chapter 2
The fawn trembled on legs so new and untried, and so slender that theyseemed scarcely able to support his jack-rabbit-sized body. His earswere ridiculously long and his staring, fascinated eyes were all out ofproportion to his tiny head. The white stripes and spots that mark theyoung of all white-tailed deer stood out against an undercoating of hairthat was abnormally dark; on the neck and shoulders it was nearly black.
The gentle Shep wagged his tail and took a step nearer this tiny wildbaby. Raising a front foot, the fawn tapped a hoof no bigger than atwenty-five-cent piece and looked back over his shoulder at the laurelcopse where the doe had left him. Scenting the approach of a dog and ahuman being, she had fled. The little buck should have stayed in hiding,but his natural curiosity had overridden the doe's warning not to move.
For a moment Bud was too bewildered and delighted to think clearly. Thenhe was lifted on a cloud of ecstasy and sympathy. He was sure the fawnhad been abandoned by his father and mother or that they were dead. LikeBud, the little buck was left to shift for himself in a cheerless andfriendless world, and Bud felt that he was forever bound to this tinydeer. There was a bond between them that nothing else could share andnothing could ever break. As long as either endured, Bud decided, eachwould love the other because each understood the other. They werebrothers.
"Hi, little guy," Bud said softly.
Shep, tail wagging, head bent and ears tumbled forward, stayed besidehim as he took the fawn in both arms. Soft as a cloud, the fawnsurrendered to his embrace and gravely smelled his arm with a nose asdelicate as an orchid.
"Don't be afraid," Bud crooned. "You won't be hurt. Nothing will everhurt you."
He spoke almost fiercely, mindful of his own many hurts, and stared intospace as he cradled the fawn. Shep sat near, his jaws parted and beamingapproval as only a dog can. Bud's heart spiraled upward. Now, at last,he had found a true friend.
He was unaware of passing time or of long evening shadows. He only knewthat he wanted to stay with this little black buck forever.
* * * * *
"What'd you find, Bud?"
Bud had not heard Gramps Bennett come up behind him. A terrible visionof the glass-eyed buck's head in the farm living room arose in Bud'smind and he looked about wildly for a place in which to hide the fawn.But it was too late to hide it, and he turned slowly, so as not tostartle the little buck, and said truculently,
"Shep found this little lost deer."
"Well, now," Gramps said, ignoring Bud's belligerent tone, "doggone ifhe didn't. Cute little feller, too, and he's sure taken a shine to you."
Gramps stooped beside the pair and stroked the fawn softly. Bud staredat him, for Gramps was no longer the tyrant who acted as if Bud were amachine for getting beans weeded and cows milked.
"Its . . . Its . . .," Bud tried to get out.
And then he could not explain. How could he describe all the terror, allthe loneliness and all the fear that he had felt to one who had neverknown these things? Bud gritted his teeth and looked stubbornly away.
"Its what?" Gramps asked.
"Its father and mother have run away and left it," Bud blurted out.
"Let me put you straight on that, Bud. Its mother ran away when shesmelled or saw you and Shep coming. Fathers of baby deer like this,well, they just don't care much for their young 'uns."
Bud was astonished. "You mean it had no father?"
Gramps said solemnly, "I haven't seen any fawn-carrying storks roundhere for might' nigh two years. This baby had a father all right, maybeOld Yellowfoot himself."
"Who's Old Yellowfoot?"
"If you'd been round here for two months 'stead of just a couple days,you'd never ask that," Gramps said. "Old Yellowfoot's nothing 'cept thebiggest and smartest buck ever left a hoofprint in Bennett's Woods or,as far as that goes, in Dishnoe County. Why, Boy, Old Yellowfoot's got arack of antlers the like of which even I never saw, and I've beenhunting deer in these parts for, let's see, it's lacking two of fiftyyears."
"You . . ." Bud hugged the fawn a little tighter. "You shoot the deer?"
Gramps said seriously, "You look at that fawn, then you look at me, andyou ask in the same tone you might use if you thought I was going tomurder some babies, 'You shoot the deer?' Well, I don't shoot the deer.I could, mind you, 'cause next to lacing your own shoes, just about theeasiest thing round here is shooting a deer. But I don't even hunt thedeer. I hunt Old Yellowfoot and some day, so help me, his head'll hang'longside the one you saw in the sitting room."
"I could never like it!" Bud said.
Gramps remained serious. "You say that, but you don't know what you'retalking 'bout 'cause you never tried it. You see this baby and he sureis cute as a button--he's going to be a black buck when he grows up--butright now he hasn't the sense of a half-witted mud turtle. That's not tobe wondered at. He hasn't had time to learn sense and, if he had any, hewouldn't let you handle him like he was a puppy. You think he's sopretty, so nice, so friendly, and you're right. You think also he's adeer, and he sure is. You go astray when you think anybody who'd shootthis fawn, a deer, is more brute than human and you're partly right.But, Boy, there's as much difference 'twixt this baby and Old Yellowfootas there is between a sparrow and an ostrich!"
Interested in spite of himself, Bud asked, "What's the difference?"
"The difference? Old Yellowfoot ain't as smart as the men that hunt him.He's a darn' sight smarter. Hunt him high and hunt him low, and if youget one look at him, in cover too thick for shooting or so far off thatit's useless to shoot, you can call yourself a hunter. Hang his head onthe wall and you're in a class with the best. Old Yellowfoot's educatedand he got his education the hard way. Hunters gave it to him. For thepast five years, fifty hunters I know of have had him marked. Nobody'sbrought him in, and that says enough. But maybe, come deer season, youand me will nail him. What say?"
Bud stirred uneasily, for this was something new to him. In every crisisof his life he had found the love and affection he craved in animals. Itwas unthinkable to hurt, let alone to kill, a bird or beast. He askedfinally, "How long have you been hunting Old Yellowfoot?"
"Ever since he's sported the biggest rack of antlers of any buck I know.That's five years."
Bud breathed a little easier. Gramps had hunted the big buck for fiveyears; it was highly unlikely that he would kill him the sixth year.When Bud remained silent, Gramps asked again,
"What say? When the season rolls round, are you and me going to hunt OldYellowfoot?"
Bud said reluctantly, "I'll go with you. I'll carry your gun."
"Pooh!" Gramps snorted. "In the first place it ain't a gun. It's arifle. What's more, you'll be carrying your own. Seven boys and fourgirls Mother and me raised on this farm. Every one hunted, and when theyleft the farm, they left their rifles and shotguns. One of 'em's sure tosuit you."
Bud thought of a beautiful dapple-gray toy horse with a real leathersaddle and bridle that he had seen in a store window when he had beensix. He had wanted that horse more than he had ever wanted anything andevery night he had prayed for it. But after his birthday had come andgone and his letters to Santa Claus been unavailing, he had concludedthat dreams never come true and from then on had stifled his desires.
Now, listening to Gramps, Bud wanted a gun of his own more than he hadwanted anything since the dapple-gray toy horse. He was not sure justwhat he would do with a rifle, except that he would never kill anything,but that did not lessen the glory of having one of his own like DanielBoone, Jedediah Smith, Kit Carson, Buffalo Bill and a host of otherheroes.
"Gosh," Bud said at last.
"I know what you mean," Gramps said, "and it's time we were gettingback. Mother will fret if we're away too long."
Bud stooped and gathered the black fawn in his arms. It was as wispy asit looked and seemed to have no weight as it snuggled contentedlyagainst him.
Gramps said, "We'll leave him, Bud."
"Leave him?"
&nb
sp; It was a cry of anguish. The thought of abandoning the little buck,already once abandoned, was unbearable. He had forged a true bond withanother living creature that had nobody except him. He couldn't leaveit.
"We'll leave him," Gramps repeated firmly. "He belongs in the woods."
"Hunters will kill him!"
Gramps smiled. "Come deer season, that little guy won't have aughtexcept buttons. Next year he'll be a spike--that's a buck with no tineson his antlers--or maybe a forkhorn--that's a buck with one tine. He'ssafe for a while. If he's smart and lucky, maybe he's safe for a longwhile."
"He'll die with no one to look after him!"
"He has somebody to look after him. Maybe his pappy don't pay him anyheed but, though she run off and left him when you and Shep came, hismammy sure thinks a heap of her son. There are those who say she'llnever come back now that he's been handled and has human scent on him.If ever they say that to you, you tell 'em, 'Hogwash.' She'll be back."
Bud hesitated. All his life he had searched for something, and now thathe had found the fawn, he was being asked to leave it. Rebellion mountedwithin him.
"On second thought," Gramps said disinterestedly, "fetch him along ifyou've a mind to. His mammy'll be sorehearted for a time when she comesback for him and he ain't here, but she'll get over it."
Bud gasped. The mother he had never known was a hundred differentpeople, most of them imaginary. He had never known exactly what she waslike, or even what he wanted her to be like. But if he ever found her,he knew how she would feel if he were taken away.
"We'll leave him," he said.
He put the fawn down, and the little black buck minced a few steps andjerked his tail playfully. As he watched, Bud knew that the bond betweenhim and the fawn would remain. They were blood brothers even if theirform and species were different.
Reluctantly he fell in beside Gramps and, with Shep tagging at theirheels, they started back toward the farmhouse. Bud turned to look againat the fawn. He thought he saw the doe emerge from a thicket and returnto her lost baby, but he realized at once that he was imagining what hewanted to see. Then they rounded a bend and the next time Bud lookedback he could not see the fawn at all. He stifled an almost overpoweringurge to run back to the fawn.
"His mother will really come back to care for him?" he asked Gramps.
"Don't you fret, she'll come back and like as not she's there now. Doyou like to fish for trout, Bud?"
"I don't know. I've never tried it."
"What did you fish for?"
"Nothing. I just never fished."
"Imagine that," Gramps said happily. "You'll start, with me tomorrowmorning. I'll show you the biggest gosh-darned brown trout as eversucked a fly off Skunk Crick, and ain't that a heck of a name for acrick? But this trout, he's named right good. Old Shark, they call him,and he's busted enough leaders and rods to stock a good-sized tacklestore. Wait'll you see him."
The way Gramps spoke of Old Yellowfoot, the great buck, and Old Shark,the great trout, drove the black fawn from Bud's thoughts. He foughtagainst it, but he could not help a warm feeling toward this man whospoke of wild creatures, or at least of mighty wild creatures with nearreverence and who believed that, if you were going to kill, or try tokill them, you should pit yourself against a worthy opponent.
What had happened to the old farmer who had seemed able to think only ofstarting the day at dawn with milking his four cows and of ending itafter dark with milking the same cows? Then Bud's conscience smote him.
"We can't fish tomorrow!"
"And why not?"
"I came here to work."
Gramps said dryly, "The work is always with us, and sometimes it seemslike Old Shark's always been with us, too. But while the work won't end,Old Shark will if I lay another fly into him. Or maybe you'll do it?"
Bud started to speak and stopped. Many a time during his years in theorphanage he had watched prospective parents come and go, and he hadyearned to go with some of them. Then, along with most of the others whohad passed the age of seven without being adopted, he had finallyrealized that nobody wanted him. Nor would anybody want him until he wasold enough to work. And if he did not work, how could he justify hisexistence?
"What were you going to say?" Gramps asked.
"I'm not afraid to work."
"'Course you ain't. Nobody worth his salt is afraid to work, but there'sa time for work and," Gramps paused as if for emphasis, "there's a timefor fishing. Tomorrow we'll milk the cows, turn 'em out to pasture, andgo fishing."
"Yes, sir."
"Call me Gramps," Gramps said.
"Yes, Gramps," Bud said warily. He was bewildered by the idea of goingfishing when he should be working. Where was the trap, he wondered?
They came to the house, went around to the kitchen door, and Shep wentto his bed on the back porch. The kitchen was brightly lighted, and Budthought he saw Gram back hastily away from the door, as though she hadbeen watching for them. But when they entered, Gram was sitting at thetable knitting. Near her, at Bud's place, was a tall glass of cold milkand a huge cut of strawberry pie. Gram looked over her glasses andfrowned at Bud but she spoke to Gramps.
"Delbert, you were a long while bringing Allan back."
"Now, Mother," he said, "it's been nigh onto fourteen years sinceanybody saw a man-eating lion in Bennett's Woods."
"Hmph!" Gram snorted. "It might not be so funny if that boy had strayedinto the woods and got lost."
"But he didn't get lost," Gramps said reasonably. "Bud and me, we metout in the woods and had us a good long talk."
Something in Gramps' voice turned Gram's frown into a smile.
"Well, you're both here now and I suppose that's what matters. Allan,sit down and eat your pie and drink your milk."
"I'm really not hungry," Bud protested.
"Pooh! All boys are hungry all the time. Sit down and eat."
"Yes, ma'am."
He sat down, took a long drink of the cold milk, ate a fork full of pieand found that he was hungry after all. Looking around Gram's kitchenas he ate, he thought of the one at the orphanage where, in spite of thethousands of dishes he had wiped there and the bushels of potatoes hehad peeled, he had never been invited to sit down to a glass of coldmilk and a cut of pie. It was a very disquieting thing, and his warinessmounted. He looked furtively around again for a trap, but Gram hadreturned to her knitting and Gramps was delving into a leather-coveredcase.
Gramps' case was a homemade thing divided into a number of smallcompartments. One by one, he took from their respective compartments anassortment of varicolored objects and arranged them on a piece ofnewspaper. They looked like insects but were made from tiny bits offeathers and wisps of hair. Each one was arranged about a hook. Thebiggest was not large and the smallest was so tiny and so fragile thatit looked as if the merest puff of wind would whirl it away. Bud lookedon agog.
"Dry flies," Gramps said. "I don't know what he'll take, but we'll tryhim first with a black gnat."
"Yes, sir."
"Call me Gramps," the old man growled.
"Yes, Gramps."
This time it slipped out, naturally and easily, almost warmly, for theflies were so interesting that Bud forgot everything else. Although hehad never been fishing, he had always believed that you fished with astout pole, a strong hank of line, a hook and worms for bait. But thesedry flies were plainly conceived by one artist and tied by another. Itwas easy to see that only an artist could use them properly. Gramps tookone of the smaller ones between his thumb and forefinger, and the flyseemed even smaller in comparison with the hand holding it.
"Yup, I think a number-fourteen black gnat is what he'll hit, whichproves all over again what a darn' old fool I am. Saying aforehand whatOld Shark will hit is like saying it will rain on the seventh of May twoyears from now. Might and might not, and the chances are three hundredand sixty-four to one it won't. Have a look, Bud."
Bud took the delicate mite in his own hand and held it gingerly. Thelonger he looked, the
more wonderful it seemed.
"Where do you get them?" he asked.
"I tie 'em. Got good and tired of using store-bought flies that won'ttake anything 'cept baby trout or those just out of a hatchery thathaven't any sense. Let's see it, Bud."
Gramps returned the fly to its proper place and Bud was half glad andhalf sorry to give it up. He was afraid he might damage the fly, but atthe same time he yearned to examine it at length. He stole a glance atGramps' huge hands and marvelled. It was easy to believe that thosehands could guide a plow, shoe a horse, fit a hoe and do almost any jobthat demanded sheer strength. But it seemed incredible that they couldassemble with such perfection anything as minute and fragile as a dryfly.
Suddenly, and surprisingly, for he was no more aware of being tired thanhe had been of being hungry, Bud yawned. Gram looked up.
"You'd best get to bed, Allan. Growing boys need their rest as much asthey do their food."
"Good idea, Bud," Gramps said. "If you and me are going to get themilking done and hit Skunk Crick when we ought, we'll have to roll outearly."
Bud said good night and went up the worn stairs to his room. For amoment he stared out of the window into the night, yearning toward thelittle black buck and worrying about how it was faring. It seemedimpossible for anything so small and helpless to survive. But he was notas desperately worried as he had been, for Gramps had said that the doewould return to take care of it. And Bud knew that in Gramps he had atlast found somebody he could trust.
Leaving his bedroom door open to take advantage of a cool breeze blowingthrough the window, Bud stretched luxuriously on the feather-filledmattress and pulled the blankets up to his chin. Gram's voice came upthe stairway.
"Well, Delbert?"
"He came round," he heard Gramps say. "He came round lot sooner'n Ifigured. Found himself a fawn, he did, cutest little widget you everlaid eyes on and almost black." There was a short silence and Grampsfinished, "He thought it was 'nother orphan."
"So?"
"So tomorrow morning Bud and me are going to fish for Old Shark."
"How will he tie that in with being worked like a Mexican slave hisfirst two days with us?"
Gramps said, "You take a skittish, scared colt out of pasture and put itto work, you work it hard enough so it forgets about being skittish andscared. And Mexicans aren't slaves, Mother."
"You, Delbert!"
"It worked," Gramps said.
Gram sniffed, "So'd Allan, and no wonder. You wouldn't go down and picka boy, as any sensible man would have done. You wrote a letter sayingwe'll give bed, board and schooling to a strong, healthy boy who'scapable of working. Send the boy! I hope Allan didn't see that letter!"
"It's no mind if he did, and why do you suppose I wrote in 'stead ofgoing in? Think I wanted that horse-faced old bat who runs the place tohave fits?"
"Miss Dempster is not a horse-faced old bat!" Gram said sharply.
"She'd still have fits if she had to figure out anything not writtendown in her rule book, and it says in her book that older orphans arefor working only. Anyway what does it matter? Ain't we got a young'unround the place again?"
"Yes!" Gram sighed. "Thank Heaven!"
Bud heard the last of this conversation only dimly, for sleep wasovercoming him. He was even more vaguely aware of someone ascending thestairs, pausing beside his bed and planting a kiss on his cheek. Then hewas lost in a happy dream of a mother who loved and cherished him andwhom he loved and cherished.