I watched for little Colonel. A minute passed and he did not come.
Poor puppy! He had learned that to live was to suffer. Somewhere in
these woods he must be lying, resting those ponderous paws and licking
his bloody flanks.

The hollow was alive with the bay of dogs; the ridges were ringing with
the echoes of a gunshot; but above them all I heard a plaintive wail
over there in the charcoal clearing. I called for Weston and I got no
answer, only the cry of the little hound. I called again and I got no
answer. Through the hushes I tore as fast as my crutches would take
me, calling as I ran and hearing only the wail of the puppy, till I
broke from the cover into the open.

On his haunches, his slantwise eyes half closed, his head lifted high
in the bright sunlight, sat little Colonel, wailing. He heard me call.
He saw me. And when I reached him he was licking the white face of
Whiskey Weston.

[Illustration: Sat little Colonel, wailing.]




XIII

Hindsight is better than foresight. A foolish saying. By foresight we
do God's will. By hindsight we would seek to better His handiwork.
Things are right as they are, I say, as I sit quietly of an evening
smoking my pipe on my porch, watching the mountains in the west bathe
in the gold and purple of the descending sun. What might have been,