After that, frequently the old man shot a bird in his sight, loading the gun more and more heavily, and each time after the shot coming to him, showing him the bird, and speaking to him kindly, gently.  But for all that the Terror remained in his heart.

One afternoon the girl, accompanied by a young man, rode over on horseback, dismounted, and came in.  She always stopped when she was riding by.

“It’s mighty slow business,” old Swygert reported; “I don’t know whether I’m makin’ any headway or not.”

That night old Mrs. Swygert told him she thought he had better give it up.  It wasn’t worth the time and worry.  The dog was just yellow.

Swygert pondered a long time.  “When I was a kid,” he said at last, “there came up a terrible thunderstorm.  It was in South America.  I was water boy for a railroad gang, and the storm drove us in a shack.  While lightnin’ was hittin’ all around, one of the grown men told me it always picked out boys with red hair.  My hair was red, an’ I was little and ignorant.  For years I was skeered of lightnin’.  I never have quite got over it.  But no man ever said I was yellow.”

Again he was silent for a while.  Then he went on:  “I don’t seem to be makin’ much headway, I admit that.  I’m lettin’ him run away as far as he can.  Now I’ve got to shoot an’ make him come toward the gun himself, right while I’m shootin’ it.”

Next day Comet was tied up and fasted, and next, until he was gaunt and famished.  Then, on the afternoon of the third day, Mrs. Swygert, at her husband’s direction, placed before him, within reach of his chain, some raw beefsteak.  As he started for it, Swygert shot.  He drew back, panting, then, hunger getting the better of him, started again.  Again Swygert shot.

After that for days Comet “Ate to music,” as Swygert expressed it.  “Now,” he said, “he’s got to come toward the gun when he’s not even tied up.”

Not far from Swygert’s house is a small pond, and on one side the banks are perpendicular.  Toward this pond the old man, with the gun under his arm and the dog following, went.  Here in the silence of the woods, with just the two of them together, was to be a final test.

On the shelving bank Swygert picked up a stick and tossed it into the middle of the pond with the command to “fetch.”  Comet sprang eagerly in and retrieved it.  Twice this was repeated.  But the third time, as the dog approached the shore, Swygert picked up the gun and fired.

Quickly the dog dropped the stick, then turned and swam toward the other shore.  Here, so precipitous were the banks, he could not get a foothold.  He turned once more and struck out diagonally across the pond.  Swygert met him and fired.

Over and over it happened.  Each time, after he fired, the old man stooped down with extended hand and begged him to come on.  His face was grim now, and, though the day was cool, sweat stood out on his brow.  “You’ll face the music,” he said, “or you’ll drown.  Better be dead than called yellow.”