chapter 6
Although he forgot the grouse he had just shot, Bud remembered to leanhis shotgun against a little pine. That was something he could notforget, for he had been too long with too little not to know the worthof whatever finally came his way, and the shotgun was precious. Havingput the gun where it was safe, he went to Gramps.
Bud's heart constricted with fear as he strode forward, but he did notpanic and it never even occurred to him to wish somebody else was thereto help. Not once in his life had Bud been able to run or even shrinkfrom a problem, and the pattern was set indelibly. He felt like sobbingbecause Gramps was in trouble, but he knew he had to do all he could tohelp. Wondering how Gram had known this might happen, Bud knelt besidehim, passed his right arm around the old man's shoulders and tookGramps' shotgun in his left hand.
Gramps tried to speak, but he was unable to, and after relinquishing hisshotgun to Bud, he sank back heavily to a sitting position. Budtightened his right arm around Gramps' shoulder and slipped behind himto give additional support with his shoulder. He did not know what wasthe matter with Gramps, but he knew it was serious and that it would doGramps no good to be allowed to fall backward in the snow. Bud had noidea what else to do except to get Gramps back to the house as soon aspossible. For the present there was nothing to do but wait.
Gramps' head remained slumped forward and his breath continued to comein wheezes. He was as tense as a strung bow; even beneath Gramps'hunting jacket Bud could feel taut muscles. But Gramps did not move oreven try to move.
It was unthinkable to leave him for even the short time it would taketo run to the farm and return with a sled. While Bud was trying to thinkof a way to drag the old man back to the house, Gramps' head snappedbackward and jerked forward. He coughed violently and his head slumpedforward again. All at once the rattling gasps stopped, leaving silencealmost as terrifying as the agonized breathing had been. Then Grampssaid 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 inspite of the cold wind, a thin film of sweat glistened on the old man'sface. As Bud wiped it off with his handkerchief, he could see thatGramps was not so tense and that the great vein in his neck, which hadbeen 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 apile 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. "Justhow 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 justthat, but it ain't necessary. I'll walk back."
And with a sudden lurch, Gramps heaved himself to his feet. He teetereduncertainly, but before Bud could help, Gramps found his balance andstood steadily. His face was pale, but he was no longer sweating and hisgrin was warm.
"See? Sound as a yearling colt. Now you stop troubling your head aboutme 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 littlepine very near his shooting position when he scored his double. Hereconstructed the approximate positions of the two grouse when he shot,and the angle at which each had pitched into the snow. He lookeduncertainly 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 andt'other's dead game. You get 'em."
Bud caught up his shotgun, cradled it in the crook of his arm, andwalked to where he thought the first bird would be. He found it almostat once, pitched against a little cluster of blackberry canes with itswings still spread as though it were ready to fly again. For the secondbird Bud searched five minutes. He put both in the game pocket of hisjacket and returned to Gramps.
"I found them."
"Good." Except that he was still pale, Gramps seemed almost his oldself. "That was nice shooting, Bud."
Bud nodded, too worried even to smile. Any other time Gramps' admissionthat Bud had shot well would have been overwhelming, for although Grampsseldom condemned harshly, he almost never praised at all.
"I guess," Gramps said with forced cheer, "we might as well go tellMother the hunt's over."
Bud said nothing. Gramps had recovered sufficiently so that he couldrisk running to the house for the toboggan that lay across two woodenhorses in the barn. But he did not offer to go, for he sensed somethingthat did not appear on the surface. It was something that had taken rootthe 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 suggestGramps could not walk out without help would wound him deeply. Evenwhile he felt guilty because he did not ignore Gramps' wishes and go forthe toboggan anyway, Bud still sympathized. He, too, thought that a manshould stand on his own feet.
Trying not to appear obvious, Bud adjusted his gait to the old man's. Itwas far slower than usual, but Gramps seemed not to notice thateverything was not as it should be, and Bud was grateful. Shep came outof the woods to join them. He trotted twenty feet ahead, looked back tomake sure they were following, and then set a pace that kept him abouttwenty feet in the lead. They were halfway to the farm when Grampsspoke,
"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 thathimself. 'Most twenty-five years ago a horse kicked me in the head. Itnever fazed me then, but seems like it's showing up now, and Doc says Ican expect these little cat fits every now'n again. They don't mean anymore 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 wouldbe stricken, but she had certainly known that he _might_ be. Bud stole alook at Gramps, who had started to walk almost at his normal pace andwho 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 triflingincident, 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 troubleis brought on by people shooting off their mouths when they'd do a lotbetter to keep 'em shut. You have plenty of horse sense, Bud."
Bud thought suddenly of the little black buck, and he felt an almostuncontrollable yearning to seek him out. The buck was his brother,through whom Bud had discovered the first key that had helped open aseries of magic doors. The black buck, Bud felt, would help him reachthe correct decision now about whether Gram should know. But the buckwas 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 asdesperately ill as he had been. They brushed the snow from their pacsand 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 withwhooping 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 Gramhad something else on her mind. With a flourish, she plucked a letterfrom her apron pocket.
"From Helen!" she exclaimed. "She'll be here
with Hal and the childrenon Christmas! Isn't that nice? With the other children and counting thegrandchildren, there'll be at least thirty-three for Christmas!"
"Wonderful!" Gramps agreed. "Let's hope they stay more than just oneday!"
"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 inthat 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 andgrandchildren of Bennetts. Something within Bud turned stone cold andfor a moment he wanted to die as he realized he did not have first claimor any real claim on the affections of these two people he had come tolove so dearly. They had children of their own, natural children, andthe fact that he was an orphan seemed more bitter to Bud than it everhad 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 somany that there couldn't possibly be room for one more.
Gram and Gramps began a happy discussion of the coming holiday. HelenCarruthers, who was so lonely anyway, would be glad to come in four orfive days before Christmas to help Gram get ready. Naturally, Helenwould leave on the twenty-fourth to spend Christmas with Joab--andwasn't it a pity that he had had to be sent to a hospital almost twohundred miles from home when, if he was within reasonable distance,Helen could visit him so much oftener? But there would be plenty of helpanyway. Gram hadn't raised her daughters without teaching them what todo in a kitchen.
Bud slipped out unobtrusively, and Shep followed him. As soon as theywere 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 findthe black fawn.
The afternoon was waning when he returned, having seen five deer but notthe black fawn. Although it was still early for chores, Bud cleaned thecow stable, fed and milked the four cows and took care of the milk. Helooked to the horses and went to the chicken house, where this time hesaw only the usual flock of mongrel chickens.
He collected the eggs from the nests and emerged from the chicken houseto see Munn Mackie coming up the drive in his truck. A small buildingwas chained securely onto the body of the truck. Gramps came from thehouse, 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 jumpedfrom the cab, made a ramp of two-by-sixes and jockeyed the building ontothe two-by-sixes until it skidded safely to the ground beside the henhouse.
As Gramps paid Munn and the trucker drove away, Bud glanced at thelittle building beside the hen house. Until this afternoon he would havebeen eager to know why Munn had brought it and what it was for. Now hedid 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 racedalong. In others there were drifts up to four feet deep, and the plowshifted 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 nothelp sharing in the excitement that had set in almost three weeks agoand had mounted ever since. The opening of the deer season was one ofthe major events of the year in Dishnoe County. Everybody who lived inthe county and had a firearm was sure to be out that day and there wouldbe many hunters from other places as well.
The Haleyville Consolidated School was not exempt from the influences ofthe season. Some boys from the fourth grade, more from the fifth andpractically every boy from the sixth grade through high school would beabsent on the opening day, and no excuse would be expected or requiredfrom them. Many of the girls would be out, too, and only a state lawprevented the teachers from closing the school and joining their pupilsin the cutover woods.
A surging bank of heavy clouds had covered the sky when Bud had lefthome in the morning. At noon a high wind had risen suddenly and snow hadfollowed. Although only about four inches had fallen so far, the windwas making heavy drifts. Bud turned to his seatmate, a youngster who wastackling the complexities of the eighth grade for the third time. Hisname 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 forBud, who went back to staring at the snow. Soon only his physical selfremained in the bus as his imagination took him into the deer woods withGramps and the little thirty-thirty carbine Gramps had taught him toshoot. They were hot on the fresh trail of Old Yellowfoot and beforelong--by a clever ruse, the details of which Bud's imagination skippedover--they had outwitted the ruling monarch of Bennett's Woods. Knowingthat there was no hope unless he ran, Old Yellowfoot raced away,eighteen feet to the jump, and Bud followed with his rifle. With thefirst shot Old Yellowfoot crumpled in the snow.
Then Bud heard the bus driver saying, "Hey, Sloan. You aim to get out inthe next hour or so?"
Bud looked up to see that the bus was parked at the Bennett's drive. Hesqueezed past Get Umberdehoven and ran up the drive, stopping longenough to ruffle Shep's ears when he came bounding to meet him.
Daydreaming about Old Yellowfoot had made him feel better. The arrivalof Gram and Gramps' children and grandchildren was as certain as therising of the sun. Bud knew that they would displace him, for theybelonged 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 atleast the days before Christmas, and he decided to live for today andlet tomorrow take care of itself.
In spite of the snow, Gramps was working on the little building thatMunn Mackie had brought in his truck. Gramps had installed new andlarger windows, put in insulation and rebuilt the door and hung it onnew hinges. He was replacing some of the outside boards when Bud cameup.
Bud asked no questions although now he wanted to. But he had ignored thebuilding the day it was delivered, and pride prevented his asking aboutit now.
"By gummy," Gramps said over the blows of his hammer, which werestrangely 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 justbefore 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 itin front of Squire Sedlock. Yep. We're going to lay that old tyrantlow."
"Gee!" Bud said again. "That'll be something! I'll run along andchange."
"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 ashe ran around to the kitchen door, for in his imagination they hadbecome rifle shots, widely spaced and well aimed, as Bud the masterhunter once again maneuvered Old Yellowfoot into a corner from whichthere 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 thissnow."
"We followed the snowplow up," Bud said, going to the table where hisafter-school snack always waited. He took a long drink of milk and abite 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 thinkyou'll get Old Yellowfoot. It's a good thing h
e'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 huntinghim."
Bud finished the last cookie, drained the glass of milk, and satsilently for a moment. Then he asked a question that he had often beenon the point of asking.
"Was Gramps ever kicked by a horse?"
"Land yes! Every farmer who uses horses has been kicked. At least, Inever heard of one who hasn't."
"Was he ever kicked in the head?"
Gram laughed. "Lord love you, child. Who's been telling you fairytales?"
"I just wondered."
Gram said dryly, "I've tended Delbert for a good many ailments but neveryet, 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 Grampshad 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 neverlied. Still, if Gramps had not wanted her to worry after the grousehunt, he had probably felt the same way twenty-five years ago. Perhapshe 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 alreadybegun the milking. He was bubbling with enthusiasm. Gramps dideverything with zest, but whenever there was anything exciting inprospect, he almost exploded with energy.
By the time they had finished the chores and eaten supper, Bud wasalmost giddy with excitement, for now the hour was at hand. He knew ashe went to bed that he would never sleep a wink, but the next thing heknew Gramps was shaking his shoulder.
"Time to get moving, Bud."
It was dark outside, but that did not seem unusual because daylight didnot come until after seven these days, and every morning for the pastseveral 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 anywhereat such an hour. But by the time he had reached the stable, Gramps hadalready 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 intoBennett's Woods. Moored with a ten-foot hank of clothesline, Shep rolledhis eyes and mournfully watched them go. Bud felt sorry for him untilGramps explained that, although most hunters are sportsmen, there arealways a few who shoot first and look afterward. Two years ago some ofthat kind had shot one of Abel Carson's Holstein heifers, and saidafterward that they thought it was a pinto buck. Since Shep liked towander into the woods when there was nothing more interesting to do, itwas better to leave him tied than to risk his being shot.
The snow had stopped falling, and here in the woods it had drifted lessthan in the open country where the wind had a full sweep. There were fewdrifts and no deep ones, and the five inches of soft snow made apleasant cushion beneath Bud's pacs.
By almost imperceptible degrees the day lightened. They were perhaps ahalf mile from the house when Gramps stopped. He raised his rifle andsighted on a stump about a hundred yards away. Then he lowered hisrifle and said, "We'll wait here a bit, Bud."
"Why?"
"It ain't light enough to see the sights, and while I think OldYellowfoot will be hanging out in Dockerty's Swamp, he could be anywherefrom here on. If we jump him, we don't want to guess where we'reshooting."
Just then, they heard five shots.
"Fool!" Gramps growled. "He saw something move and, though it's alead-pipe cinch he couldn't tell what it was, he shot anyway. Those kindof hunters got less brains than the game they hunt."
Twenty minutes later there were three more shots spaced far enough apartto indicate that the hunter was taking aim. Gramps listened carefully.He sighted a second time on the stump, held his sight for a full threeseconds, and turned to Bud.
"What do you make of it?"
Bud raised his own rifle, centered the ivory bead of the front sight inthe notched rear, and aimed at a puff of snow that clung like a boll ofcotton to the stump. He lowered the rifle.
"It looks all right to me."
"You can see?"
"Well enough for a good aim."
"Come on, and from here on there's no talking."
Gramps slowed to a snail's pace, stopping every ten minutes or so tolook all around. Bud understood what he was doing, for while it is truethat deer are noted for their speed, it is a mistake to try to chasethem. If you slog as far as twenty miles a day through deer country, youare almost sure to see deer, but not as many as the hunter who workscarefully through a comparatively limited deer cover. Slow and easy isthe proper way nine times out of ten.
Rifles were cracking from all quarters now, sometimes three or four atonce, sometimes only one and occasionally none at all. Gramps stoppedsuddenly and pointed to two deer about a hundred and twenty yards away.Both were bucks. One bore a stunted rack of antlers, but the second hada trophy that would shame no hunter.
Gramps went on. The two bucks, aware now of their presence, each soundeda single blasting snort and bounded away. Bud watched them go withoutregret. Either buck would have been a fairly simple shot. But they werehunting Old Yellowfoot.
They saw seven more deer before they reached Dockerty's Swamp. Itcovered about seventy acres and was a tangle of high bush huckleberries,cedar, balsam and a few great hardwoods, whose branches rose gaunt andbare above the surrounding stunted growth. A bush-grown knoll flankedthe swamp and it was surrounded by low mountains that were covered withcutover hardwoods and patches of laurel and small evergreens. AlthoughDockerty's Swamp was well known as a refuge for deer, Gramps was one ofthe few who knew how to flush them out.
Gramps led Bud to the summit of the knoll and halted in a thicket sodense that they could see no farther than forty feet ahead of them.Gramps raised a forefinger, a signal for Bud to stay where he was.Foolish young deer might show themselves in sparse cover or even openmeadows, but a buck as wise as Old Yellowfoot would make for thethickest cover when Gramps chased him out of the swamp. It was aforegone conclusion that he would come up the knoll. All other ways outof the swamp were so sparsely forested that anything emerging would makean easy shot.
Two and a half hours after Gramps left, Bud saw a deer move farther downthe slope. Bud remained perfectly still. The deer was almost completelyhidden by brush and he was unable to tell if it was a buck or doe oreven how large it was.
Ten seconds later the black fawn stepped into plain sight.
He was a well-grown buck now, and sturdy, and his hair was so dark thatthe fawn spots had faded into it. Little nubbins that were his firstantlers projected two inches above his head.
The black buck came on, stopping now and then to look behind him andalways testing the winds. He had been chased from the swamp and, youngthough he was, he had planned and executed a masterly retreat instead ofpanicking. He passed thirty feet to Bud's right, turned and staredfixedly at him when they were abreast. Then the black buck leaped out ofsight into a laurel thicket.
Three does came next, then a chesty little six-point buck that shook hisantlers and rolled his eyes as though anything that dared challenge himdid so at its own peril. Finally Gramps appeared.
"Old Yellowfoot wasn't there, Bud. We'll try Happy Ridge."
But Old Yellowfoot was not on Happy Ridge, or in Hargen's Pines or DeadMan's Hollow, or any other place where they looked. They might have hadeither one of two more nice bucks that day, but they scorned both.
Finally, sorry that a nearly perfect day was ending, Gramps and Budturned homeward. Tomorrow was another day and there were more to follow.They entered the house and Gramps said to Gram,
"Nary a sign, not even an old track . . ."
He stopped suddenly, staggered across the floor and dropped his rifle onthe table before sinking into a chair. He buried his face in his hands,and once more Bud heard the terrible wheezing that had
been soterrifying back in the grouse woods.