Selkirk nodded. “Aye, and by then the damage is already done.”
Darcy dismounted and approached the carcass cautiously. Even dead, the animal inspired revulsion. Foam and saliva coated its jaws, and its eyes stared blankly into the distance.
“We shall have to assume the entire pack is infected,” Darcy said. “No risks can be taken.”
“No,” Selkirk agreed. “Not with sheep, cattle, horses, and certainly not with people.”
Darcy looked toward the woods where the remaining dogs had disappeared. “We must hunt them all down.” He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his jacket. “How many of your flocks have been attacked?”
“Only one. The fencing required repairs in several places. Once those were completed, I lost no more lambs.”
“Have your shepherds inspect the others for bite wounds. Did all your losses occur within the past week?”
“It has been nearly two weeks. I will keep that flock under quarantine.”
The underkeeper said, “Mr. Darcy, we shall set traps to capture the remainder of the pack. Several of them may already be diseased.”
Selkirk swore under his breath. “Rogers, take our men and go back and burn the animals we have already dispatched, lest the contagion spread to scavengers of the wood.”
“I only hope we are not too late,” Darcy said. He turned to the underkeeper. “How many dogs remain?”
“I counted twelve yesterday, sir. We have dispatched seven animals, including these three.”
“I will have traps set as well,” Selkirk said. Warn your men not to touch the animals lest they pick up the madness.”
At that moment, Peter Miller rode up at a gallop.
“Sir! Mr. Collins has taken a fall.”
Darcy’s expression hardened.
“What happened? Where is he?”
Peter gestured toward a spot a short distance beyond where the rabid dog lay. About twenty feet away, Darcy saw Mr. Collins sprawled upon the ground while Robert Miller knelt beside him, his ear pressed to the fallen man's chest.
“He took fright, sir, and put the whip to his horse in his haste to escape the rabid beast. The horse reared, and Mr. Collins was thrown onto the stones.”
Darcy and Selkirk rode over at once.
“His head lies at an unnatural angle. His neck is most likely broken,” Darcy said as he dismounted and knelt beside the body.
Peter nodded grimly. “Yes, sir. I can find no pulse, and he does not appear to be breathing.”
Robert Miller lifted his head. “Nor do I hear a heartbeat, sir.”
Darcy was silent for a moment before speaking.
“Peter, ride back to Pemberley and fetch a wagon. I shall remain here with the body. Wait while I write a note for Mrs. Darcy.”
Drawing out a small pad and pencil, he wrote a short message.
He then turned to Selkirk.
“You should return home. We shall burn these three dogs while we wait for the wagon. There is no sense in your remaining. That storm will be upon us before long.”
“No, I will wait with you. A little rain will do no harm.”
“No,” Darcy insisted. “You should leave now. You are a good seven miles from home.”
