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Updated: June 6, 2025
"Collie is game in most ways, but she'd never kill anythin'.... Wade, you ain't thinkin' she ought to stop them lonesome walks an' rides?" "No, sure not, so long as she doesn't go too far away." "Ahuh! Wal, supposin' she rode up out of the valley, west on the Black Range?" "That won't do, Belllounds," replied Wade, seriously. "But Miss Collie's not goin' to, for I've cautioned her.
The hairs on Brockburn's head stood on end till they lifted his broad bonnet, and a damp chill broke out over him that was not the fog. But, for all that, he stoutly resisted the evidence of his senses, and only felt about him for the collie's head to pat, crying: "Bark! Jock, my mannie, bark! Then I'll recognize your voice, ye ken. It's no canny to hear ye speak like a Christian, my wee doggie."
But as the man had had the wit to seize the dog by the scruff of the neck and to keep himself out of the reach of the luckless creature's vainly snapping jaws, these protests went for nothing. Within thirty feet of the boat, the dog braced himself for a new effort to tear free. The man, in anger, planted a vigorous kick against the collie's furry side.
Faint dawn lights were shifting along the cañon walls as they had breakfast. As the morning sunlight spread to their camp Collie's natural curiosity in regard to Overland's pardner was satisfied. He saw a straight, slender figure, in flannel shirt and khaki. The gray eyes were peculiarly keen and humorous. Winthrop was not a little like his sister Anne in poise and coloring.
For the dog's size and patience seemed to awaken every atom of bullying cruelty in the small visitor's nature. Cyril, from the hour of his arrival, found acute bliss in making Lad's life a horror. His initial step was to respond effusively to the collie's welcoming advances; so long as the Mistress and the Master chanced to be in the room. As they passed out, the Mistress chanced to look back.
A Scotch shepherd, who loved poetry, and made some verses about the skylark, which Sharley and May repeat, tells a story of one of these dogs which I am sure you will think worth remembering. The collie's name was Sirrah, and his master prized him greatly.
Ever at his heels, ever waiting to find some new way to pester him, was a human too small and too weak to attack; a human who was forever setting the collie's high-strung nerves on edge or else actively hurting him. Lad could not understand it. And as the child gained in health and strength, Lad's lot grew increasingly miserable. The Mistress and the Master were keenly aware of conditions.
As he stood there, Ferris had stumbled heavily over him, hurting the collie's ribs and his tender flesh; and had meandered on without so much as a word or a look for his pet. Chum, still irresolute and bewildered, had followed at a distance the swaying progress of the trio, until Link's yell and the attack had brought him in furious haste to Ferris's rescue.
He had learned to shoe his string of ponies an art that is fast becoming lost among present-day cowmen. With little comment but faithful zeal he copied Brand Williams. This, of course, flattered the taciturn cowman, who unobtrusively arranged Collie's work so that it might bring the younger man before the notice of Walter Stone, and incidentally Louise. Of course, Louise was not aware of this.
There it stood, kingly and impressive; its fair white sides inscribed with many names; cradled in three shepherds' crooks; and on the top, as if to guard the Cup's contents, an exquisitely carved collie's head. The Shepherds' Trophy, the goal of his life's race, and many another man's.
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