Billy, the Dog That Made Good 
none else, hanging on with all his might and 
weight. 
Bob scrambled to his feet, escaped! 
The huge brute seized the small white body in 
paws like stumps of trees, as a cat might seize a 
mouse he seized, and wrenched him quivering, 
yes, tore his own flesh wrenching, and hurled him 
like a bundle far aside, and wheeling for a moment 
paused to seek the bigger foe, the man. The pack 
recoiled. Four rifles rang, a long, deep, grating 
snort, and Reelfoot’s elephantine bulk sank limp on 
the storm-tossed logs. Then Turk, the dastard 
traitor Turk, with chesty gurgle as a war-cry, closed 
bravely on the dead brute’s haunch and fearlessly 
tore out the hair, as the pack sat lolling back, the 
battle done. 
Bob Yancy’s face was set. He had seen it nearly 
all, and we supplied the rest. Billy was wagging 
his whole latter end, shaking and shivering with ex- 
citement, in spite of some red stained slashes on his 
ribs. Bob greeted him affectionately: “You 
Dandy. It’s the finish that shows up the stuff a 
Bear-dog is made of, an’ I tell you there ain’t any- 
thing too good in Yancy’s Ranch for you. Good 
old Thunder has saved my life before, but this is a 
new one. I never thought you’d show up this 
way.” 
138 
