Duncan nodded, rolling the shells in his hand.
"You must pay for the privilege then." He named a fee that Duncan knew was outrageous.
"Too much."
"Perhaps if you let us know what you wished to hunt today, we could come to an arrangement?"
"I'm here for some wild hogs I heard were harassing folks in the area, digging up gardens and fields and . . . worse." Duncan let the last word linger and watched the man's reaction. He saw the eyes narrow. So the warden did know of the hogs, then. The spear with crossbar near the top just under the long blade indicated that he'd been prepared for them, too.
"That . . . rifle? I do not believe it is big enough for a hog. Maybe a small deer. Yes?"
"It's not meant for hogs. For them I got this—" Duncan slapped his holster "—and Old Pete here." The dog huffed and wagged its tail slowly. "Trust me, this revolver will do the job."
The man, the warden, snapped something in rapid fire German that Duncan couldn't quite catch, but some words needed no translation. They were words no one would use in polite company.
"I think I like you, Conrad. I like your hat, too." Duncan tipped his own. "Wide brim is good to keep the rain off your face, ain't it?" The man's face remained impassive. "God, I wish you spoke English."
"I speak some. I learn more soon. Count Ludwig has ordered it to be. That is, that we learn the language of our neighbors." The warden shrugged.
"Well, I'll be damned. No, not that way, it's a saying in . . . ah, hell."
"This is an American thing, yes?"
"Yeah, like cussing, don't mean nuttin', err, nothing. But sometimes it does. Like when you told those two idiots to point their weapons someplace else."
The man shrugged and smiled. "You wish to hunt boar with only one dog? Must be a very good dog. He is very ugly, but seems big enough." Old Pete sat up and wagged his tail. He was smart enough to know when folks were talking about him, no matter the language they spoke.
"May I?" The warden gestured toward the shotgun. Duncan handed him the unloaded weapon and he examined it closely.
"A fine weapon, but as you say, not for pigs. Small game?"
Duncan nodded as he watched Conrad handle the shotgun carefully and then reached for it when he handed it back. "So, can we be friends and come to an agreement about what I bag?"
"We can, but I will come with you with one other man. The rest will continue looking for poachers and bandits, though few make it past your Grantville these days."
"Right. So you, me and one other, and Old Pete here. I'm guessing you both know how to walk in the woods and marshes hereabouts?" Duncan got an amused smile in return. "I had to ask. It helps to know who you're hunting with. Helps prevent accidents."
Conrad adjusted his gear. "Hermann, take the men and go patrol. Estevan, you will come with us and translate."
"Sure, Conrad." Duncan smiled. "By the way you want to try some chew?" Duncan extended a plug of tobacco to Conrad. "Just remember not to swallow and spit the juice."
Conrad didn't even blink as he reached for the offered gift.
Duncan smiled.
The Marshes
They'd been on the tracks of a pack of very large pigs for over an hour when the screams started. Before Conrad could do anything, the American had yelled something, a curse maybe, and then waved his dog to the right and charged into the brush at a speed that surprised both of the Germans. The dog had moved parallel to the man without even making a noise, as if this was a normal everyday exercise.
"We'd better go after him," Conrad said. "The count would be most upset if we let an American get killed on his lands. Maybe we can be in time to save him from his foolishness." He spat out the wad of chew.
Then the firing, squeals and barking started. Their jog turned into a full-out run. Their spears were held defensively before them, in case they rounded a tree and found themselves face to face with one of the wild hogs.
It wasn't a pretty scene.
Conrad and Estevan approached, spears out and at the ready. Duncan leaned shaking against a nearby sapling for support.
* * *
Duncan gave a signal and Old Pete circled the area and then took off. Finally, Duncan's breathing slowed down enough for him to speak.
"Estevan, hombre, we're going to need some shovels. Hogs killed two . . . two people. Before I got here." Duncan wasn't about to look any closer at the bodies. He'd seen dead folks before, but not like this. The string of curses he loosed wasn't directed at them, but at himself. He really needed to lose more weight. Had he been another twenty to thirty pounds lighter he might have been able to save one of them. Maybe.
Conrad and Estevan stared at him as if surprised he was still alive.
"Don't stare at me like that. I've hunted hogs with just a pistol before!" he snapped, surprising the game warden. Duncan held up a hand. "I'm sorry, Conrad. I'm not angry at you. It's my sugar levels. They are too low."
"This is a disease of the blood?"
Duncan nodded. For a "simple game warden" Conrad seemed very educated.
"You did well, here. You did what you could for them."
Duncan tried to spit again, but found his mouth was too dry.
Conrad and Estevan scanned the soft ground and looked at each other. "This was a big pack, Herr Cunningham. Pardon me for saying this, but I still think you're crazy for having charged in here with just the dog and one gun. Even if you've hunted like this before. These aren't farm pigs gone wild."
Hell, the sow alone would stress the springs in the back of Duncan's huge pick-up truck if he'd ever figure out how to get it into the truck bed in the first place. Duncan looked at the giant boar and blinked in disbelief. He'd need a tow truck to get that thing out of here. "How we gonna get all this meat out of here, anyway? Before the other hogs come back?" His share of the meat would add up to a lot of money once he smoked it and sold it. Even after he paid off the debts of the trades he'd made earlier that morning.
"My men should come to investigate the noises shortly. We should build a fire, as well. We will have them cut a path here for some horses to drag them out of the marshes and then we'll use a wagon each to get these beasts to where they can be butchered properly. The boar's head will make a fine trophy, but I think the count will claim it as it is his right." Conrad added the last part again when Duncan didn't respond.
"Or we could send Old Pete to guide them back here," Duncan added. He looked at his hands and made fists so he could hide their shaking.
"I left Hermann in charge of the men. I think you should keep your dog here instead."
"Yeah, that's fine. Oh shit! The game bag!" It was then that he saw that Old Pete had brought up the bag of game and dropped it at his feet already. He'd forgotten he'd sent Old Pete for it minutes before. Not a good sign.
"Good boy." Duncan took off his hat and poured some of the water into it and let Old Pete drink his fill. The rest dripped down his head and neck when he put it back on. It felt wonderful.
Duncan measured out a dose of Gatorade powder, and mixed it with water in the canteen's cup. He drank it slowly at first, then pinched his nose and swigged it down as fast as he could. "Gah! Ugh!" The shakes would fade soon enough. If they didn't, he'd need a power bar or another cup of the horrid drink.
"It can't be as bad as that chew you gave me, Herr Cunningham," Conrad said.
Duncan made a face at Conrad that left the down-timer laughing until more help came to deal with the wild hogs.
Count Ludwig Guenther's Hunting Lodge, early evening
Conrad sent for Count Ludwig Guenther's hound-master to treat and care for Old Pete's torn ear. Duncan didn't understand why Conrad insisted that only the hound-master should be allowed to care for Pete. It was almost as if he was insisting that the man have a chance to see the dog.
"He is the only person the count permits to care for his hounds," Conrad insisted. "Your dog has earned the right to receive the same care. That ear looks bad. Wilhelm will know exactly ho
w to fix it so that it doesn't hurt the dog and he doesn't lose it . . . although that might improve his looks."
Duncan raised an eyebrow.
"Okay, it will hurt the dog, but he is even better than the surgeon the count has for himself. I'd bet my life on that. In fact, I have . . . several times."
"Hermann shot Herr Conrad in the buttocks last summer when he dropped his crossbow," Estevan volunteered with a snicker. He quickly found someplace else to be when Conrad shot him a look.
"So how did that work out?"
"Wilhelm extracted the bolt and patched me up. I was back in the saddle in a few weeks."
"Okay, this hound-master can look at Old Pete, but I think you have something else in mind here."
"Who me? I am a simple game warden. What confidence or secret plan could such a man as I come up with?"
"I wonder."
Duncan entertained the men with tricks from Old Pete's repertoire while they waited for the hound-master to come from the castle. Old Pete dragged one fearful volunteer across the ground from the corral to the small chapel without hurting the man. Then the man tried in vain to get up as Duncan told Old Pete to sit on him.
The men were greatly amused.
They were more amused when Duncan snatched and then threw Conrad's hat into the corral and told Old Pete to get it. The gates were locked and the men started making bets on how long it'd take the dog to figure out it couldn't get into the corral and if Conrad's hat would be ruined by a stray hoof.
Conrad turned to Duncan. "If my hat is ruined, I will claim yours as recompense."
"Pete, climb!" was Duncan's only response.
Old Pete took a run at the fence, grabbed the top bar and scrambled over. The horses had already shied away from where the dog had circled one side of the corral and the hat was untrodden. Pete turned back with the hat in his mouth and waited.
"We know he can go over the fence. Anyone want to bet he can go through the gate?" Duncan held up two silver dollars.
"I will take that bet, sir," someone spoke up in accented English. "Even as big as that dog is, it can't go through wood that thick."
"Watch." Duncan turned to the corral. "Pete. Unlock the gate." He mimed lifting the rope off the post. Old Pete barked once and then stood on his hind legs and calmly nosed the rope off the fencepost, pushed the gate open, carried the hat through, and pushed it closed.
"Now I'm sorry to say, gentlemen, that though he made it through the gate, it's beyond even his skills to lock it up again. Would one of you see to that for him?" Duncan whistled and Old Pete ambled up and dropped Conrad's hat at his feet. It was soaked with drool.
The men laughed uproariously.
"Herr Wilhelm Kehl, I think you've been had," Conrad said to the well-dressed man who stood there with his mouth tightly pursed. "Lucky for you, what you owe Herr Duncan Cunningham comes exactly to what you'd charge to care for the dog."
"Very well. Before I attend to your mastiff, could you please muzzle him? This won't be painless, but I guarantee he won't lose the ear or get an infection after."
"That won't be necessary, Wilhelm. Old Pete knows it's a choice between you and Les Blocker, who'll give him a shot," Duncan explained. "The sight of a shot will turn him into a whimpering puppy every time."
"Like you and that purple drink?" Conrad offered with a smile as he shook his hat out.
"Something like that." Duncan whistled Old Pete over.
Duncan watched the hound-master prepare his gear and noticed how each tool in his kit was shining and clean. Wilhelm also sterilized his stitching needles and catgut in brandy.
Duncan pulled the reluctant dog into position and then released him with a light tap to his nose. "Stay! No Teeth! It's this or a shot, Pete. Want to visit Les instead?"
Old Pete became compliant right away. He endured having his ear washed and stitched. It didn't hurt that the hound-master fed Pete tidbits from a hip bag every few stitches. Wilhelm then applied a little pitch over the dog's wound and told Duncan not to let the dog scratch at it, but to let it peel off naturally.
As Wilhelm washed his hands, he had Duncan walk Old Pete around so he could study his lines. He asked about his stamina and intelligence. Twice, Wilhelm reverted to German to ask questions of Conrad, Estevan and the other men.
Wilhelm got even more insistent when Conrad told the story of the way the dog had taken down one of the hogs by itself. He'd seen the bodies when the three wagons finally arrived. He looked a bit more respectfully at Old Pete after that. Wilhelm took out a small book and began to make notes in it and had a very far off look.
"I think your dog is going to make you very rich, my new friend." Conrad nudged Duncan.
"You think so? He's only a crossbreed. Part Bloodhound, part Saint Bernard. All big and ugly, but a better friend I've never had."
"Whatever breed your dog is, he has impressed Count Guenther's hound-master. That is not an easy thing to do. That I was there to witness his actions on the hunt might have helped your case."
"I didn't realize that I, or Old Pete, were on trial here."
"You were, but not in the way you'd expect. Hounds like Old Pete are treasured by men like my count." Conrad named the figure fetched by a bitch sired by Count Ludwig Guenther's prize hound at the Hamburg fair last fall.
"That much, huh?"
"You have a good dog here, Duncan. I suspect you should find out if his mother is still alive or if anyone else has one of these breeds in Grantville. This would make breeding his line true easier. But what ever you do, don't take his first offer. There is a game to this business, and every game has rules to it." He shook out his slobber-soaked hat again and ambled off.
"Wouldn't trade you for all the insulin in the world, Pete. Especially since that can't be all that much right now."
"Herr Duncan, I have an offer that's sure to interest one as wise and worldly as yourself." Wilhelm Kehl smiled a car salesman's smile. Some things spanned generations. Car salesman, horse trader, or dog trader, Duncan bet there wasn't much difference between them. "I'm sure that even your hound would enjoy the work involved. But I must ask you a bit more about his breeding. Who in Grantville did you say owned his dam?"
"I didn't."
Wilhelm raised an eyebrow.
Duncan looked back deadpan.
Old Pete was going to save his life again.
Mid-May, Grantville
The problem now would be selecting the proper bitches for Old Pete and trying to breed him true. He was a mutt and getting a dog that smart and big would be hard enough. Reading about proper breeding had given Duncan a headache. It was easier to hire the experts in the end. At least there were people he knew in town with the knowledge he needed.
The extra cherry wood from his backyard plus the smoked hams, sausage and bacon from the hogs helped him pay for the initial research. A simple seven-point chart and tracking method for the breeding selections came from Les Blocker and his students. Les hadn't even charged him for the information, but Duncan made sure he got a chunk of smoked bacon and some sausage, anyway.
Duncan could sell the dogs that didn't fit the desired profiles and still turn a profit. His bank account right now wasn't liking his expenses one bit, but the loan rates at least were tolerable. According the initial research, the St. Bernard and Bloodhound existed in this era. But none were like Old Pete. He was the best of both breeds in one huge and ugly package.
Next to the breeding charts hung a huge dietary chart. This chart covered Duncan's snack times and all the alternative medicines he'd tried to alleviate what exercise and diet alone didn't control. His daughter, Gayla, watched him like a hawk, and made sure he didn't cheat. Like he had time or money to cheat these days.
That left his most important project—the insulin. He'd arranged to lease space and lab time at the Manning Assisted Living Center through old Dr. McDonnell. The location was undergoing expansion to handle the massive influx of needy to Grantville, and was also acting as something of a municip
al hospital for the poor.
Manning's was already starting to acquire hospital gear and medicines made through a front company in-town called Manning's Medical Manufacturing or Three M. Insulin wasn't on their list of projects, so Duncan's project would have to be self-funded, and he'd have to invest heavily in Three M to make sure he could keep access to the facility.
He put down some alchemist's notes he was trying to read when Old Pete growled. This time he heard a wagon entering his driveway. "Please, God, don't let it be another brown-noser looking for a favor! I don't think I could take it." Duncan snapped his fingers, calling Old Pete back from the door. He'd heeded Conrad and Wilhelm's words of caution to not get involved in any of the games Count Ludwig's courtiers played.
Next door, the curtains fluttered and Duncan hid his smile. Kitty's last petition to close down his business had been stomped on pretty hard by the new Small Business Bureau group—which was seeded with many of Duncan's old buddies from the mines and not a few extended family members.
It was good to have friends and family.
Something about sheep or animal pancreas processing circled in his mind, something one of his researchers had mentioned, but the words were buried in the barking of over a half-dozen large dogs in cages on a wagon out front.
"Take them around back and stake each of them out separately so I can examine them, please. They are in heat, I take it?"
Dogs to Dollars, Summer 1632
"The count won't be happy that you rejected three of his best bitches, Duncan." Wilhelm took the breeding charts that Duncan waved at him and Conrad. Conrad ignored the charts and went in the house, probably to use the john, so Duncan kept talking to Wilhelm.
"It's genetics as much as it is the person who raises a dog that makes it what it is. For me to be able to breed Old Pete true, I need to get a good breeding stock base that shares the features we want to continue in his line. Les Blocker, the veterinarian, agrees with me. We need at least four generations of good stock to guarantee a good breeding pool." Duncan winced. "Unfortunately, I think ugly is the one gene that's going to breed true, no matter who we pair him off with.