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Dog Days

Written by Richard Evans

Spring 1632, Grantville, Thuringia, Germany, early morning

Old Pete sat in his favorite spot and huffed out a breath of air that made his mouth flap comfortably. He laid his head down onto his paws and watched the streets through the white wooden pickets of the porch railings. The scents of the budding flowers made his nose tickle and he sneezed. Even though it was colder than it should be with the smells of spring in the air, Pete found the sunshine just as warm as it always had been in this, his corner of the porch. That his favorite sunny spot had moved from next to the front door to over by the swing due to the Ring of Fire didn't matter to him.

Pete scanned the street once more and snuffled to be sure there were no strange scents in the air. All was good. Duncan would be home soon and then it'd be time for some exercise or he'd get to carry wood over to the smokehouse. Then he'd get fed scraps if someone came over to use it.

That'd be just fine with him. If he was lucky, he and his master could go hunting. From birds to bigger game, it didn't matter to Old Pete. He'd work them all.

Pete rolled over onto his back and let the sun warm his belly. Soon he was dreaming of chasing squirrels and rabbits in the woods just over the hills. It was a perfect day. His legs twitched as he dreamed.

****

The words Duncan Cunningham uttered ensured that no one would try to catch his attention or approach him as he stalked back home.

Duncan had watched others exiting the offices as he arrived. It had been nearly a year since his last visit and there were a lot fewer older folks in the waiting room this year.

He examined the exercise pamphlets and dietary plans Doctor Shipley had given him and stuffed them into his pack. He'd lost over forty-five pounds over the last year and here she wanted him to lose even more weight or he would die sooner than later!

He'd changed his ways as best he could, but since no more medications were available, he'd had to resort to the old-fashioned ways to control his diabetes.

Diet and exercise.

If Duncan didn't start working on his plans to get insulin made, it would kill him. No way in hell was "Slam Dunk" Cunningham going down easily. He couldn't change where or who he was, but he could do something about his being a diabetic, even if he was still just type two. Sure as winter brought snow, it'd get worse with time. Now it was up to him to get an insulin project started to make the medicine he'd soon need.

To Duncan it was a matter of life and death, but the city council and emergency board last year had said no—no funds and no way to make insulin. No place or people to spare to make it, either. More important medicines that would save people, including him, from pestilence took precedence.

"God damn their DDT." He slammed a beefy fist into his large hand. A hand so large that could palm a basketball as easily as someone's face in a fight.

He had no idea how much making insulin would cost, but the numbers were bound to be high. Higher than he could afford, straight up. At least his credit was good. It didn't hurt to be related to nearly everyone in town at times like these. What he'd read so far about insulin purification seemed simple, but there were so many obstacles and sundries he'd need to get it started. He knew he wasn't the man to make the insulin, either. One more problem to overcome.

Duncan knew he'd be in competition with the high school, the new hospital they were building, and even other facilities for some materials, and he didn't even have a tenth of an idea of what all he needed to produce the insulin.

It'd be a busy morning visiting homes and trying to trade unneeded items. He'd have to start small and work his way up to getting the gear for a lab dedicated to purifying insulin.

He'd show Dr. Shipley. He'd show everyone that Duncan Cunningham wasn't a quitter. Not now, not ever.

He wasn't going to die . . . but first things first.

****

Duncan sat down on the front deck's steps to rest. It'd taken several trips from the hired wagon to move the small hoard of items he'd managed to trade for that morning. Mostly they were items his imagined lab would need. It was going to take days to sort through it all to see if the stuff could be converted to be useful in a lab. Converting a child's ancient record player into a centrifuge would be tough, but the library or someone he knew would know how to get it done.

Selfish or not, the insulin, when it was made, would be his first. It was going to cost him enough money and time. Time he was short on, even today. It was almost noon and he still needed to put meat in the smokehouse. He owed too many people too much already.

He'd felt his next door neighbor's eyes following him when he unloaded the wagon. He suppressed the urge to give her the finger. Kitty Ann Chaffin was too nosy for anyone's good.

Duncan had friends he did favors for sometimes, no questions asked, and they'd returned the favor when he asked for help this morning. Though it meant that he'd have to babysit five or six kids, mostly pre-teens, this weekend in return. He didn't mind children; it was adults that got on his nerves easily for some reason. Duncan loved children, and the birth of his grandchild, Noah, had made him ecstatic. Word that Gayla was trying to have a child, too, made him even happier.

He grunted. "Well, Pete, it looks like we're not long for this world if Grantville can't get its shit together. And here I am, out of work with an empty house." He scanned his double wide that was anything but empty. There was over thirty years of his and Linda's collected life here.

"Wish Linda had come down-time with us; she'd know what's worth what in no time." Duncan sighed. "You're gonna be one spoiled dog for a few months as I clean out the junk food I was saving, if I can't sell or trade that stuff first."

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Kitty's curtains move again. There was a woman God should have found a way to leave up-time one way or another.

Duncan scratched his faithful hunting dog's ears and grinned as Old Pete's tail thumped the wrap-around wooden deck. The sound reverberated like a Japanese demon-drum. Old Pete wasn't a small dog by any means, by luck more than intention. He might actually be a bit bigger than a St. Bernard and easily pushed two hundred pounds of muscle, tooth, drool and fur.

Somehow the loyalty of his half-breed father had been passed on to Old Pete in spades. It was too bad a coal truck had taken Pete's father out five years ago. There were only two other dogs in town he knew of that were directly related to Old Pete.

Old Pete had the instincts of a hunter. He knew when to move quietly, and how to push larger game towards the stands Duncan and his friends set up in deer season. So it had usually ended up with friends inviting Duncan and Old Pete to hunt, and leaving their own dogs at home.

"Well, we're not going to spend the rest of the day moping around, Pete. Freezer's gonna need filled again. Let's get a move on."

Pete knew what the words "freezer" and "filled" meant. It was time to go hunting again!

"Still have some bounce in you, do you? If you do, old boy, so do I." Duncan hopped to his feet to prove that point to himself. "Hah! I still got the moves!"

Old Pete's thunderous barks were punctuated by even more bouncing and shaking of the deck underfoot. "How about a big ole pig? I hear that there are some running wild in the woods near the marsh lands towards Badenburg, harassing folks. Be a long walk, boy. We'll pack for an all-nighter, just in case."

Normally no one went hunting alone, but time was short and the day wasn't getting any younger. No time to make a few calls or visit the store for a pick-up hunting partner.

Duncan pulled out his small game shotgun, an over-under .410, and pocketed a dozen-and-some small game shells and a similar amount of heavier slugs for the gun. It wouldn't be anywhere near powerful enough to take down a hog, especially if the rumors he'd heard were close to the truth, so he reached for his favorite handgun and holster belt.

The Taurus was a very heavy handgun. The belt held three quick-loaders in a pouch with the same ammo in them and twenty rounds in leather loops on the belt.

Every hunter in Grantville had gotten a lesson in seventeenth-century hunting laws soon after the Ring of Fire. Luckily, animals didn't care about borders and moved into the areas the locals could hunt without offending or breaking a local noble's laws.

Meat was meat.

He put on his Indiana Jones fedora. That had been a Father's Day gift from Noreen after the family had gone to see Raiders of the Lost Ark so many years ago. Before she'd had to be committed for her own safety.

A tear threatened to fall, but he bit his cheek. It wasn't his fault Noreen had lost it mentally after the Ring of Fire, but at least she had good care. His other daughter, Gayla, and quite a few friends worked at the facility where she now resided.

He wore the fedora proudly and had even added a timber-rattler's skin band to it after the snake had made the mistake of announcing itself where Old Pete could hear it.

Duncan reached into a cupboard and packed two instant Gatorade mix packs from his dwindling supply. That was one purchase he'd never regretted, but he hated the grape flavoring, so it had lasted longer than anyone would have guessed. For a diabetic on a sugar crash, the instant mixes were the nectar of God.

Knowing he might be out past dinner, he made sure some homemade jerky filled other pockets. He filled his medicinal flask with some snake-bite juice, then grabbed the first-aid kit and finally moved out. One glance next door and he barred the dog doors from the inside, then locked the doors.

As much against thieves as inquisitive next door neighbors. One in particular, especially.

****

Old Pete had spooked quite a bit of small game on the way to the Ring by Birdie Newhouse's farm, but Duncan had only bagged three decent rabbits and two keeper squirrels so far. He'd fed Pete the squirrels, as they were too small for the pot this soon after winter.

Now Duncan sat waiting on the game trail just past the village near Birdie's farm, watching for the patrols he'd seen signs of on his way up here. If he'd read the signs right, the patrols had passed this same area twice earlier in the day, as if following a route. That meant they were trained men and not likely to be bandits.

Old Pete growled, and Duncan fought the urge to load and close the breech on the shotgun. "Stay calm, boy. We know they're there, and now they know we do, too. Sit." He snapped his fingers down toward his side next to his six-gun and took the opportunity to slip off its safety strap. Old Pete obediently sat down next to him, but never took his eyes off the bushes to their left.

Duncan could now smell the scent of someone who'd spent the day on a horse and who didn't bathe too often. Old Pete seemed to agree, as he whined softly and sneezed.

"Well, you coming out of the woods or not? I can smell you, and so can Old Pete."

Finally, a medium-sized man stepped forward, wearing a weathered leather jack over a jacket that blended well with the trees and brush of the area. He held a small spear point down in one hand, and had a musket strapped over one shoulder. A brace of pistols was shoved into his wide belt. The man's hat wasn't too different from Duncan's, excepting the large feather.

"My name is Conrad Feldmeier. I am the head game warden for Count Ludwig Guenther. These lands are his, perhaps even those your town is upon, too." He held up his hand before Duncan could protest. "You wish to hunt these lands?"

Duncan nodded, rolling the shells in his hand.

"You must pay for the privilege then." He named a fee that Duncan knew was outrageous.

"Too much."

"Perhaps if you let us know what you wished to hunt today, we could come to an arrangement?"

"I'm here for some wild hogs I heard were harassing folks in the area, digging up gardens and fields and . . . worse." Duncan let the last word linger and watched the man's reaction. He saw the eyes narrow. So the warden did know of the hogs, then. The spear with crossbar near the top just under the long blade indicated that he'd been prepared for them, too.

"That . . . rifle? I do not believe it is big enough for a hog. Maybe a small deer. Yes?"

"It's not meant for hogs. For them I got this—" Duncan slapped his holster "—and Old Pete here." The dog huffed and wagged its tail slowly. "Trust me, this revolver will do the job."

The man, the warden, snapped something in rapid fire German that Duncan couldn't quite catch, but some words needed no translation. They were words no one would use in polite company.

"I think I like you, Conrad. I like your hat, too." Duncan tipped his own. "Wide brim is good to keep the rain off your face, ain't it?" The man's face remained impassive. "God, I wish you spoke English."

"I speak some. I learn more soon. Count Ludwig has ordered it to be. That is, that we learn the language of our neighbors." The warden shrugged.

"Well, I'll be damned. No, not that way, it's a saying in . . . ah, hell."

"This is an American thing, yes?"

"Yeah, like cussing, don't mean nuttin', err, nothing. But sometimes it does. Like when you told those two idiots to point their weapons someplace else."

The man shrugged and smiled. "You wish to hunt boar with only one dog? Must be a very good dog. He is very ugly, but seems big enough." Old Pete sat up and wagged his tail. He was smart enough to know when folks were talking about him, no matter the language they spoke.

"May I?" The warden gestured toward the shotgun. Duncan handed him the unloaded weapon and he examined it closely.

"A fine weapon, but as you say, not for pigs. Small game?"

Duncan nodded as he watched Conrad handle the shotgun carefully and then reached for it when he handed it back. "So, can we be friends and come to an agreement about what I bag?"

"We can, but I will come with you with one other man. The rest will continue looking for poachers and bandits, though few make it past your Grantville these days."

"Right. So you, me and one other, and Old Pete here. I'm guessing you both know how to walk in the woods and marshes hereabouts?" Duncan got an amused smile in return. "I had to ask. It helps to know who you're hunting with. Helps prevent accidents."

Conrad adjusted his gear. "Hermann, take the men and go patrol. Estevan, you will come with us and translate."

"Sure, Conrad." Duncan smiled. "By the way you want to try some chew?" Duncan extended a plug of tobacco to Conrad. "Just remember not to swallow and spit the juice."

Conrad didn't even blink as he reached for the offered gift.

Duncan smiled.

The Marshes

They'd been on the tracks of a pack of very large pigs for over an hour when the screams started. Before Conrad could do anything, the American had yelled something, a curse maybe, and then waved his dog to the right and charged into the brush at a speed that surprised both of the Germans. The dog had moved parallel to the man without even making a noise, as if this was a normal everyday exercise.

"We'd better go after him," Conrad said. "The count would be most upset if we let an American get killed on his lands. Maybe we can be in time to save him from his foolishness." He spat out the wad of chew.

Then the firing, squeals and barking started. Their jog turned into a full-out run. Their spears were held defensively before them, in case they rounded a tree and found themselves face to face with one of the wild hogs.

It wasn't a pretty scene.

Conrad and Estevan approached, spears out and at the ready. Duncan leaned shaking against a nearby sapling for support.

****

Duncan gave a signal and Old Pete circled the area and then took off. Finally, Duncan's breathing slowed down enough for him to speak.

"Estevan, hombre, we're going to need some shovels. Hogs killed two . . . two people. Before I got here." Duncan wasn't about to look any closer at the bodies. He'd seen dead folks before, but not like this. The string of curses he loosed wasn't directed at them, but at himself. He really needed to lose more weight. Had he been another twenty to thirty pounds lighter he might have been able to save one of them. Maybe.

Conrad and Estevan stared at him as if surprised he was still alive.

"Don't stare at me like that. I've hunted hogs with just a pistol before!" he snapped, surprising the game warden. Duncan held up a hand. "I'm sorry, Conrad. I'm not angry at you. It's my sugar levels. They are too low."

"This is a disease of the blood?"

Duncan nodded. For a "simple game warden" Conrad seemed very educated.

"You did well, here. You did what you could for them."

Duncan tried to spit again, but found his mouth was too dry.

Conrad and Estevan scanned the soft ground and looked at each other. "This was a big pack, Herr Cunningham. Pardon me for saying this, but I still think you're crazy for having charged in here with just the dog and one gun. Even if you've hunted like this before. These aren't farm pigs gone wild."

Hell, the sow alone would stress the springs in the back of Duncan's huge pick-up truck if he'd ever figure out how to get it into the truck bed in the first place. Duncan looked at the giant boar and blinked in disbelief. He'd need a tow truck to get that thing out of here. "How we gonna get all this meat out of here, anyway? Before the other hogs come back?" His share of the meat would add up to a lot of money once he smoked it and sold it. Even after he paid off the debts of the trades he'd made earlier that morning.

"My men should come to investigate the noises shortly. We should build a fire, as well. We will have them cut a path here for some horses to drag them out of the marshes and then we'll use a wagon each to get these beasts to where they can be butchered properly. The boar's head will make a fine trophy, but I think the count will claim it, as it is his right." Conrad added the last part again when Duncan didn't respond.

"Or we could send Old Pete to guide them back here," Duncan added. He looked at his hands and made fists so he could hide their shaking.

"I left Hermann in charge of the men. I think you should keep your dog here instead."

"Yeah, that's fine. Oh shit! The game bag!" It was then that he saw that Old Pete had brought up the bag of game and dropped it at his feet already. He'd forgotten he'd sent Old Pete for it minutes before. Not a good sign.

"Good boy." Duncan took off his hat and poured some of the water into it and let Old Pete drink his fill. The rest dripped down his head and neck when he put it back on. It felt wonderful.

Duncan measured out a dose of Gatorade powder, and mixed it with water in the canteen's cup. He drank it slowly at first, then pinched his nose and swigged it down as fast as he could. "Gah! Ugh!" The shakes would fade soon enough. If they didn't, he'd need a power bar or another cup of the horrid drink.

"It can't be as bad as that chew you gave me, Herr Cunningham," Conrad said.

Duncan made a face at Conrad that left the down-timer laughing until more help came to deal with the wild hogs.

Count Ludwig Guenther's Hunting Lodge, early evening

Conrad sent for Count Ludwig Guenther's hound-master to treat and care for Old Pete's torn ear. Duncan didn't understand why Conrad insisted that only the hound-master should be allowed to care for Pete. It was almost as if he was insisting that the man have a chance to see the dog.

"He is the only person the count permits to care for his hounds," Conrad insisted. "Your dog has earned the right to receive the same care. That ear looks bad. Wilhelm will know exactly how to fix it so that it doesn't hurt the dog and he doesn't lose it . . . although that might improve his looks."

Duncan raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, it will hurt the dog, but he is even better than the surgeon the count has for himself. I'd bet my life on that. In fact, I have . . . several times."

"Hermann shot Herr Conrad in the buttocks last summer when he dropped his crossbow," Estevan volunteered with a snicker. He quickly found someplace else to be when Conrad shot him a look.

"So how did that work out?"

"Wilhelm extracted the bolt and patched me up. I was back in the saddle in a few weeks."

"Okay, this hound-master can look at Old Pete, but I think you have something else in mind here."

"Who me? I am a simple game warden. What confidence or secret plan could such a man as I come up with?"

"I wonder."

Duncan entertained the men with tricks from Old Pete's repertoire while they waited for the hound-master to come from the castle. Old Pete dragged one fearful volunteer across the ground from the corral to the small chapel without hurting the man. Then the man tried in vain to get up as Duncan told Old Pete to sit on him.

The men were greatly amused.

They were more amused when Duncan snatched and then threw Conrad's hat into the corral and told Old Pete to get it. The gates were locked and the men started making bets on how long it'd take the dog to figure out it couldn't get into the corral and if Conrad's hat would be ruined by a stray hoof.

Conrad turned to Duncan. "If my hat is ruined, I will claim yours as recompense."

"Pete, climb!" was Duncan's only response.

Old Pete took a run at the fence, grabbed the top bar and scrambled over. The horses had already shied away from where the dog had circled one side of the corral and the hat was untrodden. Pete turned back with the hat in his mouth and waited.

"We know he can go over the fence. Anyone want to bet he can go through the gate?" Duncan held up two silver dollars.

"I will take that bet, sir," someone spoke up in accented English. "Even as big as that dog is, it can't go through wood that thick."

"Watch." Duncan turned to the corral. "Pete. Unlock the gate." He mimed lifting the rope off the post. Old Pete barked once and then stood on his hind legs and calmly nosed the rope off the fencepost, pushed the gate open, carried the hat through, and pushed it closed.

"Now I'm sorry to say, gentlemen, that though he made it through the gate, it's beyond even his skills to lock it up again. Would one of you see to that for him?" Duncan whistled and Old Pete ambled up and dropped Conrad's hat at his feet. It was soaked with drool.

The men laughed uproariously.

"Herr Wilhelm Kehl, I think you've been had," Conrad said to the well-dressed man who stood there with his mouth tightly pursed. "Lucky for you, what you owe Herr Duncan Cunningham comes exactly to what you'd charge to care for the dog."

"Very well. Before I attend to your mastiff, could you please muzzle him? This won't be painless, but I guarantee he won't lose the ear or get an infection after."

"That won't be necessary, Wilhelm. Old Pete knows it's a choice between you and Les Blocker, who'll give him a shot," Duncan explained. "The sight of a shot will turn him into a whimpering puppy every time."

"Like you and that purple drink?" Conrad offered with a smile as he shook his hat out.

"Something like that." Duncan whistled Old Pete over.

Duncan watched the hound-master prepare his gear and noticed how each tool in his kit was shining and clean. Wilhelm also sterilized his stitching needles and catgut in brandy.

Duncan pulled the reluctant dog into position and then released him with a light tap to his nose. "Stay! No Teeth! It's this or a shot, Pete. Want to visit Les instead?"

Old Pete became compliant right away. He endured having his ear washed and stitched. It didn't hurt that the hound-master fed Pete tidbits from a hip bag every few stitches. Wilhelm then applied a little pitch over the dog's wound and told Duncan not to let the dog scratch at it, but to let it peel off naturally.

As Wilhelm washed his hands, he had Duncan walk Old Pete around so he could study his lines. He asked about his stamina and intelligence. Twice, Wilhelm reverted to German to ask questions of Conrad, Estevan and the other men.

Wilhelm got even more insistent when Conrad told the story of the way the dog had taken down one of the hogs by itself. He'd seen the bodies when the three wagons finally arrived. He looked a bit more respectfully at Old Pete after that. Wilhelm took out a small book and began to make notes in it and had a very far off look.

"I think your dog is going to make you very rich, my new friend." Conrad nudged Duncan.

"You think so? He's only a crossbreed. Part Bloodhound, part Saint Bernard. All big and ugly, but a better friend I've never had."

"Whatever breed your dog is, he has impressed Count Guenther's hound-master. That is not an easy thing to do. That I was there to witness his actions on the hunt might have helped your case."

"I didn't realize that I, or Old Pete, were on trial here."

"You were, but not in the way you'd expect. Hounds like Old Pete are treasured by men like my count." Conrad named the figure fetched by a bitch sired by Count Ludwig Guenther's prize hound at the Hamburg fair last fall.

"That much, huh?"

"You have a good dog here, Duncan. I suspect you should find out if his mother is still alive or if anyone else has one of these breeds in Grantville. This would make breeding his line true easier. But what ever you do, don't take his first offer. There is a game to this business, and every game has rules to it." He shook out his slobber-soaked hat again and ambled off.

"Wouldn't trade you for all the insulin in the world, Pete. Especially since that can't be all that much right now."

"Herr Duncan, I have an offer that's sure to interest one as wise and worldly as yourself." Wilhelm Kehl smiled a car salesman's smile. Some things spanned generations. Car salesman, horse trader, or dog trader, Duncan bet there wasn't much difference between them. "I'm sure that even your hound would enjoy the work involved. But I must ask you a bit more about his breeding. Who in Grantville did you say owned his dam?"

"I didn't."

Wilhelm raised an eyebrow.

Duncan looked back deadpan.

Old Pete was going to save his life again.

Mid-May, Grantville

The problem now would be selecting the proper bitches for Old Pete and trying to breed him true. He was a mutt and getting a dog that smart and big would be hard enough. Reading about proper breeding had given Duncan a headache. It was easier to hire the experts in the end. At least there were people he knew in town with the knowledge he needed.

The extra cherry wood from his backyard plus the smoked hams, sausage and bacon from the hogs helped him pay for the initial research. A simple seven-point chart and tracking method for the breeding selections came from Les Blocker and his students. Les hadn't even charged him for the information, but Duncan made sure he got a chunk of smoked bacon and some sausage, anyway.

Duncan could sell the dogs that didn't fit the desired profiles and still turn a profit. His bank account right now wasn't liking his expenses one bit, but the loan rates at least were tolerable. According the initial research, the St. Bernard and Bloodhound existed in this era. But none were like Old Pete. He was the best of both breeds in one huge and ugly package.

Next to the breeding charts hung a huge dietary chart. This chart covered Duncan's snack times and all the alternative medicines he'd tried to alleviate what exercise and diet alone didn't control. His daughter, Gayla, watched him like a hawk, and made sure he didn't cheat. Like he had time or money to cheat these days.

That left his most important project—the insulin. He'd arranged to lease space and lab time at the Manning Assisted Living Center through old Dr. McDonnell. The location was undergoing expansion to handle the massive influx of needy to Grantville, and was also acting as something of a municipal hospital for the poor.

Manning's was already starting to acquire hospital gear and medicines made through a front company in town called Manning's Medical Manufacturing or Three M. Insulin wasn't on their list of projects, so Duncan's project would have to be self-funded, and he'd have to invest heavily in Three M to make sure he could keep access to the facility.

He put down some alchemist's notes he was trying to read when Old Pete growled. This time he heard a wagon entering his driveway. "Please, God, don't let it be another brown-noser looking for a favor! I don't think I could take it." Duncan snapped his fingers, calling Old Pete back from the door. He'd heeded Conrad and Wilhelm's words of caution to not get involved in any of the games Count Ludwig's courtiers played.

Next door, the curtains fluttered and Duncan hid his smile. Kitty's last petition to close down his business had been stomped on pretty hard by the new Small Business Bureau group—which was seeded with many of Duncan's old buddies from the mines and not a few extended family members.

It was good to have friends and family.

Something about sheep or animal pancreas processing circled in his mind, something one of his researchers had mentioned, but the words were buried in the barking of over a half-dozen large dogs in cages on a wagon out front.

"Take them around back and stake each of them out separately so I can examine them, please. They are in heat, I take it?"

Dogs to Dollars, Summer 1632

"The count won't be happy that you rejected three of his best bitches, Duncan." Wilhelm took the breeding charts that Duncan waved at him and Conrad. Conrad ignored the charts and went in the house, probably to use the john, so Duncan kept talking to Wilhelm.

"It's genetics as much as it is the person who raises a dog that makes it what it is. For me to be able to breed Old Pete true, I need to get a good breeding stock base that shares the features we want to continue in his line. Les Blocker, the veterinarian, agrees with me. We need at least four generations of good stock to guarantee a good breeding pool." Duncan winced. "Unfortunately, I think ugly is the one gene that's going to breed true, no matter who we pair him off with.

"Are you sure that we can sell the pups I don't want to keep in this program? Feeding this many dogs is going to be next to impossible for me. They need to be fed a lot to grow properly." Duncan looked at Wilhelm. "I'm also looking after my daughter Noreen, you know, and even with Gayla's help. . ." He made no mention of the fact that his son-in-law, now a very wealthy man, had ensured that Noreen had enough money to cover all expenses at the care center. He hated Chaffin and his mother, Kitty Ann, with a passion.

"But if I can sell our rejects, it'll go a long way to covering basic expenses and spreading the gene-pool. Some of the dogs will be good at some things, but not like Old Pete, which is what we're aiming for, right?"

Wilhelm simply nodded when it sounded like Duncan was on a roll. Interrupting the big man wasn't something he considered a healthy risk

So he just followed along as best he could, and watched where he stepped in the backyard. A skill a man of his duties normally could do with out a thought, but these were big dogs and the puppies ran free in the huge backyard.

"I have another surprise for you two and Count Ludwig. I acquired another fine pair of breeding dogs for him a couple of months ago. They've already pupped, too. Fast breeders." Duncan walked him around to the back of the yard well away from the house and regular kennels.

"What the hell are those?" Wilhelm asked, jumping back when two tiny wiry-haired dogs leaped at the chain-link fencing that kept them inside their small run.

"Those, Wilhelm, are a pair of Rat Terrier-Chihuahua hybrids, the fiercest yappers in the universe. They are supposed to be the bane of rats anywhere, but bred small enough to be the lap dogs of ladies and gentlemen in what was my world." Duncan kept his voice serious. Who'd want one of those things sitting in their lap?

"My God! Don't they ever stop yapping? It's so high pitched and annoying! How much did they cost?" Wilhelm started to draw his new pistols. "I'll pay you twice what they are worth if I can just shoot them! Why would the count want such annoying dogs?"

Duncan put his hand on Wilhelm stopping him mid-draw. "I didn't say they were for the count himself. They're meant for him to pass out as gifts."

"Who in their right mind would give these noisy creatures to anyone as a gift?"

"Wilhelm, my friend, for someone who spends so much time in and out of court, I'd think you'd know how to play their game better." Duncan bit off his smile before it could form. "Who said that Count Ludwig would give these dogs to people he liked?"

"You are a wicked, wicked man, Duncan." Wilhelm smiled slowly. "I am sure Count Ludwig knows more than a few people who are deserving of such a fine gift of a rare up-time dog. I don't think two will be enough, though. Could you breed more of them? I only count four puppies."

Duncan winced but nodded. "It'll cost you. Feed, care, fighting the urge not to strangle them . . . I'll be sure to emphasize that they're fearless, determined, energetic ratters on their papers, too. At least that's what their ancestors were bred for, or so I read." He passed Wilhelm a photocopy of the two breeds' selected histories along with a notarized statement from Les Blocker. "I'm sure you can work with these to come up with something that would impress a courtier whose nose is so brown he can't see without help of a lantern."

Wilhelm looked at the two tiny, hyperactive dogs again. "And how soon would these pups be ready to be separated from their dam?"

"Separated from their dam? My good man, you're taking them with you when you leave tomorrow. I'll keep the parents to breed, but the pups were weaned last week." The look on Wilhelm's face was almost worth as much as the coin Duncan suspected was in the man's pouch.

"Wilhelm, I'm gonna need you to come by at least three times a week to see that the boys are taking the dogs through their training paces and keeping the yard and pens clean. Conrad and I are off to Hamburg for the Summer Fair. We're taking most of the rejects and some of the true breeds with us. Conrad wants to visit his cousins while we're there, and says there's someone I just have to meet.

"I think he wants me to meet this merchant I've been arguing with about prices. We've exchanged tons of letters since the topic of the Fair came up. He says I'll be glad to meet this merchant. Someone close to his own family is all I can get out of him.

"Stubborn as hell, and demands to see the dogs before deciding on a proper price. Not even the letters and sketches or affidavits have sold him on how good Old Pete's pups are. And they are only buying two of the pure breeds to begin with! For some reason, I think Conrad's setting me up for another joke. Man's full of secrets."

"Who, me? I'm just a plain old game warden, Herr Cunningham." Conrad walked up with his eyes twinkling. "Good cider, this. Think I'll get a refill and some for you two, too." He turned to go back inside the house. "And remember I didn't say it was only the dogs you were bargaining about, Duncan. Just that the deal included two of the true breeds. Be sure to bring those clothes the count was nice enough to have made for you for when we are at the fair. You'll make a better impression wearing them."

"I'll look like a damned peacock, is what! He better be right or I'll show you a move I learned watching wrasslin'."

The rear gate slammed open and a kid from the neighborhood called for Duncan as he ran towards them. "Mr. Cunningham, Mr. Cunningham!" He tried to yell over the barking of over twenty dogs. The boy slipped through the muck in the back yard and landed at Duncan's feet with a splat.

Duncan picked him up easily. "What is it, Tommy?"

"Your alchemist. The one learning stuff up at the school? He's. . . he's . . ." The kid looked at the note he held. "Absconded. With everything, all your research papers and some of the Three M lab equipment, too! They're still doing an inventory!"

Duncan sat down hard, feeling like he'd been gut-punched.

Conrad turned to the boy, "The police? Have they been informed?"

"They sent me with the note, phone was busy. The high school called it in. They thought maybe he was taking a sick day or was down at the lab and sent someone to check on him and everything was gone! They are still checking what's missing from Three M's labs."

****

"Don't worry Duncan, we'll get him." Conrad's voice chilled the summer air. He had taken the phone off the hook so Duncan would have one day of peace at least. Now it was up to him. He owed Duncan that much. "He can't have gone far in a day."

"Conrad, we can't kill him or let him hang! He's the only one that's been able to make any insulin so far. Three M's techs were working on a better way of purification for me. ...