Free The Incredible Journey by Sheila Burnford

throat, awaiting the protection of his master. Normally he was a courageous dog, but he had never before encountered anything like these vicious, silent onslaughts.
    The Labrador would have called it a day and left now, but the terrier was enjoying himself and still eyed the collie speculatively. Then his peculiar blend of bull terrier humor got the better of him,and he used an old fighting trick of his breed, which normally he kept, so to speak, up his sleeve, for those occasions when he intended not a killing, but merely punishment. He started to circle, faster and faster, almost as though he were chasing his own tail, and then, like a whirling dervish, he approached the bewildered collie and spun against him, knocking him several feet with the force of the impact, and following up his advantage with another crash at the end of each turn. Terrified at this unprecedented method of attack, bruised, bitter and aching, the enemy dog seized a split second between turns and fled, his tail tucked well between his legs, towards his master—who received him with a cuff on his already reeling head.
    The farmer stared incredulously at the two culprits, who were now making off across the field to the cover of the bush, the young dog with a torn and bloodied ear, and several deep bites on his forelegs, but the happy old warrior jaunty and unscathed. When he saw the mass of feathers he flung his stick in sudden rage at the retreating white form, but so many sticks had been thrown after so many fights in the course of his long life that the bull terrier dodged it instinctively without even turning his head and continued at a leisurely trot, swinging his rounded stern with gay insolence as he went.
    This battle did much to restore the morale of the old dog. That evening he even caught a field mouse for his supper, tossing it in the air with a professionalflip which would have done credit to his ancestor who had killed sixty rats in as many minutes a hundred years ago.
    Despite the stiffness and soreness from his wounds the young dog seemed happier too; perhaps because the west wind that blew that night brought a hint of remembered things, and stirred some deep awareness that every day, every hour brought them nearer to their destination; perhaps it was that the country they were crossing now was less rugged, less remote, and becoming more like the country in which he had been raised; perhaps it was just because his companion was so infectiously pleased with himself; but whatever it was, he seemed more at ease and less strained than he had been since the outset of the journey.
    They slept that night in a dry shallow cave amongst the outcroppings of an abandoned molybdenum mine on the crest of a hill. Outside the cave was a large, sloping slab of exposed rock littered with discarded garter-snake skins, so light and dry yet supple that all night long they swayed and whispered to every small breath of wind as though repossessed.
    The first pale streaks of dawn were barely showing across the sky when the young dog sat up alertly, hearing the shuffling approach of some animal through the dead leaves and twigs. He sat quivering, every nerve tense, recognizing the smell, and presently past the opening of the cave waddled a large porcupine, returning peacefully home from anight’s foraging. Remembering the delectable meal the fisher had inadvertently provided for him, the young dog determined to repeat it. He sprang at the porcupine, intending first to overturn then kill it as he had seen the other animal do, but unfortunately he had not seen the patient preparatory work that the experienced fisher had put in before the kill—the relentless, cunning teasing, resulting in the harmless embedding of most of the quills into a fallen tree; then the quick, skillful flip at the base of the shoulder while the partially unarmed animal was still protecting its tender nose and throat under the tree. The porcupine turned at the instant of his spring, aware