“Wait a minute till I tell you ‘bout me havin’ Bull down t’ th’ Junction las’ week, an’ him chasin’ th’ fox,” Bill said.

“Tell nothin’,” Jim answered.  “Me for th’ hay.”

“Aw, g’wan,” protested Bill. “‘Twon’t take a minute, an’ you got all ‘ternity t’ sleep in, as the poet says.”

“An’ I c’n use it,” Jim yawned; “but cut loose, an’ make it short.”

“Well,” Bill began, “las’ week Thursday I was goin’ down t’ th’ Junction for feed, an’ I takes Bull along.  You know how he likes t’ ride in a wagon?  ’S almost human.  Why, that there animal—­”

“Here, cut out them side comments,” commanded Jim.  “We know how smart that dog is, without your tellin’ us any further.  Get down t’ bed rock!”

“Well,” Bill continued, “when we gets t’ th’ store, an’ Al Strong’s nigger’s loadin’ th’ feed in th’ wagon, I allows t’ take Bull for a little stroll ’round, so’s he c’n stretch his legs.  So I ties a halter t’ his collar an’ starts out.  I isn’t exactly leadin’ Bull, he’s sort o’ leadin’ me, for you all know how strong he is.  But we sure needs th’ halter t’ make Bull keep th’ peace.  He’s had more fights at that there Junction!  Say, he’s the fightenist dog”—­a warning look from Jim kept Bill to the thread of his story.

“We passes th’ homes of all Bull’s live enemies, an’ th’ graves of his dead ones, an’ gets to a rock, where we c’n sit an’ study natur’ a bit, before we turns back.  An’ thinkin’ it’s safe t’ do so, I lets go o’ Bull’s halter.  An’ while I’m studyin’ an’ takin’ a nip from a flask I happens t’ have in my jeans, I forgets Bull for a minit, an’ when I looks up, he’s plumb absent.

“I ain’t worried none, till I happens t’ think we was only ’bout a quarter mile from that Englishman, Barclay’s, place, what has that pack o’ wolf-hounds that he hunts with.  Fox-huntin’ he calls it, though what he mostly chases is coyotes.  Ain’t it funny how when an Englishman comes t’ this country he brings his habits with him, or twists ours aroun’ t’ fit his’n?”

“Say,” demanded Jim.  “Is this a yarn ’bout a bulldog or a lecture on them foreign habits?  ’Cause if it’s that last, I—­”

“Well, anyway,” Bill interrupted hastily, “I looks down th’ road, an’ Bull’s beatin’ it hot foot for that Barclay’s place, an’ I c’n see what happens if he meets up with them hounds.  So I follers, swift’s I can, spillin’ some language to Bull—­prayers, an’ warnin’s an’ such.  But before I gets there, I sees that pack o’ hounds swarm over th’ fence into th’ road, an’ purty soon, there is Bull, right in their midst, as th’ feller says.

“For th’ rest of th’ way I does nothin’ but pray, an’ see visions of th’ biggest dog fight that ever hit Montana, but I keeps movin’ rapid, an’ when I gets on th’ spot, there’s Bull, right in th’ middle of th’ pack.  Now all th’ tails is waggin’, an’ that looks purty good, till I comes t’ think that Bull always wags his tail before he goes into battle, ’cause he loves to fight so.  An’ all them hounds is sniffin’ ’round, right pert, an’ Bull is purty cocky, an’ when I gets close enough, I hears Bull say: