half expecting to see him still there. But Old Yellowfoot was gone
without a sound. It seemed impossible for so large an animal to have
faded out of sight so quickly, and for a moment Bud wondered if he
really had been there. But he had seen Old Yellowfoot, the buck no
hunter ever saw fully.
"Was that really Old Yellowfoot?" he asked.
"That was him right enough!" Gramps said.
"We might have shot him."
"With a couple of shotguns and number six shot?" Gramps said. "Don't
fool yourself, Bud. That old buck knows as well as we do that we
wouldn't no more'n sting him if we did shoot, and he knew we wouldn't
shoot 'cause he knows it ain't deer season."
"How does he know?"
Gramps said seriously, "I don't know how he knows it, but I'm sure he
does. Naturally deer don't carry calendars, but they do tick off the
days 'bout as accurately as we can and Old Yellowfoot's been through a
lot of deer seasons. He can smell danger far's we can a skunk. If we'd
been coming up here with a couple of thirty-thirtys, in deer season, we
wouldn't have got within sniffing distance. I told you that buck's
smarter'n most people. Wait'll we get on his tail and you'll see for
yourself."
They came to the place where the big buck had been standing and examined
the hoofprints that were clearly defined in the snow. They were bigger
than any deer tracks Bud had ever seen, and there seemed to be something
mystical about them just because they were Old Yellowfoot's.
Shep panted up, wagging his tail agreeably. He sniffed briefly at Old
Yellowfoot's tracks and sat down in the snow. Gramps skirted the
hemlocks, eyes to the ground, and presently he called,
"They're in here."
Advancing to Gramps' side, Bud saw that half a dozen grouse had gone
from the open woods into the little evergreens. Bud looked into the
grove trying to penetrate the closely interlaced branches. It seemed
hopeless. If the copse could swallow Old Yellowfoot as though he had
melted into the air, how could you expect to find the grouse?
"Let's go in," Gramps said.
They entered the copse, Gramps following the grouse tracks and Bud ten
feet to one side. Bud's shotgun was half raised, ready to snap to
shooting position at his shoulder, and his pulse was throbbing with
excitement. Too eager, he pushed a few feet ahead of Gramps but fell
back at once so that, when the grouse rose, both of them would have an
equal chance to shoot. Bud knew that otherwise Gramps wouldn't dare
shoot for fear of hitting him.
The grouse rose so suddenly and unexpectedly that for a moment Bud
forgot his gun. He had thought they would be deeper in the thicket.
Gramps' gun blasted, and Bud saw a grouse pitch from the air into the
snow. Then they were gone.
"I didn't hear you shoot," Gramps said.
"I couldn't get ready."
There was the suspicion of a chuckle in his voice, but Gramps' face was
perfectly solemn when he faced Bud. "There'll be more," he said.
As they went forward, the only grouse that had not yet risen rocketed up
beneath their feet. Bud saw the bird clearly as it soared over the tops
of the hemlocks. He raised his gun and after he had shot, a shower of
hemlock twigs filtered earthward from a place two feet beneath and three
feet to one side of where the bird had been. Bud shuffled his feet and
looked bewildered.
"You get too excited," Gramps said. "Take it easier."
"Yes, Gramps," Bud said meekly.
They broke out of the other side of the thicket and came upon the place
where Old Yellowfoot had left the hemlocks to slink into a stand of
yellow birch. The tracks were not those of a running or excited deer,
for Old Yellowfoot hadn't kept his regal antlers by surrendering to
excitement. He had walked all the way and by this time was probably back
in some hiding place that only he knew.
Now they were in a thicket of small pines which were more scattered than
the hemlocks had been. Grouse tracks led into it, and Gramps tumbled
another bird out of the air. Bud saw one running on the snow, and he
slipped the safety and aimed. He almost shot, but at the last moment
released his finger tension on the trigger and let the bird run out of
sight. That was not the way to take grouse.
Two hours and fifteen shots later, they came to still another thicket
and prepared to work through it. Gramps was no longer shooting, for even
though the limit was four grouse, half the limit was enough for anyone.
Bud's cheeks were burning, and he was grimly determined as they went on.
Gramps had two grouse with two shots; he had none with fifteen. Then the
grouse went up.
This time it was different. Just as when he had been shooting at the tin
cans tied to the windmill, his gun became a part of him and he seemed to
be directed by something outside of himself.
Bud swung on a grouse, shot and saw the bird fold its wings and tumble
gracefully. Then he swung on a second bird and that one, too, dropped to
the earth. He had shot fifteen times without coming even close to a
grouse, but now he had redeemed himself by scoring a double. Not even
Gramps had done that, and Bud turned proudly to the old man.
Gramps was on his knees, trying desperately to keep from going all the
way down by bracing himself with his shotgun. His head was bent forward
as though he was too tired to hold it up, and what Bud could see of his
face was blue. Gramps' breath came in hoarse, far-apart gasps--the most
terrifying sound the boy had ever heard.
chapter 6
Although he forgot the grouse he had just shot, Bud remembered to lean
his shotgun against a little pine. That was something he could not
forget, for he had been too long with too little not to know the worth
of whatever finally came his way, and the shotgun was precious. Having
put the gun where it was safe, he went to Gramps.
Bud's heart constricted with fear as he strode forward, but he did not
panic and it never even occurred to him to wish somebody else was there
to help. Not once in his life had Bud been able to run or even shrink
from a problem, and the pattern was set indelibly. He felt like sobbing
because Gramps was in trouble, but he knew he had to do all he could to
help. Wondering how Gram had known this might happen, Bud knelt beside
him, passed his right arm around the old man's shoulders and took
Gramps' shotgun in his left hand.
Gramps tried to speak, but he was unable to, and after relinquishing his
shotgun to Bud, he sank back heavily to a sitting position. Bud
tightened his right arm around Gramps' shoulder and slipped behind him
to give additional support with his shoulder. He did not know what was
the matter with Gramps, but he knew it was serious and that it would do
Gramps no good to be allowed to fall backward in the snow. Bud had no
idea what else to do except to get Gramps back to the house as soon as
possible. For the present there was nothing to do but wait.
Gramps' head remained slumped forward and his breath continued to come
in wheezes. He was as tense as a strung bow; even beneath Gramps'
hunting jacket Bud could feel taut muscles. But Gramps did not move or
even try to move.
It was unthinkable to leave him for even the short time it would take
to run to the farm and return with a sled. While Bud was trying to think
of a way to drag the old man back to the house, Gramps' head snapped
backward and jerked forward. He coughed violently and his head slumped
forward again. All at once the rattling gasps stopped, leaving silence
almost as terrifying as the agonized breathing had been. Then Gramps
said faintly, but with unmistakable disgust,
"I ought to be old enough to know better! Blamed nonsense!"
He raised his head and Bud saw that his face was no longer blue. But in
spite of the cold wind, a thin film of sweat glistened on the old man's
face. As Bud wiped it off with his handkerchief, he could see that
Gramps was not so tense and that the great vein in his neck, which had
been throbbing furiously, had subsided.
"Did I scare you, Bud?" Gramps said, raising his head and smiling.
"Uh-huh."
"Shouldn't have," Gramps said. "Wasn't any good reason for it. Just a
pile of blamed nonsense."
"Can you sit up without help?" Bud asked.
"What do you think I am? A baby? Sure I can sit up."
"I'll make a sled and have you back to the house in a jiffy."
"You'll make a sled?" Gramps said in something like his old voice. "Just
how do you aim to make it?"
"I don't know," Bud said grimly, "but I'll make one."
"I believe you would," Gramps conceded. "I believe you would do just
that, but it ain't necessary. I'll walk back."
And with a sudden lurch, Gramps heaved himself to his feet. He teetered
uncertainly, but before Bud could help, Gramps found his balance and
stood steadily. His face was pale, but he was no longer sweating and his
grin was warm.
"See? Sound as a yearling colt. Now you stop troubling your head about
me and find those two pat'tidges you dropped."
Then Bud remembered the pair of grouse that had fallen to his two shots.
He looked at his shotgun, which was still leaning against the little
pine very near his shooting position when he scored his double. He
reconstructed the approximate positions of the two grouse when he shot,
and the angle at which each had pitched into the snow. He looked
uncertainly at Gramps.
"Go ahead," the old man said. "You put 'em down and now you get 'em.
There's two things you don't leave in the woods; one's wounded game and
t'other's dead game. You get 'em."
Bud caught up his shotgun, cradled it in the crook of his arm, and
walked to where he thought the first bird would be. He found it almost
at once, pitched against a little cluster of blackberry canes with its
wings still spread as though it were ready to fly again. For the second
bird Bud searched five minutes. He put both in the game pocket of his
jacket and returned to Gramps.
"I found them."
"Good." Except that he was still pale, Gramps seemed almost his old
self. "That was nice shooting, Bud."
Bud nodded, too worried even to smile. Any other time Gramps' admission
that Bud had shot well would have been overwhelming, for although Gramps
seldom condemned harshly, he almost never praised at all.
"I guess," Gramps said with forced cheer, "we might as well go tell
Mother the hunt's over."
Bud said nothing. Gramps had recovered sufficiently so that he could
risk running to the house for the toboggan that lay across two wooden
horses in the barn. But he did not offer to go, for he sensed something
that did not appear on the surface. It was something that had taken root
the day Gramps was born and grown stronger with every day of his life.
Gramps had walked here; he would walk back, and Bud knew that to suggest
Gramps could not walk out without help would wound him deeply. Even
while he felt guilty because he did not ignore Gramps' wishes and go for
the toboggan anyway, Bud still sympathized. He, too, thought that a man
should stand on his own feet.
Trying not to appear obvious, Bud adjusted his gait to the old man's. It
was far slower than usual, but Gramps seemed not to notice that
everything was not as it should be, and Bud was grateful. Shep came out
of the woods to join them. He trotted twenty feet ahead, looked back to
make sure they were following, and then set a pace that kept him about
twenty feet in the lead. They were halfway to the farm when Gramps
spoke,
"There's no call to say anything to Mother 'bout this."
"She should know," Bud said.
"She should," Gramps agreed. "If it was anything bad she sure should.
But it's just a heap of blamed nonsense. Doc Beardsley told me that
himself. 'Most twenty-five years ago a horse kicked me in the head. It
never fazed me then, but seems like it's showing up now, and Doc says I
can expect these little cat fits every now'n again. They don't mean any
more than a headache or sore tooth. You wouldn't want to worry Gram,
would you?"
Bud said reluctantly, "No."
"She will worry if you tell her."
Bud looked down at the snow. Gram couldn't have known that Gramps would
be stricken, but she had certainly known that he _might_ be. Bud stole a
look at Gramps, who had started to walk almost at his normal pace and
who now bore only faint traces of his recent ordeal. If it was serious,
Gram should know. But if, as Gramps said, it was only a trifling
incident, it would only worry Gram to know. Bud reached his decision.
"I won't tell her," he promised.
"A right smart idea," Gramps said. "A fair half of the world's trouble
is brought on by people shooting off their mouths when they'd do a lot
better to keep 'em shut. You have plenty of horse sense, Bud."
Bud thought suddenly of the little black buck, and he felt an almost
uncontrollable yearning to seek him out. The buck was his brother,
through whom Bud had discovered the first key that had helped open a
series of magic doors. The black buck, Bud felt, would help him reach
the correct decision now about whether Gram should know. But the buck
was not at hand, and now they were too near the house not to continue.
Gramps asked, far too casually, "How do I look?"
Bud said, "All right," and Gramps did look all right--a bit tired,
perhaps, and a little pale, but not like a man who had been as
desperately ill as he had been. They brushed the snow from their pacs
and entered the kitchen.
Gram looked intently at Gramps. "Do you feel all right, Delbert?"
Gramps said, "Nope. Anybody with half an eye can see I'm in bed with
whooping cough, scarlet fever and hangnails."
Bud caught his breath, for obviously Gram had seen through Gramps'
nonchalance. Normally there would have been more questions, but now Gram
had something else on her mind. With a flourish, she plucked a letter
from her apron pocket.
"From Helen!" she exclaimed. "She'll be here with Hal and the children
on Christmas! Isn't that nice? With the other children and counting the
grandchildren, there'll be at least thirty-three for Christmas!"
"Wonderful!" Gramps agreed. "Let's hope they stay more than just one
day!"
"Helen Carruthers said she'll sleep the overflow if they do," Gram said.
"With her children gone, too, and Joab in the hospital, she's lost in
that big house. She told me so over the phone."
Gramps said firmly, "When our young'uns and their young'uns come home,
they stay here."
The house would be spilling over with Bennetts, in-laws of Bennetts and
grandchildren of Bennetts. Something within Bud turned stone cold and
for a moment he wanted to die as he realized he did not have first claim
or any real claim on the affections of these two people he had come to
love so dearly. They had children of their own, natural children, and
the fact that he was an orphan seemed more bitter to Bud than it ever
had before. He felt it would have been better if he never had come here,
for he had given his whole heart to Gram and Gramps who already had so
many that there couldn't possibly be room for one more.
Gram and Gramps began a happy discussion of the coming holiday. Helen
Carruthers, who was so lonely anyway, would be glad to come in four or
five days before Christmas to help Gram get ready. Naturally, Helen
would leave on the twenty-fourth to spend Christmas with Joab--and
wasn't it a pity that he had had to be sent to a hospital almost two
hundred miles from home when, if he was within reasonable distance,
Helen could visit him so much oftener? But there would be plenty of help
anyway. Gram hadn't raised her daughters without teaching them what to
do in a kitchen.
Bud slipped out unobtrusively, and Shep followed him. As soon as they
were hidden by a corner of the house, Bud hugged the collie fiercely.
Then, with Shep beside him, he set off down the old tote road to find
the black fawn.
The afternoon was waning when he returned, having seen five deer but not
the black fawn. Although it was still early for chores, Bud cleaned the
cow stable, fed and milked the four cows and took care of the milk. He
looked to the horses and went to the chicken house, where this time he
saw only the usual flock of mongrel chickens.
He collected the eggs from the nests and emerged from the chicken house
to see Munn Mackie coming up the drive in his truck. A small building
was chained securely onto the body of the truck. Gramps came from the
house, buttoning his jacket as he came, and Munn stopped his truck.
"Where do you want her, Del?"
"Beside the hen house."
Munn's truck growled across the snow and came to a halt. Munn jumped
from the cab, made a ramp of two-by-sixes and jockeyed the building onto
the two-by-sixes until it skidded safely to the ground beside the hen
house.
As Gramps paid Munn and the trucker drove away, Bud glanced at the
little building beside the hen house. Until this afternoon he would have
been eager to know why Munn had brought it and what it was for. Now he
did not care.
"Shall we get the chores done?" Gramps asked.
"They're all done," Bud said.
* * * * *
The snowplow panted ahead of the school bus like a prehistoric monster.
In some places there was only a dusting of snow and the plow raced
along. In others there were drifts up to four feet deep, and the plow
shifted into low gear and attacked the deep snow with its blade,
growling like an angry dog attacking an enemy.
In a seat next to a window Bud studied the falling snow and could not
help sharing in the excitement that had set in almost three weeks ago
and had mounted ever since. The opening of the deer season was one of
the major events of the year in Dishnoe County. Everybody who lived in
the county and had a firearm was sure to be out that day and there would
be many hunters from other places as well.
The Haleyville Consolidated School was not exempt from the influences of
the season. Some boys from the fourth grade, more from the fifth and
practically every boy from the sixth grade through high school would be
absent on the opening day, and no excuse would be expected or required
from them. Many of the girls would be out, too, and only a state law
prevented the teachers from closing the school and joining their pupils
in the cutover woods.
A surging bank of heavy clouds had covered the sky when Bud had left
home in the morning. At noon a high wind had risen suddenly and snow had
followed. Although only about four inches had fallen so far, the wind
was making heavy drifts. Bud turned to his seatmate, a youngster who was
tackling the complexities of the eighth grade for the third time. His
name was Goethe Shakespeare Umberdehoven.
"Look at her come down, Get!"
"Yeah."
"There'll be tracking tomorrow."
"Yeah."
"You going out?"
"Yeah. We get a deer we can sell another pig and have more money."
This translation of getting a deer into financial terms was too much for
Bud, who went back to staring at the snow. Soon only his physical self
remained in the bus as his imagination took him into the deer woods with
Gramps and the little thirty-thirty carbine Gramps had taught him to
shoot. They were hot on the fresh trail of Old Yellowfoot and before
long--by a clever ruse, the details of which Bud's imagination skipped
over--they had outwitted the ruling monarch of Bennett's Woods. Knowing
that there was no hope unless he ran, Old Yellowfoot raced away,
eighteen feet to the jump, and Bud followed with his rifle. With the
first shot Old Yellowfoot crumpled in the snow.
Then Bud heard the bus driver saying, "Hey, Sloan. You aim to get out in
the next hour or so?"
Bud looked up to see that the bus was parked at the Bennett's drive. He
squeezed past Get Umberdehoven and ran up the drive, stopping long
enough to ruffle Shep's ears when he came bounding to meet him.
Daydreaming about Old Yellowfoot had made him feel better. The arrival
of Gram and Gramps' children and grandchildren was as certain as the
rising of the sun. Bud knew that they would displace him, for they
belonged and he did not. But Christmas was not yet at hand and, maybe,
if he wished hard enough, it never would come. Anyhow, there were at
least the days before Christmas, and he decided to live for today and
let tomorrow take care of itself.
In spite of the snow, Gramps was working on the little building that
Munn Mackie had brought in his truck. Gramps had installed new and
larger windows, put in insulation and rebuilt the door and hung it on
new hinges. He was replacing some of the outside boards when Bud came
up.
Bud asked no questions although now he wanted to. But he had ignored the
building the day it was delivered, and pride prevented his asking about
it now.
"By gummy," Gramps said over the blows of his hammer, which were
strangely muffled in the storm, "sure looks as though we hit it right."
"We sure did," Bud agreed.
Gramps said solemnly, "Got the same feeling in my bones as I had just
before we caught Old Shark. Only this feeling's 'bout Old Yellowfoot.
We'll nail him sure before the season's out."
"Gee! Are you sure?" Bud said, his reserve gone.
"Sure's a body can be 'thout putting it down on paper and swearing to it
in front of Squire Sedlock. Yep. We're going to lay that old tyrant
low."
"Gee!" Bud said again. "That'll be something! I'll run along and
change."
"Come out when you're set if you've a mind to."
The storm-muffled thumps of Gramps' hammer were magic in Bud's ears as
he ran around to the kitchen door, for in his imagination they had
become rifle shots, widely spaced and well aimed, as Bud the master
hunter once again maneuvered Old Yellowfoot into a corner from which
there was no escape. Then he burst into the kitchen.
"Hi, Gram."
"Allan! I thought sure you'd be late, the way the wind's drifting this
snow."
"We followed the snowplow up," Bud said, going to the table where his
after-school snack always waited. He took a long drink of milk and a
bite from a ginger cookie. "What's Gramps doing?"
"Trying to keep from driving himself and me too crazy," Gram said,
sniffing. "I do swear, he's more anxious than a boy on his first hunt!
All day long he hasn't done much of anything except ask me if I think
you'll get Old Yellowfoot. It's a good thing he's working it off."
Bud asked, "Do you think we'll get Old Yellowfoot?"
Gram smiled. "Let's put it this way. I think you'll have fun hunting
him."
Bud finished the last cookie, drained the glass of milk, and sat
silently for a moment. Then he asked a question that he had often been
on the point of asking.
"Was Gramps ever kicked by a horse?"
"Land yes! Every farmer who uses horses has been kicked. At least, I
never heard of one who hasn't."
"Was he ever kicked in the head?"
Gram laughed. "Lord love you, child. Who's been telling you fairy
tales?"
"I just wondered."
Gram said dryly, "I've tended Delbert for a good many ailments but never
yet, thank the Lord, for a horse-kicked head. What are you getting at,
Allan?"
"I just sort of wondered," Bud said noncommittally.
He went up to his room more puzzled than ever. On the grouse hunt Gramps
had said that a horse had kicked him in the head twenty-five years ago.
But now Gram said there had never been any such kick, and Gram never
lied. Still, if Gramps had not wanted her to worry after the grouse
hunt, he had probably felt the same way twenty-five years ago. Perhaps
he had never told her that he had been kicked in the head.
When Bud went out again, Gramps was in the cow stable and had already
begun the milking. He was bubbling with enthusiasm. Gramps did
everything with zest, but whenever there was anything exciting in
prospect, he almost exploded with energy.
By the time they had finished the chores and eaten supper, Bud was
almost giddy with excitement, for now the hour was at hand. He knew as
he went to bed that he would never sleep a wink, but the next thing he
knew Gramps was shaking his shoulder.
"Time to get moving, Bud."
It was dark outside, but that did not seem unusual because daylight did
not come until after seven these days, and every morning for the past
several weeks Bud had awakened in darkness. When he looked at his clock,
however, he saw that it was a quarter to four. He sprang out of bed,
instantly awake and exhilarated by the mere thought of starting anywhere
at such an hour. But by the time he had reached the stable, Gramps had
already milked three of the cows.
There was still only a faint hint of daylight when, the chores done,
breakfast eaten and sack lunches in their jackets, they started into
Bennett's Woods. Moored with a ten-foot hank of clothesline, Shep rolled
his eyes and mournfully watched them go. Bud felt sorry for him until
Gramps explained that, although most hunters are sportsmen, there are
always a few who shoot first and look afterward. Two years ago some of
that kind had shot one of Abel Carson's Holstein heifers, and said
afterward that they thought it was a pinto buck. Since Shep liked to
wander into the woods when there was nothing more interesting to do, it
was better to leave him tied than to risk his being shot.