Why’n’t you shoot him, Candy?”
The old man squirmed uncomfortably.
“Well — hell!
I had him so long.
Had him since he was a pup.
I herded sheep with him.” He said proudly, “You wouldn’t think it to look at him now, but he was the best damn sheep dog I ever seen.”
George said, “I seen a guy in Weed that had an Airedale could herd sheep.
Learned it from the other dogs.”
Carlson was not to be put off.
“Look, Candy. This ol’ dog jus’ suffers hisself all the time.
If you was to take him out and shoot him right in the back of the head—” he leaned over and pointed, “—right there, why he’d never know what hit him.”
Candy looked about unhappily.
“No,” he said softly. “No, I couldn’t do that.
I had ‘im too long.”
“He don’t have no fun,” Carlson insisted. “And he stinks to beat hell.
Tell you what.
I’ll shoot him for you.
Then it won’t be you that does it.”
Candy threw his legs off his bunk. He scratched the white stubble whiskers on his cheek nervously.
“I’m so used to him,” he said softly. “I had him from a pup.” “Well, you ain’t bein’ kind to him keepin’ him alive,” said Carlson. “Look, Slim’s bitch got a litter right now.
I bet Slim would give you one of them pups to raise up, wouldn’t you, Slim?”
The skinner had been studying the old dog with his calm eyes.
“Yeah,” he said. “You can have a pup if you want to.” He seemed to shake himself free for speech. “Carl’s right, Candy.
That dog ain’t no good to himself.
I wisht somebody’d shoot me if I get old an’ a cripple.”
Candy looked helplessly at him, for Slim’s opinions were law.
“Maybe it’d hurt him,” he suggested. “I don’t mind takin’ care of him.”
Carlson said, “The way I’d shoot him, he wouldn’t feel nothing. I’d put the gun right there.”
He pointed with his toe. “Right back of the head.
He wouldn’t even quiver.”
Candy looked for help from face to face.
It was quite dark outside by now.
A young laboring man came in.
His sloping shoulders were bent forward and he walked heavily on his heels, as though he carried the invisible grain bag.
He went to his bunk and put his hat on his shelf.
Then he picked a pulp magazine from his shelf and brought it to the light over the table.
“Did I show you this, Slim?” he asked.
“Show me what?”
The young man turned to the back of the magazine, put it down on the table and pointed with his finger.
“Right there, read that.” Slim bent over it. “Go on,” said the young man. “Read it out loud.”
“’Dear Editor,’” Slim read slowly. “’I read your mag for six years and I think it is the best on the market.
I like stories by Peter Rand.
I think he is a whing-ding.
Give us more like the Dark Rider.
I don’t write many letters.
Just thought I would tell you I think your mag is the best dime’s worth I ever spent.’” Slim looked up questioningly. “What you want me to read that for?” Whit said, “Go on. Read the name at the bottom.”
Slim read, “’Yours for success, William Tenner.’” He glanced up at Whit again. “What you want me to read that for?”
Whit closed the magazine impressively.
“Don’t you remember Bill Tenner?
Worked here about three months ago?”