The Wagon Master, A Sergeant, Had Joined Faye, Riding A Mule, And The
Two Rode On After The Dog, Expecting Every Minute To Overtake Him.
But
the recollection of the unhappy year at Baton Rouge with the hospital
steward was still fresh in Hal's memory, and the fear of another
separation from his friends drove him on and on, faster and faster,
and kept him far ahead of the horses.
When at last Faye found him, he
was sitting by the smoking ashes of our camp stove, his long nose
pointed straight up, giving the most blood-curdling howls of misery
and woe possible for a greyhound to give, and this is saying much. The
poor dog was wild with delight when he saw Faye, and of course there
was no trouble in bringing him back; he was only too glad to have his
old friend to follow. He must have missed Faye from the company in the
morning, and then failing to find me in the shut-up wagon, had gone
back to camp for us. This is all easily understood, but how did that
hound find the exact spot where our tent had been, even the very ashes
of our stove, on that large camp ground when he has no sense of smell?
I wondered all the day why I did not see Faye and when the stop for
luncheon passed and he had not come I began to worry, as much as I
could think of anything beyond my own suffering.
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