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Short Stories from Wing's Authors.
Black Husky by Keith Slater The spring thaw was early that year. Chuck Winberg had trouble getting round his traps, and the sun was sinking below the sky as he tramped wearily into the outskirts of the village. The Partington place was in darkness, as usual. Old man Partington never showed his nose outside the house in this weather. Chuck could hear his husky team snuffling behind the thin wooden walls of the tumbledown shed that was all the shelter Alex Partington ever provided for them. Amazing they survived, cowering there all through the long Northern winter, Chuck thought for the hundredth time. They'd soon be out on the trail again. Soon as Alex sobered up. He didn't deserve such a fine team. Best in the Territory, everybody said, and all he did was throw them a few scraps when he wasn't too drunk to forget. Nobody in the settlement could figure out how they kept alive, why they could still pull so well when spring came. Chuck's thoughts were interrupted by a low growl. He looked round. There, slinking at his heels, was one of the famous huskies. Thin, mangy looking. And jet black. Not a hair on him that wasn't as black as the night that was stealing slowly over the scene. "Hello, boy. What's your trouble?" Chuck asked, squaring his massive shoulders and clenching ham fists in readiness for any attack. The dog growled again. Chuck felt a sudden sense of unease. He looked round nervously. Nobody in sight. Pity he'd left his gun at home today. Another growl, this time more ominous. The dog's belly slunk nearer to the ground and he advanced towards Chuck, eyes fixed on the man's face. Chuck tried to back away, but the dog was too quick for him. Its white fangs were bared now, daring him to take one false step. Slowly, he felt himself retreating from those fangs, moving towards the blackness of the shed. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, Chuck heard a whimper from somewhere behind him. He stole a glance round, taking care to keep a wary eye on the black husky. In a blood-soaked bale of dirty straw, he saw her. A brindle husky bitch, eyes closed, panting weakly and whining. The black dog edged forwards, urging him nearer the straw. "All right, old boy, I've seen her," said Chuck softly. He knew now why the dog had threatened him, and knew too that there was no more danger from the animal. He knelt down and passed skilled hands over the bitch's flank. She was in the last stages of labour, but the puppy had got itself stuck inside her. He looked at her. Time to move quickly. With hands gnarled from a lifetime of trapping, he reached forwards. Gently, he eased probing fingers inside the birth canal. That's the problem. A head facing backwards, jamming the rest of the body. Chuck groped past the obstruction, feeling for the jaw. There it was! Steady now. Pull gently but firmly. The sweat stood out on his forehead. Even with the unseasonal warmth, it was still a cool night, but he felt hot as fire from the exertion. It wouldn't budge! He glanced round wildly, afraid of having to admit defeat. There, next to him, was the black husky, muzzle resting on its paws, eyes fixed on Chuck. He looked at the eyes compassionately. How to explain his failure? The dog slowly rose to its feet, moved deliberately towards him and opened its jaws. Chuck felt a rush of fear. There was no cause for it. The dog's tongue emerged, an incongruous pink softness in that vicious face, and licked his hands gently, then the shaggy head nudged them firmly back towards the bitch. Try again, it was telling him. Chuck obeyed, as if in a dream. This time, straining once more, he felt a faint movement. Grimly, with renewed force, he tugged again. All at once, it was over. With a sudden spurt of blood, the squirming body flopped out on to the straw. Immediately, the black dog lurched forwards, took the bundle gently in its mouth, and moved it to the front of the bitch so that she could reach it without moving. She lifted her muzzle and licked the head to clean it, weakly at first, then with more vigour as she sensed the presence of her offspring. ~ * ~ Chuck stayed there for two hours or more, waiting to see if he was needed again. There were three other pups born, but without any complications. At last, when it was obvious that no more would be coming, and when the mother and her babies were comfortably settled, he decided he could safely leave. As if a telepathic signal had been passed to him, the black husky left the side of his mate and padded over to Chuck's side. For a full twenty seconds, two pairs of eyes looked into each other. It was Chuck, not the dog, who was finally forced to drop his gaze. He moved away, but again the dog was faster. A damp muzzle snuffled into his palm, licking away some of the blood that had congealed there. Chuck tousled the hair on the top of the dog's poll. "Don't you fret yourself about a bit of a mess." He grinned. "I can soon wash it off when I get home. Go see to the bitch and her pups!" The dog, with a final lick, moved away, leaving Chuck to take himself wearily home. As he left the shed, he looked at the house, still enfolded in total darkness. No sign of old Partington. Probably drunk, as usual. Chuck snarled to himself in fury. The bastard didn't deserve such a faithful dog! ~ * ~ Next evening, in the only bar the town boasted, he was still angry when he told his friends about the night's work. "Which of his dogs did you say it was?" asked Johnny Klug thoughtfully. "Never got chance to ask his name," Chuck replied, "but he was as black as night." Johnny spat lazily and shook his head. "No, sir!" he said. "Ain't no such thing as an all-black husky." "Well, there sure is now," Chuck retorted angrily. Johnny shook his head again. "I seen every one o' Jake Partington's dogs, and there's not a black among 'em." "Look, I tell you..." Chuck began, but a chorus of disagreement arose from the other men there. "Johnny's right, Chuck," Red Rob said, wagging the scruffy beard that was fading now to a mottled reddish-grey. "Huskies is so interbred that there's no pure black un's ever born. And I know Jake's pack as well as Johnny does." And that was the end of the matter as far as they were concerned. Chuck argued himself blue in the face, but there wasn't a man around the bar who believed him. ~ * ~ And there the story would have rested, if it hadn't been for what happened the following February. Alice Winberg was in labour herself, and Chuck was there to give her a hand. Mary Owens was supposed to be helping. Maybe she'd be up later. As long as the storm didn't stop her. Hell of a blizzard blowing out there! He'd forgotten all about the black husky until it came time to ease the baby out and he found it was stuck. Just the way the pup had been! Chuck began to be uneasy. He'd never done this kind of thing before, not with human babies. He went to the door. The blizzard was howling now. Not much chance of a woman getting up here in this. Better telephone for an ambulance. Would there be time to get one here from the town, eight miles away? He didn't know, but she was like to be a goner if he couldn't. He slammed the door shut against the wind and crossed to the telephone. Alice was moaning now, not really fully conscious. He began to sense panic rising as he lifted the receiver. Dead! Not a peep out of the damned thing! Must be the storm. Every time there was a bad one, the trees took out the phone lines down by the corner, at the main road. What could he do? He crossed to her again, looked at the dilated birth canal. No change. He couldn't do this by himself, it was lying too badly to bring out. The thought paralysed him, and he sat there for maybe an hour, just watching helplessly as she struggled. She was going to die! His Alice, the woman who'd laboured beside him in the race against winter when he'd built this cabin! The realisation hit him as he heard the first scratching at the door. He ignored it, wouldn't even let it register on his feverish mind. Finally, it got through the red mist that was engulfing him. It must be Mary. At last. He crossed to the door with a glad cry. The storm had stopped, he noticed as soon as he looked out, but there was nobody at the door. Then he saw it. The black husky. And in its powerful jaws was the rope of a sled. "Where in hell did you come from? And whose is the sled?" But there wasn't time to argue. Chuck bundled Alice up in a couple of blankets and staggered outside, lifting her in his powerful arms. He pulled on his snow shoes, took the rope, with a quick pat for the husky, and dragged the sled those eight miles over thick snow. ~ * ~ It was touch and go, they told him after it was all over. Another half-hour and there'd have been no seven-pound baby boy, nor even a wife, to take home. He wanted to thank old man Partington for his dog's help, but the old sod was blind drunk when Chuck went round with a few scraps of meat. "I don't know how he keeps them dogs of his alive when he never stays sober long enough to feed 'em," he growled to the guys in the bar afterwards. "I wish I had his pack. They'd get a decent meal when they needed it." "Did ye bring the dog in to prove it exists, then?" mocked Johnny Klug. "No, I didn't, but there's his footprints still round the house to prove I'm not lying," Chuck retorted. "It's packing snow, and we've not had a fresh fall since. I caught a glimpse of 'em only this afternoon." So they all went up to Chuck's place. To see the dog's tracks, they said, though it was really an excuse to see the new baby without admitting it. But Chuck didn't let them get in till they'd stooped to examine the prints. They all gazed at them in silence, until Johnny Klug finally muttered "Well, I guess he paid his dues." "What do you mean?" Chuck asked uneasily, scared by something in Johnny's voice. But Johnny just shook his head. "Hell, now I know why old man Partington's always drunk!" was all he would say. "You seen them prints?" It was the first time Chuck had taken a good look at them. Funny prints, they were. Almost like a pig's, not a dog's. Sort of ... cloven, they looked, instead of a nice, smooth four-pad marking. Must be some trick of the light, he thought. Or maybe the snow had melted a bit.
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