1st July; A thief in the night

The evening was well set in by the time the dog padded silently into the Earthy Humans' gathering place. He had been away most of the day, roaming over the hills in search of something edible, or at least something he could run down and kill, and not have to share with any of the other thieving beasts that followed the Great Mass.

His hunting had not been successful today, however. There was little left in the wake of the Bad Humans. He had caught the scent of some of those two-legged devils around midday and made a hasty retreat from them. They were ever to be avoided, after all. Especially when they took or chased off everything worth eating.

At least these Earthy Humans were usually good for giving him Food. That and attention. The dog was not one to refuse either one. Or both. He sniffed cautiously around the motionless, mostly-quiet lumps on the ground, searching for the familiar scent of meat. That was something these humans always had nearby. Where was it? He'd find it eventually and help himself to it, didn't they know that by now?

Oh! Wait. What was this? The dog probed his nose at an Earthy Human's shoe, his interest firmly caught. This two-legger had been near something that smelled tasty. Had he been hunting lately too? No human was so good at the hunt as he was, of course, but the dog had never minded competing with humans in that respect. He'd yet to meet a two-legger who could run down a hare, anyway.

In the immediate absence of meat or other sort of Food, this enticing block of leather would do. The dog took a firm grip on the shoe with his teeth, ready to snatch it away and run. There was only one problem. When he did jerk backward in readiness to bolt, the shoe did not move.

What trickery was this?!

"'Ere now!" Burke said, tugging his foot away. The dog's scuffling at his feet had brought him to full alertness from where he had been half-snoozing, and he tried to shoo it away. "What're ye doin'?"

The shoe moved. That, more than the sleepy-sounding buzz from the Lump, prompted the instinctive reaction to bite down on the item he was intending to carry away. It didn't occur to him until after his teeth had sunk solidly into the leather that this was not the most advisable reaction ever.

Burke let out a loud yelp as the dog bit down on his foot. Even through the leather of his shoe (which was quite worn and cracked already), it hurt.

"Jesus!" he cried, jumping up and swiping at the creature. "Blasted mutt!"

He wasn't quick enough to let the shoe - and the foot - go before the human he'd just bitten swatted at him. It was not a hard or well-aimed blow, but it was enough to elicit a reflexive answering nip and a growl from the dog. It might have been his fault for not letting the shoe go immediately, but he was not about to tolerate being slapped at!

Maggie sat bolt upright, her heart racing. She grabbed at her husband's arm, shaking him awake. "Gabe! Gabe, Gabe, what was that?" She could not have described what it was that had awakened her; all she knew was that something was horribly amiss, and that probably meant imminent danger.

Cotton was awake before he knew what had woken him. He grasped his rifle, blinking up at the stars and trying to work out why he was awake. He could make out his wife, though - she blotted out the stars behind her and he could see enough by the starlight to tell that she looked scared as anything - as if her voice wasn't enough of a clue.

"Wha...?" he began and had to clear his throat; his mouth felt as dry as dust. What had woken him was not, thankfully, the French, he realised, listening to the sounds of the encampment.

"Bad dream?" he asked Maggie, letting go of the rifle and sitting up himself, wrapping the blanket around her while trying not to shiver too much in the chill of the night air.

The startled yelp and accompanying oath were more than enough to rouse Sam Mayden from his fitful doze. He came up onto one knee with his rifle in hand, staring about him at the darkness for whoever had cried out. It was difficult to see anything, but he could hear the low murmur of a couple voices nearby. Somebody else had been awakened, or there was another pre-dawn visitor about to be dumped onto their doorstep.

What the hell was going on? Mayden's head turned sharply toward a sudden high-pitched yap of pain, which sounded like it was coming from uncomfortably close by. It wasn't human though. That sound was definitely canine. Was it that wandering dog again? Devilish mutt. The scraping rush of something making a hasty escape announced the dog's likely departure. Just as well, maybe.

Then he heard a rough voice snarl a curse and he had his answer. "Jack!" He called in a low voice, feeling his alarm begin to fade into simmering annoyance. "The hell you playin' at?"

"Bleedin' dog," Jack muttered by way of reply.

There was a muttered curse somewhere off in the dark, and then a lantern could be seen, obviously carried by someone in an officer's uniform as the light reflected dully from tarnished silver lace and buttons. The face revealed in the golden glow was not, as might be expected, that of the Captain but of his senior Lieutenant, Mister Brady.

"What's going on here?" he demanded, holding the lantern up to illuminate the darkness as much as possible.

The officer's appearance was not as unwelcome as the harsh glow of the lantern in the officer's hand. Mayden carefully avoided looking directly at the flickering light and offered a mildly confused, "Don't know, sir."

There was a slight rustle of movement roughly from where he'd last heard Jack speak. "Dog bit me. Sir." A pause, then, "Burke, too."

"Would that be before or after you kicked it?" Brady enquired, turning to face the second speaker, privately thinking that it was about time something bit the man. He hoped that the dog wouldn't get ill from the taste.

Kicking dogs wasn't entirely Jack's style, Mayden thought, but he didn't say so. Instead, he peered into the darkness in a futile attempt to discern his friend's outline. Jack, like Mayden, was still wearing his old jacket. He did not stand out at night like these 60th lads did, with their red facings.

"Before. Sir." Unsurprisingly, his fellow Londoner sounded vaguely affronted. Equally unsurprising was the lie. It was not in the other Rifleman's nature to wait until something struck out at him, after all.

"Send for the surgeon, sir?" Mayden asked, belatedly thinking that with two men bitten, it might be necessary.

Before... Somehow, Brady doubted that, but he was not Captain Vickery, to be able flat out tell a man was lying, and be able to say it. Maybe that's why the Captain was such a good officer?

He looked toward Mayden, practically invisible in his old 95th jacket, and nodded. "Certainly... Mayden, isn't it?"

"Aye, sir." Mayden lingered long enough to sketch a salute, then he was off, somehow picking his way through the maze of barely-visible lumps of half-awake Riflemen on the ground.

~

His hand was bleeding, despite his attempt to bind the twin holes the dog had put into his palm. Blasted creature. Jack Kirridge twisted his neckcloth tighter around his wounded hand and scowled at nothing in particular. It was a shame he had not gotten a better shot at the dog. Next time.

"Dunno why-for there's a dog 'angin' about anyway," he grumbled.

"It's that dog," Cotton muttered as he heard a familiar sort of yowl. "Reckon someone's kicked it in his sleep or summat. You bide here an' I'll go take a look-see, all right?" He bent for his rifle; he wasn't going anywhere without that, even in camp.

Now here came the captain's toady, Jack noticed. His scowl deepened and he curled his wounded hand into a loose fist. Which, of course, only made the two bite holes bleed more. These stupid soft 60th boys...

There was a soft, half-stifled curse from Burke as the Irishman inspected his own damage. How badly the dog had gotten him wasn't yet known. Or maybe it was, for Burke groaned something about his shoe. His shoe.

"Bloody luvvly," Jack muttered, mostly to himself. This lot had a dog hanging about with it who liked going after a Rifleman's most important body parts.

Cotton wondered just why the dog was going for people in the middle of the night. It wasn't the sort of thing he expected animals to do, though it wouldn't surprise him if Kirridge had kicked out at the dog before being bitten, and then lied to the Lieutenant to cover himself.

"You all right, Burke?" he asked, glancing over to the ex-Sweep.

"Grand," said Burke after a moment. "I've got two new holes in me shoe is all." There was a pause, then, " 'E bit somebody else?"

Jack rolled his eyes. "Aye. Me." But he'd gotten the four-legged devil back for it, right enough.

~



The lantern in Mister Brady's hand provided a suitable beacon for Mayden to trot toward, the sleepy-eyed surgeon in tow.

"Surgeon, sir," he reported, coming to a halt and saluting. Behind him, Mister Todd blinked, hesitated, then lifted his own lantern so he could see the faces of the men around him.

"Ah." Brady lifted the lantern a little higher. "We have two Riflemen who have been bitten by a dog. I don't think either of them are seriously hurt, but i will defer to your greater skill." He glanced towards Cotton and back again. "If you need anything, I am sure Cotton can provide it. I have Rounds to do, but shall leave the lantern for you."

"Of course." Mister Todd accepted the lantern and promptly handed it off to Mayden. The sawbones had spotted Jack and was moving toward him with a slight frown creasing his brow.

There was a rustle of wool as Burke shrugged. "I ain't hurt, sir."

"Me either," said Jack flatly.

With two lanterns at his disposal, Mister Todd was able to see nearly properly. He grabbed hold of Jack's wounded hand before the Londoner could avoid him and stripped the makeshift bandage away. "Indeed," the sawbones remarked in an irritated tone.

Cotton turned to ask if the surgeon needed him for anything, and noticed something on the ground glistening in the light of the lantern. It wasn't much, but he crossed over to it and crouched down. The light of the lantern made it easier to see, but at the same time, the shadows made it that much harder to see. He swiped at the ground with his fingers, not sure what he was hoping to find.

Something sticky - not much of it. He sniffed his fingers cautiously. Blood. Only a little, but even so. "Sir?" he said, still crouching down but looking across to where the surgeon was. "There's a bit o' blood down here, like."

It was Mayden who approached first, since the sawbones was busy dousing Jack's hand with some brandy. He held Mister Brady's lantern, which afforded him the necessary illumination to see what Cotton had spotted.

With a frown, he glanced toward Jack. The brief glimpse he'd gotten of his mate's hand didn't account for the blood on the ground. "It ain't yours, Jack?"

Knowing the man as he did, he suspected he knew the answer already. But the question had to be asked.

"Course it is," was the retort. "I got bit, din't I?"