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Back to English I Stories

Old Yeller

By Fred Gipson

Chapter One

WE called him Old Yeller. The name had a sort of

double meaning. One part meant that his short hair was

a dingy yellow, a color that we called "yeller" in those

days. The other meant that when he opened his head,

the sound he let out came closer to being a yell than

a bark.

  I remember like yesterday how he strayed in out of

nowhere to our log cabin on Birdsong Creek. He made

me so mad at first that I wanted to kill him. Then, later,

when I had to kill him, it was like having to shoot some

of my own folks. That's how much I'd come to think of

the big yeller dog.

  He came in the late 1860's, the best I remember.

Anyhow, it was the year that Papa and a bunch of

other Salt Licks settlers formed a "pool herd" of their

little separate bunches of steers and trailed them to the

new cattle market at Abilene, Kansas.

  This was to get "cash money," a thing that all Texans

were short of in those years right after the Civil War.

We lived then in a new country and a good one. As

Papa pointed out the day the men talked over making

the drive, we had plenty of grass, wood, and water. We

had wild game for the killing, fertile ground for grow-

ing bread corn, and the Indians had been put onto

reservations with the return of U.S. soldiers to the

Texas forts.

  "In fact," Papa wound up, "all we lack having a

tight tail-holt on the world is a little cash money. And

we can get that at Abilene."

  Well, the idea sounded good, but some of the men

still hesitated. Abilene was better than six hundred

miles north of the Texas hill country we lived in. It

would take months for the men to make the drive and

ride back home. And all that time the womenfolk and

children of Salt Licks would be left in a wild frontier

settlement to make out the best they could.

  Still, they needed money, and they realized that what-

ever a man does, he's bound to take some risks. So

they talked it over with each other and with their

women and decided it was the thing to do. They told

their folks what to do in case the Indians came off the

reservation or the coons got to eating the corn or the

bears got to killing too many hogs. Then they gathered

their cattle, burned a trail brand on their hips, and

pulled out on the long trail to Kansas.

  I remember how it was the day Papa left. I remem-

ber his standing in front of the cabin with his horse

saddled, his gun in his scabbard, and his bedroll tied

on back of the saddle. I remember how tall and straight

and handsome he looked, with his high-crowned hat

and his black mustaches drooping in cow-horn curves

past the corners of his mouth. And I remember how

Mama was trying to keep from crying because he was

leaving and how Little Arliss, who was only five and

didn't know much, wasn't trying to keep from crying at

all. In fact, he was howling his head off; not because

Papa was leaving, but because he couldn't go, too.

  I wasn't about to cry. I was fourteen years old, pretty

near a grown man. I stood back and didn't let on for

a minute that I wanted to cry.

  Papa got through loving up Mama and Little Arliss

and mounted his horse. I looked up at him. He mo-

tioned for me to come along. So I walked beside his

horse down the trail that led under the big liveoaks and

past the spring.

  When h&d gotten out of hearing of the house, Papa

reached down and put a hand on my shoulder.

  "Now, Travis," he said, "you're getting to be a big

boy; and while I'm gone, you II be the man of the

family. I want you to act like one. You take care of

Mama and Little Arliss. You look after the work and

don't wait around for your mama to point out what

needs to be done. Think you can do that?"

  "Yessir," I said.

  "Now, there's the cows to milk and wood to cut and

young pigs to mark and fresh meat to shoot. But mainly

there's the corn patch. If you don't work it right or if

you let the varmints eat up the roasting ears, webe

without bread corn for the winter."

  "Yessir," I said.

  "All right, boy. I'll be seeing you this fall."

  I stood there and let him ride on. There wasn't any

more to say.

  Suddenly I remembered and went running down the

trail after him, calling for him to wait.

  He pulled up his horse and twisted around in the

saddle. "Yeah, boy," he said. "What is it?"

  "That horse," I said.

  "What horse?" he said, like he'd never heard me men-

tion it before. "You mean you're wanting a horse?"

  "Now, Papa," I complained. "You know I've been ach-

ing all over for a horse to ride. I've told you time and

again."

  I looked up to catch him grinning at me and felt

foolish that I hadn't realized he was teasing.

  "What you're needing worse than a horse is a good

dog."

  "Yessir," I said, "but a horse is what I'm wanting the

worst."

  "All right," he said. "You act a man's part while I'm

gone, and I'll see that you get a man's horse to ride when

I sell the cattle. I think we can shake on that deal."

  He reached out his hand, and we shook. It was the

first time I'd ever shaken hands like a man. It made

me feel big and solemn and important in a way I'd

never felt before. I knew then that I could handle what-

ever needed to be done while Papa was gone.

  I turned and started back up the trail toward the

cabin. I guessed maybe Papa was right. I guessed I

could use a dog. All the other settlers had dogs. They

were big fierce cur dogs that the settlers used for catch-

ing hogs and driving cattle and fighting coons out of

the cornfields. They kept them as watchdogs against

the depredations of loafer wolves, bears, panthers, and

raiding Indians. There was no question about it: for the

sort of country we lived in, a good dog around the place

was sometimes worth more than two or three men. I

knew this as well as anybody, because the summer

before I'd had a good dog.

  His name was Bell. He was nearly as old as I was.

We'd had him ever since I could remember. He'd pro-

tected me from rattlesnakes and bad hogs while I was

little. He'd hunted with me when I was bigger. Once

he'd dragged me out of Birdsong Creek when I was

about to drown and another time he'd given warning

in time to keep some raiding Comanches from stealing

and eating our mule, Jumper.

  Then he'd had to go act a fool and get himself killed.

  It was while Papa and I were cutting wild hay in a

little patch of prairie back of the house. A big diamond-

back rattler struck at Papa and Papa chopped his head

off with one quick lick of his scythe. The head dropped

to the ground three or four feet away from the writhing

body. It lay there, with the ugly mouth opening and

shutting, still trying to bite something.

  As smart as Bell was, you'd have thought he'd have

better sense than to go up and nuzzle that rattler's head.

But he didn't, and a second later, he was falling back,

howling and slinging his own head till his ears popped.

But it was too late then. That snake mouth had snapped

shut on his nose, driving the fangs in so deep that it

was a full minute before he could sling the bloody head

loose.

  He died that night, and I cried for a week. Papa tried

to make me feel better by promising to get me another

dog right away, but I wouldn't have it. It made me mad

just to think about some other dog's trying to take Bell's

place.

  And I still felt the same about it. All I wanted now

was a horse.

  The trail I followed led along the bank of Birdsong

Creek through some bee myrtle bushes. The bushes

were blooming white and smelled sweet. In the top of

one a mockingbird was singing. That made me recollect

how Birdsong Creek had got its name. Mama had

named it when she and Papa came to settle. Mama

had told me about it. She said she named it the first day

she and Papa got there, with Mama driving the ox cart

loaded with our house plunder, and with Papa driving

the cows and horses. They'd meant to build closer to the

other settlers, over on Salt Branch. But they'd camped

there at the spring; and the bee myrtle had been

blooming white that day, and seemed like in every bush

there was a mockingbird, singing his fool head off.

It was all so pretty and smelled so good and the sing-

ing birds made such fine music that Mama wouldn't

go on.

  "We'll build right here," she'd told Papa.

  And that's what they'd done. Built themselves a

home right here on Birdsong Creek and fought off the

Indians and cleared a corn patch and raised me and

Little Arliss and lost a little sister who died of a fever.

  Now it was my home, too. And while Papa was gone,

it was up to me to look after ft.

  I came to our spring that gushed clear cold water

out of a split in a rock ledge. The water poured into

a pothole about the size of a wagon bed. In the pothole,

up to his ears in the water, stood Little Arliss. Right

in our drinking water!

  I said: "Arliss! You get out of that water."

  Arliss turned and stuck out his tongue at me.

  "I'll cut me a sprout!" I warned.

  All he did was stick out his tongue at me again and

splash water in my direction.

  I got my knife out and cut a green mesquite sprout.

I trimmed all the leaves and thorns off, then headed for

him.

  Arliss saw then that I meant business. He came lung-

ing up out of the pool, knocking water all over his

clothes lying on the bank. He lit out for the house, run-

ning naked and screaming bloody murder. To listen to

him, you'd have thought the Comanches were lifting

his scalp.

  Mama heard him and came rushing out of the cabin.

She saw Little Arliss running naked. She saw me follow-

ing after him with a mesquite sprout in one hand and

his clothes in the other. She called out to me.

  "Travis," she said, "what on earth have you done

to your little brother?"

  I said, "Nothing yet. But if he doesn't keep out of

our drinking water, I'm going to wear him to a frazzle."

  That's what Papa always told Little Arliss when he

caught him in the pool. I figured if I had to take

Papa's place, I might as well talk like him.

~ama stared at me for a minute. I thought she was

fixing to argue that I was getting too big for my britches.

Lots of times she'd tell me that. But this time she

didn't. She just smiled suddenly and grabbed Little

Arliss by one ear and held on. He went to hollering

and jumping up and down and trying to pull away, but

she held on till I got there with his clothes. She put

them on him and told him: "Look here, young squirrel.

You better listen to your big brother Travis if you want

to keep out of trouble." Then she made him go sit still

awhile in the dog run.

  The dog run was an open roofed-over space between

the two rooms of our log cabin. It was a good place

to eat watermelons in the hot summer or to sleep when

the night breezes weren't strong enough to push

through the cracks between the cabin logs. Sometimes

we hung up fresh killed meat there to cool out.

  Little Arliss sat in the dog run and sulked while I

packed water from the spring. I packed the water in a

bucket that Papa had made out of the hide of a cow's

leg. I poured the water into the ash hopper that stood

beside the cabin. That was so the water could trickle

down through the wood ashes and become lye water.

Later Mama would mix this lye water with hog fat and

boil it in an iron pot when she wanted to make soap.

  When I went to cut wood for Mama, though, Little

Arliss left the dog run to come watch me work. Like

always, he stood in exactly the right place for the

chips from my axe to fly up and maybe knock his eye-

balls out. I said: "You better skin out for that house,

you little scamp!" He skinned out, too. Just like I told

him. Without even sticking out his tongue at me this

time.

  And he sat right there till Mama called us to dinner.

  After dinner, I didn't wait for Mama to tell me that

I needed to finish running out the corn middles. I got

right up from the table and went out and hooked

Jumper to the double shovel. I started in plowing where

Papa had left off the day before. I figured that if I got

an early start, I could finish the corn patch by sundown.

  Jumper was a dun mule with a narrow black stripe

running along his backbone between his mane and

tail. Papa had named him Jumper because nobody yet

had ever built a fence ho couldn't jump over. Papa

claimed Jumper could clear the moon if he took a

notion to see the other side of it.

  Jumper was a pretty good mule, though. He was

gentle to ride: you could pack in fresh meat on him;

and he was willing about pulling a plow. Only, some-

times when I plowed him and he decided quitting

time had come, he'd stop work right then. Maybe we'd

be out in the middle of the field when Jumper got the

notion that it was time to quit for dinner. Right then,

he'd swing around and head for the cabin, dragging

down corn with the plow and paying no mind what-

ever to my hauling back on the reins and hollering

"Whoa!"

  Late that evening, Jumper tried to pull that stunt

on me again; but I was laying for him. With Papa gone,

I knew I had to teach Jumper a good lesson. I'd been

plowing all afternoon, holding a green cedar club be-

tween the plow handles.

  I still lacked three or four corn rows being finished

when sundown came and Jumper decided it was quit-

ting time. He let out a long bray and started wringing

his tail. He left the middle he was traveling in. He

struck out through the young corn, headed for the

cabin.

  I didn't even holler "Whoa!" at him. I just threw the

looped reins off my shoulder and ran up beside him.

I drew back my green cedar club and whacked him so

hard across the jawbone that I nearly dropped him in

his tracks.

  You never saw a worse surprised mule. He snorted,

started to run, then just stood there and stared at me.

Like maybe he couldn't believe that I was man enough

to club him that hard.

  I drew back my club again. "Jumper," I said, "if you

don't get back there and finish this plowing lob, you're

going to get more of the same. You understand?"

  I guess he understood, all right. Anyhow, from then

on till we were through, he stayed right on the job. The

only thing he did different from what he'd have done

with Papa was to travel with his head turned sideways,

watching me every step of the way.

  When finally I got to the house, I found that Mama

had done the milking and she and Little Arliss were

waiting supper on me. Just like we generally waited

for Papa when he came in late.

  I crawled into bed with Little Arliss that night, feel-

ing pretty satisfied with myself. Our bed was a corn-

shuck mattress laid over a couple of squared-up cow-

hides that had been laced together. The cowhides stood

about two feet off the dirt floor, stretched tight inside

a pole frame Papa had built in one corner of the room. I

lay there and listened to the corn shucks squeak when

I breathed and to the owls hooting in the timber along

Birdsong Creek. I guessed I'd made a good start. I'd

done my work without having to be told. I'd taught

Little Arliss and Jumper that I wasn't to be trifled with.

And Mama could already see that I was man enough to

wait supper on.

  I guessed that I could handle things while Papa

was gone just about as good as he could.

Chapter Two

IT WAS the next morning when the big yeller dog came.

  I found him at daylight when Mama told me to

step out to the dog run and cut down a side of mid-

dling meat hanging to the pole rafters.

  The minute I opened the door and looked up, I saw

that the meat was gone. It had been tied to the rafter

with bear-grass blades braided together for string. Now

nothing was left hanging to the pole but the frazzled

ends of the snapped blades.

  I looked down then. At the same instant, a dog rose

from where he'd been curled up on the ground beside

the barrel that held our cornmeal. He was a big ugly

slick-haired yeller dog. One short ear had been chewed

clear off and his tail had been bobbed so close to his

rump that there was hardly stub enough left to wag.

But the most noticeable thing to me about him was

how thin and starved looking he was, all but for his

belly. His belly was swelled up as tight and round as

a pumpkin.

  It wasn't hard to tell how come that belly was so full.

All I had to do was look at the piece of curled-up rind

lying in the dirt beside him, with all the meat gnawed

off. That side of meat had been a big one, but now

there wasn't enough meat left on the rind to interest

a pack rat.

  Well, to lose the only meat we had left from last

winter's hog butchering was bad enough. But what

made me even madder was the way the dog acted. He

-didn't even have the manners to feel ashamed of what

he'd done. He rose to his feet, stretched, yawned, then

came romping toward me, wiggling that stub tail and

yelling Yowl Yow! Yowl Just like he belonged there and

I was his best friend.

  "Why, you thieving rascal!" I shouted and kicked at

him as hard as I could.

  He ducked, just in time, so that I missed him by a

hair. But nobody could have told I missed, after the

way he fell over on the ground and lay there, with

his belly up and his four feet in the air, squawking and

bellering at the top of his voice. From the racket he

made, you'd have thought I had a club and was break-

ing every bone in his body.

  Mama came running to stick her head through the

door and say, "What on earth, Travis?"

  "Why, this old stray dog has come and eaten our

middling meat clear up," I said.

  I aimed another kick at him. He was quick and rolled

out of reach again, just in time, then fell back to the

ground and lay there, yelling louder than ever.

  Then out came Little Arliss. He was naked, like he

always slept in the summer. He was hollering "A dog!

A dog!" He ran past me and fell on the dog and petted

him till he quit howling, then turned on me, fighting

mad.

  "You quit kicking my dog!" he yelled fiercely. "You

kick my dog, and I'll wear you to a frazzle!"

  The battling stick that Mama used to beat the dirt

out of clothes when she washed stood leaning against

the wall. Now, Little Arliss grabbed it up in both hands

and came at me, swinging.

  It was such a surprise move, Little Arliss making

fight at me that way, that I just stood there with my

mouth open and let him clout me a good one before I

thought to move. Then Mama stepped in and took

the stick away from him.

  Arliss turned on her, ready to fight with his bare

fists. Then he decided against it and ran and put his

arms around the big dog's neck. He began to yell:

"He's my dog. You can't kick him. He's my dog!"

  The big dog was back up on his feet now, wagging

his stub tail again and licking the tears off Arliss's face

with his pink tongue.

  Mama laughed. "Well, Travis," she said, "it looks

like we've got us a dog."

  "But Mama," I said. "You don't mean we'd keep an

old ugly dog like that. One that will come in and steal

meat right out of the house."

  "Well, maybe we can't keep him," Mama said. "May-

be he belongs to somebody around here who'll want

him back."

  "He doesn't belong to anybody in the settlement,"

I said. "I know every dog at Salt Licks."

  "Well, then," Mama said. "If he's a stray, there's no

reason why Little Arliss can't claim him. And you'll

have to admit he's a smart dog. Mighty few dogs have

sense enough to figure out a way to reach a side of

meat hanging that high. He must have climbed up on

top of that meal barrel and jumped from there.''

  I went over and looked at the wooden lid on top of

the meal barrel. Sure enough, in the thin film of dust

that had settled over it were dog tracks.

  "Well, all right," I admitted. "He's a smart dog. But

I still don't want him."

  "Now, Travis," Mama said. "You're not being fair.

You had you a dog when you were little, but Arliss has

never had one. He's too little for you to play with, and

he gets lonely."

  I didn't say any more. When Mama got her mind set

a certain way, there was no use in arguing with her.

But I didn't want that meat-thieving dog on the place,

and I didn't aim to have him. I might have to put up

with him for a day or so, but sooner or later, I'd find

a way to get rid of him.

  Mama must have guessed what was going on in my

mind, for she kept handing me sober looks all the time

she was getting breakfast.

  She fed us cornmeal mush cooked in a pot swung

over the fireplace. She sweetened it with wild honey

that Papa and I had cut out of a bee tree last fall,

and added cream skimmed off last night's milk. It

was good eating; but I'd had my appetite whetted for

fried middling meat to go with it.

  Mama waited till I was done, then said: "Now, Travis,

as soon as you've milked the cows, I think you ought

to get your gun and try to kill us a fat young doe for

meat. And while you're gone, I want you to do some

thinking on what I said about Little Arliss and this

stray dog."