Faithful Ruslan Read Online Free PDF Page B

anger sent Ruslan across the road in one bound. The reddish-brown color of the boxcar and the squeak of the sledge runners as they forced a dirty track through the snow combined to whip him into a frenzy, so that he could only see one thing clearly—the driver’s big, bony elbow sticking out through the window of the cab door; he longed to sink his teeth into it and bite through to the bone. Ruslan growled and whined, dripping saliva and looking imploringly at his master, begging him to say, “Get!” He was bound to give the command: Master’s face had turned pale and he had clenched his teeth—Ruslan was sure he would hear it any moment now, flashing out like a red spark and seeming not to come from the mouth but from the hand flung forward to point: “Get him, Ruslan! Get!”
    Then the real business of the Service would begin. The joy of obeying orders, the furious headlong dash, the feinting leaps from side to side—and the Enemy would dither in confusion, not knowing whether to run or to stand and defend himself. Then the final leap, forepaws tucked into the chest, when you would knock him to the ground and fall with him, growling furiously into his distorted face, but you would only seize his right arm, because he was gripping something in his right hand and you would hang on and hang on, listening to him shouting and thrashing about, and a warm, thick, intoxicating liquid would fill your mouth—until Master forcibly dragged you off by the collar. Only then did you start to feel all the blows and wounds you had received.… The time was long past when they had given him a piece of meat or a biscuit for doing this, and even then he had taken it more out of politeness than as a reward, because he was in any case too strung up to be able to eat at such moments. Nor was there any need for a reward when later, back in camp, in front of the sullen ranks of prisoners, he was urged to attack and harass the captured prisoner, who no longer resisted but could only shriek pathetically, although this time Ruslan ripped his clothes more than his body. The greatest reward for Service was the Service itself—yet strangely enough, for all their intelligence, the masters never understood that and thought they had to offer the dog something by way of encouragement. Somewhere at the very edge of his consciousness, in a yellow mist, there still lodged the black thought of what his master had intended to do to him, but he was even prepared to accept that, provided he could first have this final reward of the Service, provided Master would only say, “Get!” He felt strong and fearless enough to leap up onto the clanking tracks, drag the Enemy out of his cab and wipe the grin offhis cheeky face, the grin that even his master’s all-powerful look had been unable to efface.
    His jaws convulsed with impatience, Ruslan shook his head from side to side and whined, but Master still delayed and would not shout “Get!” There then occurred the terrible, shameful thing that should never have been done. With a hoarse rumble, the tractor’s snout nudged a fence pole as though sniffing it, and gave a savage roar. It did not move, but the caterpillar tracks churned and churned and the pole creaked in response; it tried desperately to stay upright, but was already keeling over slightly, tightening the twanging strands of wire, and then suddenly it snapped with a bang like a round of gunfire. Only the wire now held it up and prevented it from falling over completely, but the snout crawled relentlessly forward and strand by strand the wire fell into the snow. The tracks crushed it into the ground, wound it into tangled plaits, and then the sledge runners crawled over it with a protesting screech. When the pole reappeared behind the sledge, it was lying flat, like a man spread-eagled on the ground.
    Grunting with satisfaction, the tractor halted inside the No-Go zone. The driver climbed out to inspect his handiwork. He, too, looked satisfied