Bulldog
“Shut up your yapping,” Peter Zinn greeted his wife.“Shut up and take care of this pup. He’s my kind of dog.”
When Zinn came home from prison, no one was at the station to meethim except the constable, Tom Frejus, who laid a hand on his shoulderand said: “Now, Zinn, let this here be a lesson to you. Give me achance to treat you white. I ain’t going to hound you. Just rememberthat because you’re stronger than other folks you ain’t got anyreason to beat them up.”
Zinn looked down upon him from a height. Every day of the year duringwhich he had swung his sledge hammer to break rocks for the Stateroads, he had told himself that one good purpose was served: hismuscles grew harder, the fat dropped from his waist and shoulders,the iron square of his chin thrust out as in his youth, and when hecame back to town he would use that strength to wreak upon theconstable his old hate. For manifestly Tom Frejus was his archenemy.When he first came to Sioux Crossing and fought the three men in JoeRiley’s saloon—oh, famous and happy night!—Constable Frejus gavehim a warning. When he fought the Gandil brothers and beat them bothsenseless, Frejus arrested him. When his old horse, Fidgety, balkedin the back lot and Zinn tore a rail from the fence in lieu of aclub, Tom Frejus arrested him for cruelty to dumb beasts. This was acrowning torment, for, as Zinn told the judge, he’d bought that oldskate with good money and he had a right to do what he wanted withit. But the judge, as always, agreed with Tom Frejus. These incidentswere only items in a long list which culminated when Zinn drank deepof bootleg whisky and then beat up the constable himself. Theconstable, at the trial, pleaded for clemency on account, he said, ofZinn’s wife and three children; but Zinn knew, of course, that Frejuswanted him back only that the old persecution might begin. On thisday, therefore the ex-convict, in pure excess of rage, smiled down onthe constable.
“Keep out of my way, Frejus,” he said, “and you’ll keep a whole skin.But some day I’ll get you alone, and then I’ll bust you in two—likethis!”
He made an eloquent gesture; then he strode off up the street. As thesawmill had just closed, a crowd of returning workers swarmed on thesidewalks, and Zinn took off his cap so that they could see hiscropped head. In his heart of hearts he hoped that some one wouldjibe, but the crowd split away before him and passed with cautiouslyaverted eyes. Most of them were big, rough fellows and their fear waspleasant balm for his savage heart. He went on with his hands alittle tensed to feel the strength of his arms.
The dusk was closing early on this autumn day with a chill whirl ofsnowflakes borne on a wind that had been iced in crossing the headsof the white mountains, but Zinn did not feel the cold. He looked upto the black ranks of the pine forest which climbed the sides ofSandoval Mountain, scattering toward the top and pausing where thesheeted masses of snow began. Life was like that—a struggle, aneternal fight, but never a victory on the mountaintop which all theworld could see and admire. When the judge sentenced him he said: “Ifyou lived in the days of armor, you might have been a hero, Zinn; butin these times you are a waster and an enemy of society.” He hadgrasped dimly at the meaning of this. Through his life he had alwaysaimed at something which would set him apart fro