who watched over all stores; the Sacristan, whose duty it was to take charge of the Chapel; the Abbe, who watched over the novices; the four Canons, whose authority was exceeded only by that of the Prior, and even the great Prior himself, slept in unheated cells.

He was not positive about this because anyone as lowly as he could never be sure about the doings of people as mighty as they. For all he knew, the Hospice would collapse if he spoke to any of the Canons, and the mountains themselves would tumble if he even looked at the Prior. But he thought it was true.

If it was, then he, Franz Halle, the humblest of the humble _maronniers_, had by far the finest sleeping quarters in Great St.

Bernard Pa.s.s. With fragrant hay as a mattress, plenty of blankets, a dog to keep his feet warm, and the four gentle cows of the Hospice to add their warmth to the stable, let the wind scream as it would and the frost crackle as it might. He would never care.

Caesar shifted his position at Franz's feet, to bring his head nearer the boy's right hand. Franz took his hand from beneath the blankets to tickle Caesar's ears, and a worried frown creased his forehead.

Besides Caesar, he had two firm friends at the Hospice, Father Benjamin and Anton Martek. The other two _maronniers_ were surly individuals who kept much to themselves. Franz did not even know their names. The novices, boys about Franz's own age, were much too busy with their own duties to have any time for a mere _maronnier_. Naturally it was unthinkable, aside from attending devotions, to intrude on the world of the priests. Father Benjamin, who came to the stable at regular intervals, had made a real effort to strengthen a friendship that began when he and Franz came up the path together.

Anton Martek worried Franz, and the dawn to dark work Anton demanded had no bearing on it, for the boy did not mind working long hours. But there was Caesar, too. The mastiff had worked willingly beside his master while they freighted hay or wood from the lower reaches or carried supplies from the inn at Cantine. But winter was fast approaching, and when it came, there would be almost no packing for Caesar, and everything that lived at the Hospice must necessarily earn its own way.

Since there was little else, Anton and Franz had tried their valiant best to make a spit dog of Caesar. But the great animal, who did so many things so well, seemed wholly unable to adjust to what he doubtless considered the low comedy of turning a spit. On the first trial, he whirled in his tracks and s.n.a.t.c.hed at and ate the roast he was supposed to be turning. When Anton fashioned a harness that made it impossible for him to turn, Caesar's nearness to the fire, with its unaccustomed warmth, made him so uncomfortable that he simply lay down and refused to move at all.

A longer pole that put him farther away from the fire offended his dignity. Rather than pace slowly, so that the meat would turn slowly and roast evenly on all sides, he whirled at such speed that it was a marvel the roast stayed on the spit. Weights on his paws, designed to slow him down, aroused his stubbornness. Rather than turn the spit at all, he pulled it completely apart and let the roast fall into the fire.

Shouting threats accomplished nothing. Caesar knew his own strength and, providing it was consistent with his dignity, he would work because he loved Franz. He would not be bullied. Rewards in the shape of meat dangled enticingly before him were haughtily rejected. Caesar would not be bribed, either.

The stubborn Anton had not abandoned hope and was still determined to make a spit dog of Caesar, but, in the darkness, Franz's worried frown deepened. The mastiff was equally determined that he would not turn the spit, therefore, not even Anton could make him do it.

An anguished little moan escaped Franz. If Caesar were declared useless and banished from the mountain, life in St. Bernard Pa.s.s, that had become so very fine, would be so very bleak. A second time Franz reached out to ruffle the big mastiff's ears.

"Try!" he whispered fiercely. "Try hard, Caesar!"

The dog licked his hand. Thus comforted, his body cushioned by soft hay, warmed by blankets and Caesar, and with the cattle adding their warmth to the stable, Franz never heard the wind scream and never thought of the frost.

He was awakened by Anton Martek, who lighted his way into the stable with a gla.s.s-shielded candle. Caesar rose and wagged his tail to greet this new friend whom he had come to like so well, and Franz sat sleepily up in bed. Anton hung his candle-lantern on a wooden peg.

"It is time to be up," he scoffed good-naturedly. "The day is for working."

"It is not day yet," Franz protested.

Anton said, "Soon it will be."

Anton, who was entirely willing to let Franz clean the stable as long as he kept it spotless, but who never permitted anyone except himself to handle the cows or their products, began to groom his charges. He always followed the same procedure. After the cows were clean as comb and brush could make them, he would wash their udders with warm water. Then he would milk, care for the milk and clean the cows all over again.

Franz impulsively asked a question that had long tickled his curiosity, but that he had never dared ask before. "Why do you stay here, Anton?"

The huge man turned toward him, comb in one hand and brush in the other, and for a moment his eyes were so terrible that Franz shrank before them. The eyes softened the merest trifle.

"Why do you ask that?" Anton asked quietly.

"I--I've just wondered, and I--I'm sorry if I offended you," Franz stammered.

Anton said, "You meant well and I will tell you. At one time, I lived in Martigny, where I was famous for my strength. There was another man who was neither bad nor good. He was much like the jay that always chatters but seldom says anything worth the listening, and he was given to spasms of rage. I saw him strike a child, a little boy, who should not have been taunting him but was. I told the man that he must never again strike a child. The man struck at me and--"

Anton's voice trailed off into a husky whisper. He stared for a moment at the far wall of the stable, then continued, "I struck back and--I killed him. I never meant to kill, and I knew I did not, for it is a terrible thing to take the life of a fellow human. But the only others who knew I never intended to kill were the Fathers at the Hospice. They gave me refuge. They cared for my body as well as my spirit. They restored my faith in G.o.d and in man. They made a man from what had been a beast. That is why I am happy to serve them and why I shall never leave this place!"

"I understand!" Franz exclaimed. "And I don't believe you ever intended to kill either!"

"Thank you, little Franz." Anton's rare smile flashed. "Now, if you will get your breakfast, I will care for my babies here."

Caesar at his heels, Franz left the stable and made his way to the kitchen. Caesar sat down outside the door. Paul Maurat, the surly _maronnier_ who presided over the kitchen, kept his domain as spotless as Anton insisted the stable be kept. Certainly, he would never dream of letting a dog invade his kingdom.

A tall, string-thin and apparently ageless man, he motioned Franz to a chair, served him barley gruel, black bread, cheese, and milk and apparently forgot all about him. Franz finished his meal and went outside, where he was rejoined by Caesar, and the pair returned to the stable.