I wonder if it is heretical to believe that when at last
my tired feet
shall tread on the Other Shore, a madly welcoming swirl of exultant
collies- the splendid Sunnybank dogs that have been my chums here- will
bound forward, circling and barking around, to lead me Home!
Heretical
or otherwise, I want to believe it. And if I fail to
find them
there, I shall know I have taken a Wrong Turning and have reached a goal
other than I hoped for. - Albert Payson Terhune - 1921
"Thanks for the ride, Ray," said Benton Fraser as he prepared to leave the green Buick Riviera.
"Benny, you gonna be OK?" Ray Vecchio's green eyes were troubled as he scrutinized his friend's face. "You could take some more time off, you know. You've got, what, 80 days of sick leave?"
"I know, Ray. Thank you kindly for your concern. But I don't feel right being away from my duties any longer."
"How about if I pick you up after work? Ma'd love to have you for dinner."
"It's all right, Ray." Fraser smiled at his friend. "Your mother has had me to dinner three times already this week. Thank her for me. But I'd really rather be alone this evening. I'm sure you understand."
"Sure thing, Benny," said Vecchio dubiously. "I'll pick you up tomorrow morning."
Fraser smiled again and waved at his friend as the Riv pulled away from the curb. Then he sighed, settled his Stetson on his head, squared his shoulders, and strode briskly up the front walk to the Consulate.
The door opened to reveal Renfield Turnbull, who had apparently been waiting for him. "Sir. How are you?" Turnbull's eyes, too, were troubled. "I just want to offer my profoundest sympathies again." He held out his hand and shook Fraser's, warmly.
"I'm fine, Turnbull," replied Fraser. "And thank you kindly for the ratatouille. I'm still, er, I'm enjoying it very much."
"It was the least I could do," said Turnbull, his voice catching in his throat. No matter what the occasion, no matter how great the sorrow, Turnbull's methods for coping with life seemed to involve spending a great deal of time in the kitchen.
Fraser removed his hat and turned towards his office. The entire top of his desk seemed to be covered with flowers and notes. He would need to remove some just to be able to sit down. He glanced over his shoulder at Inspector Thatcher's door, which seemed to be firmly closed. While he would not normally take any more time from his duties, it was important to note who had sent each arrangement so that he could write notes of thanks. He extracted a notebook and pen from his pocket and picked up the first card. "With sincere sympathy. The officers and staff of the 27th Precinct, Chicago P.D." He noted this carefully and laid the card aside. "Harding Welsh." "The Vecchio Family." "Margaret Thatcher." He looked around again.
A half-hour later he had worked his way through most of the notes. He was surprised at how many there were-some from complete strangers. He hated to admit it, but his head ached, probably due to lack of sleep. He rubbed his temples.
"Constable Fraser!" Her voice startled him awake. Had he been sleeping at his post? That was a grave offense. He opened his eyes to find himself looking into those of his superior officer, Meg Thatcher. "Constable...Ben...Are you sure you were ready to come back to work?" Her normal mask of efficiency had been laid aside; her eyes and face were softened bycompassion.
"Fraser, are you certain you want to be here? You look as though you haven't been sleeping," she said. "You can take as much time as you feel you need..." her voice trailed off.
"Thank you, Inspector," replied Fraser. "I won't let that happen again. I have found that hard work is often the best antidote."
"Yes, but your sleep can't have been too restful these past few nights."
Fraser shut his eyes again. He dreaded sleep. The incident replayed itself over and over in his dreams until he woke again, suddenly, to the emptiness of his apartment. "No, Sir, I haven't been sleeping too well," he admitted.
"I thought not," she replied quietly. "It never gets any easier, does it? We have them such a short time, and then something like this happens."
"Yes, but where would we be without them?" He smiled sadly.
"Well, do what you will," she answered. "Work as much as you feel like, leave when you want to." Then, as an afterthought, "What kind of...arrangements were you able to make."
"He's been cremated," replied Fraser. "I'll take him with me to the cabin next time I return to the Territories for a vacation. It seems fitting he should rest there."
"Perfectly fitting," Meg's voice sounded slightly husky. "Well, carry on, Constable."
Fraser worked until very late that night. When he laid aside his normal duties, he began on his many notes of thanks. Perhaps driving himself to fatigue would enable sleep to come more easily. But again, alone in his apartment, the dreams returned. The dark eyes, normally so intelligent, now glazed with pain. The compassionate hand of the vet, laid on his shoulder. "It's time, Constable." The snowy fur, wet with - what, where those his tears? Then he touched Dief's nose, gently, to get his attention, and enunciated very clearly, "Goodbye, my friend."
Fraser slept fitfully and was awake and dressed well before dawn. But this morning he took his walk in the crisp, autumn air alone. He and Ray drove to the Consulate in a companionable silence, and when Ray offered to pick him up that evening, Fraser did not demur.
His colleagues greeted him quietly and kindly. Inspector Thatcher had several meetings over the course of the morning, and when she emerged from her office, it was almost noon.
"Fraser, it's a beautiful day," she noted.
"Yes, sir, it is."
"I want you to take the rest of today. Take the car. Get yourself out of the city for a few hours. Stretch your legs and breathe in some fresh air. That's an order, Constable."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
As Fraser left his office, he was intercepted in the hall by Turnbull. "I've packed you a lunch, Sir," said the younger man, proffering a brown paper bag. "Just some bread and cheese, a little fruit, something to drink."
"Thank you kindly, Turnbull." Fraser found himself responding to the man's genuine warmth.
He headed north. After about an hour's drive, he had left the city behind him. The land in this part of the state had a rolling character. There were handsome farms, hillsides dotted with horses and cattle, and the golden stubble of wheat fields seeming to glow in the afternoon sun. The trees were in their usual autumn glory, though he knew they would fade soon. A perfect afternoon...almost.
He turned off the Interstate onto a two-lane road, passed through a small town, and turned again onto a smaller road. Soon he was in a thickly wooded area where the trees seemed to reach out from both sides of the road. He parked the car, locked it carefully, picked up his lunch, and began walking aimlessly through the trees.
Fraser wasn't sure how far he had walked when he emerged into a small glade. He could hear a stream nearby, and a fallen log beckoned him to sit. He found he was actually hungry. He looked into Turnbull's brown bag, found an apple and began to chew it meditatively. The bit of cheese looked very tempting as well. He had soon devoured the lunch, and he found himself growing sleepy. He leaned his head against the tree behind him and shut his eyes.
He did not know how long he slept, but he was startled awake by the sound of - what was that, hoofbeats? He sat up and looked around with interest, attempting to locate the source of the sound. His eyes were drawn to a flash of scarlet through the trees.
Moments later, his father emerged into the clearing. He sat easily astride a tall, black horse. "Hello, Son," said the older man as though this were his normal mode of transportation.
"Dad," replied Fraser. "I was wondering when you'd turn up. I haven't seen much of you for the past few days." Fraser's words were somewhat bitter. His father had been conspicuous by his absence.
"Well, son, I've been thinking of you," began Bob Fraser.
"And who's this?" interrupted Ben, pointing towards the horse. "I don't know why, but I never expected you to turn up on a horse."
"Don't you remember what happened after the train incident, son? No, of course you wouldn't. You were otherwise occupied. This is Bucket," he reached forward and patted the horse's head. "Buck Frobisher's old horse. Shot dead, right out from under him during that fight at Dry Gulch Canyon. Of course, you were too young to..."
Ben interrupted again. "You mean to tell me the horse is dead."
"Well, son, you might say that. But you might also just say that I'm just looking after him until Buck gets here. I've gotten quite attached to him. You know, I never thought much of the abolition of the equitation requirement."
Fraser said nothing.
"You see, son, this horse meant a lot to Buck. They were together for years. You might even say they were green remounts together, and Bucket was like a member of the family. Yep. A member of the family, you might say. You have to understand, Son. The things that were important to you in life, don't stop being important just because you, or they, have gone on. And it isn't really confined to the human race, either. There are certainly plenty of animals here. Sometimes the place seems to be fairly crawling with them. Of course, some of them I really don't approve of, but then it's not really my place to say. Gerbils, for instance. Why in God's name would anyone want to spend time with a rodent? There's no accounting for tastes, is there, Son?"
The older man paused. "But I'm forgetting why I stopped by." He gave a low whistle.
Fraser discerned a flash of silver in the trees, and an instant later, the wolf was standing in front of him, having arrived as silently as he had in life. He stood confidently, his powerful hindquarters perfectly intact, his coat gleaming, his eyes alight with the spark of intelligence.
"Dief! Diefenbaker!" Fraser could not suppress his joy at seeing his old friend. The wolf paused and looked at him expectantly. "Well, I don'ts suppose you'll be wanting any junk food," he went on, using much the same tone of voice he used with his father. "Seeing as how you're dead."
The wolf cocked his head to one side, looked directly at Fraser, thumped his tail a time or two by way of greeting, and gave his usual courteous bark/whine. Fraser resisted the impulse to reach out and stroke the white fur. But the two friends looked at each other for a very long moment.
"I'll look after him for you, Son," his father finally went on, "Until you're here to do that for yourself. He'll be waiting for you."
Without warning, the older man wheeled Bucket around and began to ride out of the clearing. Dief gave his friend one last look and turned to follow smartly at the horse's heels.
Ben's father turned for a moment and said over his shoulder, "Hope I've been of some help to you, Son."
"This time, Dad, you really have," his son replied with a smile.
The end