We scrambled down a steep gully, our torches swinging wildly. At the bottom, Pepper stopped beside a fallen tree and began to whine. Sophie’s torch lit up a man lying on his side beneath the branches, one leg twisted, his lips cracked and pale. “Dad!” she screamed. He opened his eyes slowly and whispered her name. Her aunt phoned for help, and I knelt beside him with my water bottle.

His name was Greg Hollis, and he had slipped on loose rock on the first afternoon, badly injuring his leg. He had been unable to climb out, drinking from a puddle of rainwater and sharing his last biscuits with Pepper. On the fifth night, he told the dog to go home and find help. He did not expect Pepper to make it. The dog had walked nine kilometers through scrub and along the highway, and had waited for a stranger who would listen.

A rescue helicopter reached us within an hour and lifted Greg into the sky, with Sophie beside him. The paramedics said another night in the cold could have been very dangerous. In the hospital, doctors repaired his leg and treated his dehydration, and he made a full recovery. When I visited him, he cried and held my hand and said that my kindness had given his daughter back her father. I told him it was Pepper who deserved the thanks.

The local paper called Pepper a hero, and the town gave him a medal at the school fair. Greg walks with a slight limp now, and Pepper never lets him out of his sight. Sophie sends me photos every month. On the first anniversary, the three of them drove to my house and Pepper sat on my doorstep with a bone. I keep the brass tag on my keyring, and I never drive past the highway without slowing down.