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Old Yeller

By Fred Gipson

Chapter Three

ALL right, I was willing to go make a try for a fat doe.

I was generally more than willing to go hunting. And

while I was gone, I might do some thinking about

Little Arliss and that thieving stray dog. But I didn't

much think my thinking would take the turn Mama

wanted.

  I went and milked the cows and brought the milk in

for Mama to strain. I got my rifle and went out to the

lot and caught Jumper. I tied a rope around his neck,

half-hitched a noose around his nose and pitched the

rest of the rope across his back. This was the rope I'd

rein him with, Then I got me a second rope and tied

it tight around his middle, just back of his withers.

This second rope I'd use to tie my deer onto Jumper's

back-if I got one.

  Papa had shown me how to tie a deer's feet together

and pack it home across my shoulder, and I'd done it.

But to carry a deer very far like that was a sweat-pop-

ping job that I'd rather leave to Jumper. He was bigger

and stronger.

  I mounted Jumper bareback and rode him along

Birdsong Creek and across a rocky hog-back ridge. I

thought how fine it would be if I was riding my own

horse instead of an old mule. I rode down a long sweep-

ing slope where a scattering of huge, ragged-topped

liveoaks stood about in grass so tall that it dragged

against the underside of Jumper's belly. I rode to

within a quarter of a mile of the Salt Licks, then left

Jumper tied in a thicket and went on afoot.

  I couldn't take Jumper close to the Licks for a couple

of reasons. In the first place, he'd get to swishing his

tail and stomping his feet at flies and maybe scare off

my game. On top of that, he was gun shy. Fire a gun

close to Jumper, and he'd fall to staves. He'd snort and

wheel to run and fall back against his tie rope, trying

to break loose. He'd bawl and paw the air and take on

like he'd been shot. When it came to gunfire Jumper

didn't have any more sense than a red ant in a hot

skillet.

  It was a fine morning for hunting, with the air still

and the rising sun shining bright on the tall green

grass and the greener leaves of the timber. There wasn't

enough breeze blowing for me to tell the wind direc-

tion, so I licked one finger and held it up. Sure enough,

the side next to me cooled first. That meant that what

little push there was to the air was away from me,

toward the Salt Licks. Which wouldn't do at all. No

deer would come to the Licks if he caught wind of me

first.

  I half circled the Licks till I had the breeze moving

across them toward me and took cover under a wild

grapevine that hung low out of the top of a gnarled oak.

I sat down with my back against the trunk of the tree.

I sat with my legs crossed and my rifle cradled on my

knees. Then I made myself get as still as the tree.

  Papa had taught me that, `way back when I was little,

the same as he'd taught me to hunt downwind from

my game. He always said: "It's not your shape that

catches a deer's eye. It's your moving. If a deer can't

smell you and can't see you move, he won't ever know

you're there."

  So I sat there, holding as still as a stump, searching

the clearing around the Licks.

  The Licks was a scattered outcropping of dark rocks

with black streaks in them. The black streaks held the

salt that Papa said had got mixed up with the rocks a

jillion years ago. I don't know how he knew what had

happened so far back, but the salt was there, and all

the hogs and cattle and wild animals in that part of the

country came there to lick it.

  One time, Papa said, when he and Mama had first

settled there, they'd run clean out of salt and had to

beat up pieces of the rock and boil them in water. Then

they'd used the salty water to season their meat and

cornbread.

  Wild game generally came to lick the rocks in the

early mornings or late evenings, and those were the

best times to come for meat. The killer animals, like

bear and panther and bobcats, knew this and came

to the Licks at the same time. Sometimes we'd get a

shot at them. I'd killed two bobcats and a wolf there

while waiting for deer; and once Papa shot a big

panther right after it had leaped on a mule colt and

broken its neck with one slap of its heavy forepaw.

  I hoped I'd get a shot at a bear or panther this morn-

ing. The only thing that showed up, however, was a

little band of javelina hogs, and I knew better than to

shoot them. Make a bad shot and wound one so that

he went to squealing, and you had the whole bunch

after you, ready to eat you alive. They were small

animals. Their tushes weren't as long as those of the

range hogs we had running wild in the woods. They

couldn't cut you as deep, but once javelinas got after

you, they'd keep after you for a lot longer time.

  Once Jed Simpson's boy Rosal shot into a bunch of

javelinas and they took after him. They treed him up

a mesquite and kept him there from early morning till

long after suppertime. The mesquite was a small one,

and they nearly chewed the trunk of it in two trying

to get to him. After that Rosal was willing to let the

javelinas alone.

  The javelinas moved away, and I saw some bobwhite

quail feed into the opening around the Licks. Then

here came three cows with young calves and a roan

bull. They stood and licked at the rocks. I watched

them awhile, then got to watching a couple of squir-

rels playing in the top of a tree close to the one I sat

under.

  The squirrels were running and jumping and chat-

tering and flashing their tails in the sunlight. One would

run along a tree branch, then take a flying leap to the

next branch. There it would sit, fussing, and wait to

see if the second one had the nerve to jump that far.

When the second squirrel did, the first one would set

up an excited chatter and make a run for a longer leap.

Sure enough, after a while, the leader tried to jump

a gap that was too wide. He missed his branch, clawed

at some leaves, and came tumbling to the ground. The

second squirrel went to dancing up and down on his

branch then, chattering louder than ever. It was plain

that he was getting a big laugh out of how that show-

off squirrel had made such a fool of himself.

  The sight was so funny that I laughed, myself, and

that's where I made my mistake.

  Where the doe had come from and how she ever

got so close without my seeing her, I don't know. It was

like she'd suddenly lit down out of the air like a buz-

  zard or risen right up out of the bare ground around

  the rocks. Anyhow, there she stood, staring straight

  at me, sniffing and snorting and stomping her forefeet

  against the ground.

  She couldn't have scented me, and I hadn't moved;

  but I had laughed out loud a little at those squirrels.

  And that sound had warned her.

  Well, I couldn't lift my gun then, with her staring

  straight at me. She'd see the motion and take a scare.

  And while Papa was a good enough shot to down a

  running deer, I'd never tried it and didn't much think

  I could. I figured it smarter to wait. Maybe she'd quit

  staring at me after a while and give me a chance to lift

  my gun.

  But I waited and waited, and still she kept looking

  at me, trying to figure me out. Finally, she started

  coming toward me. She'd take one dancing step and

  then another and bob her head and flap her long ears

  about, then start moving toward me again.

  I didn't know what to do. It made me nervous, the

  way she kept coming at me. Sooner or later she was

  bound to make out what I was. Then she'd whirl and be

  gone before I could draw a bead on her.

  She kept doing me that way till finally my heart

  was flopping around inside my chest like a catfish in

  a wet sack. I could feel my muscles tightening up all

  over  I knew then that I couldn't wait any longer. It

  was either shoot or bust wide open, so I whipped my

  gun up to my shoulder.

  Like I'd figured, she snorted and wheeled, so fast

that she was just a brown blur against my gunsights. I

pressed the trigger, hoping my aim was good.

  After I fired, the black powder charge in my gun

threw up such a thick fog of blue smoke that I couldn't

see through it. I reloaded, then leaped to my feet and

went running through the smoke. What I saw when

I came into the clear again made my heart drop down

into my shoes.

  There went the frightened, snorting cattle, stamped-

ing through the trees with their tails in the air like it

was heel-fly time. And right beside them went my doe,

running all humped up and with her white, pointed

tail clamped tight to her rump.

  Which meant that I'd hit her but hadn't made a

killing shot.

  I didn't like that. I never minded killing for meat.

Like Papa had told me, every creature has to kill to

live. But to wound an animal was something else.

Especially one as pretty and harmless as a deer. It

made me sick to think of the doe's escaping, maybe

to hurt for days before she finally died.

  I swung my gun up, hoping yet to get in a killing

shot. But I couldn't fire on account of the cattle. They

were too close to the deer. I might kill one of them.

  Then suddenly the doe did a surprising thing. Way

down in the flat there, nearly out of sight, she ran

head on into the trunk of a tree. Like she was stone

blind. I saw the flash of her light-colored belly as she

went down. I waited. She didn't get up. I tore out,

running through the chin-tall grass as fast as I could.

  When finally I reached the place, all out of breath,

I found her lying dead, with a bullet hole through her

middle, right where it had to have shattered the heart.

  Suddenly I wasn't sick any more. I felt big and strong

and sure of myself. I hadn't made a bad shot. I hadn't

caused an animal a lot of suffering. All I'd done was

get meat for the family, shooting it on the run, lust

like Papa did.

  I rode toward the cabin, sitting behind the gutted

doe, that I'd tied across Jumper's back. I rode, feeling

proud of myself as a hunter and a provider for the

family. Making a killing shot like that on a moving deer

made me feel bigger and more important. Too big and

important, I guessed,~ fuss with Little Arliss about

that old yeller dog. I still didn't think much of the idea

of keeping him, but I guessed that when you are nearly

a man, you have to learn to put up with a lot of aggrava-

tion from little old bitty kids. Let Arliss keep the

thieving rascal. I guessed I could provide enough meat

for him, too.

  That's how I was feeling when I crossed Birdsong

Creek and rode up to the spring under the trees below

the house. Then suddenly, I felt different. That's when

I found Little Arliss in the pool again. And in there

with him was the big yeller dog. That dirty stinking

rascal, romping around in our drinking water!

  "Arliss!" I yelled at Little Arliss. "You get that nasty

old dog out of the water!"

  They hadn't seen me ride up, and I guess it was my

sudden yell that surprised them both so bad. Arliss

went tearing out of the pool on one side and the dog

on the other. Arliss was screaming his head off, and

here came the big dog with his wet fur rising along

the ridge of his backbone, baying me like I was a

panther.

  I didn't give him a chance to get to me. I was too

quick about jumping off the mule and grabbing up

some rocks.

  I was lucky. The first rock I threw caught the big

dog right between the eyes, and I was throwing hard.

He went down, yelling and pitching and wallowing.

And just as he came to his feet again, I caught him

in the ribs with another one. That was too much for

him. He turned tail then and took out for the house,

squalling and bawling.

  But I wasn't the only good rock thrower in the

family. Arliss was only five years old, but I'd spent a

lot of time showing him how to throw a rock. Now I

wished I hadn't. Because about then, a rock nearly tore

my left ear off. I whirled around just barely in time to

duck another that would have caught me square in the

left eye.

  I yelled, "Arliss, you quit that!" but Arliss wasn't

listening. He was too scared and too mad. He bent over

to pick up a rock big enough to brain me with if he'd

been strong enough to throw it.

  Well, when you're fourteen years old, you can't afford

to mix in a rock fight with your five-year-old brother.

You can't do it, even when you're in the right. You

just can't explain a thing like that to your folks. All

they'll do is point out how much bigger you are, how

unfair it is to your little brother.

  All I could do was turn tail like the yeller dog and

head for the house, yelling for Mama. And right after

me came Little Arliss, naked and running as fast as he

could, doing his deal-level best to get close enough to

hit me with the big rock he was packing.

  I outran him, of course; and then here came Mama,

running so fast that her long skirts were flying, and

calling out: "What on earth, boys!"

  I hollered, "You better catch that Arliss!" as I ran

past her. And she did; but Little Arliss was so mad that

I thought for a second he was going to hit her with the

rock before she could get it away from him.

  Well, it all wound up about like I figured. Mama

switched Little Arliss for playing in our drinking water.

Then she blessed me out good and proper for being

so bossy with him. And the big yeller dog that had

caused all the trouble got off scot free.

  It didn't seem right and fair to me. How could I be

the man of the family if nobody paid any attention

to what I thought or said?

  I went and led Jumper up to the house. I hung the

doe in the liveoak tree that grew beside the house and

began skinning it and cutting up the meat. I thought

of the fine shot I'd made and knew it was worth brag-

ging about to Mama. But what was the use? She

wouldn't pay me any mind-not until I did something

she thought I shouldn't have done. Then she'd treat

me like I wasn't any older than Little Arliss.

  I sulked and felt sorry for myself all the time I

worked with the meat. The more I thought about it,

the madder I got at the big yeller dog.

  I hung the fresh cuts of venison up in the dog run,

right where Old Yeller had stolen the hog meat the

night he came. I did it for a couple of reasons. To begin

with, that was the handiest and coolest place we had

for hanging fresh meat. On top of that, I was looking

for a good excuse to get rid of that dog. I figured if he

stole more of our meat, Mama would have to see that

he was too sorry and no account to keep.

  But Old Yeller was too smart for that. He gnawed

around on some of the deer's leg bones that Mama

threw away; but not once did he ever even act like

he could smell the meat we'd hung up.

Chapter Four

A COUPLE of days later, I had another and better reason

for wanting to get rid of Old Yeller. That was when

the two longhorn range bulls met at the house and

pulled off their big fight.

  We first heard the bulls while we were eating our

dinner of cornbread, roasted venison, and green water-

cress gathered from below the spring. One bull came

from off a high rocky ridge to the south of the cabin.

We could hear his angry rumbling as he moved down

through the thickets of catclaw and scrub oak.

  Then he lifted his voice in a wild brassy blare that

set echoes clamoring in the draws and canyons for

miles around.

  "That old bulls talking fight," I told Mama and Little

Arliss. "He's bragging that he's the biggest and tough-

est and meanest. He's telling all the other bulls that

if they've got a lick of sense, they'll take to cover when

he's around."

  Almost before I'd finished talking, we heard the

second bull. He was over about the Salt Licks some-

where. His bellering was just as loud and braggy as

the first one's. He was telling the first bull that his

fight talk was all bluff. He was saying that he was the

he bull of the range, that he was the biggest and mean-

est and toughest.

  We sat and ate and listened to them. We could tell

by their rumblings and bawlings that they were grad-

ually working their way down through the brush

toward each other and getting madder by the minute.

  I always liked to see a fight between bulls or bears

or wild boars or almost any wild animals. Now, I got

so excited that I jumped up from the table and went

to the door and stood listening. I'd made up my mind

that if the bulls met and started a fight, I was going

to see it. There was still plenty of careless weeds and

crabgrass that needed hoeing out of the corn, but I

guessed I could let them go long enough to see a bull-

fight.

  Our cabin stood on a high knoll about a hundred

yards above the spring. Years ago, Papa had cleared out

all the brush and trees from around it, leaving a couple

of liveoaks near the house for shade. That was so he

could get a clear shot at any Comanche or Apache

coming to scalp us. And while I stood there at the door,

the first bull entered the clearing, right where Papa

had one time shot a Comanche off his horse.

  He was a leggy, mustard-colored bull with black

freckles speckling his jaws and the underside of his

belly He had one great horn set for hooking, while

the other hung down past his jaw like a tallow candle

that had drooped in the heat. He was what the Mex-

icans called a chongo or "droop horn."

  He trotted out a little piece into the clearing, then

stopped to drop his head low. He went to snorting

and shaking his horns and pawing up the dry dirt with

his forefeet. He flung the dirt back over his neck and

shoulders in great clouds of dust.

  I couldn't see the other bull yet, but I could tell by

the sound of him that he was close and coming in a

trot. I hollered back to Mama and Little Arliss.

  "They're fixing to fight right here, where we can all

see it."

  There was a split-rail fence around our cabin. I ran

out and climbed up and took a seat on the top rail.

Mama and Little Arliss came and climbed up to sit

beside me.

  Then, from the other side of the clearing came the

second bull. He was the red roan I'd seen at the Salt

Licks the day I shot the doe. He wasn't as tall and long-

legged as the chongo bull, but every bit as heavy and

powerful. And while his horns were shorter, they were

both curved right for hooking.

  Like the first bull, he came blaring out into the

clearing, then stopped, to snort and sling his wicked

horns and paw up clouds of dust. He made it plain

that he wanted to fight just as bad as the first bull.

  About that time, from somewhere behind the cabin,

carne Old Yeller. He charged through the rails, bristled

up and roaring almost as loud as the bulls. All their

-bellering and snorting and dust pawing sounded like

a threat to him. He'd come out to run them away from

the house.

  I hollered at him. "Get back there, you rascal," I

shouted. "You're fixing to spoil our show."

  That stopped him, but he still wasn't satisfied. He

kept baying the bulls till I jumped down and picked

up a rock. I didn't have to throw it. All I had to do

was draw back like I was going to. That sent him flying

back into the yard and around the corner of the cabin,

yelling like I'd murdered him.

  That also put Little Arliss on the fight.

  He started screaming at me. He tried to get down

where he could pick up a rock.

  But Mama held him. "Hush, now, baby," she said.

"Travis isn't going to hurt your dog. He just doesn't

want him to scare off the bulls."

  Well, it took some talking, but she finally got Little

           Arliss's mind off hitting me with a rock. I climbed back

      up on the fence. I told Mama that I was betting on

      Chongo. She said she was betting her money on Roany

      because he had two fighting horns. We sat there and

      watched the bulls get ready to fight and talked and

      laughed and had ourselves a real good time. We never

      once thought about being in any danger.

        When we learned different, it was nearly too late.

        Suddenly, Chongo quit pawing the dirt and flung his

      tail into the air.

        "Look out!" I shouted. "Here it comes."

        Sure enough, Chongo charged, pounding the hard-

      pan with his feet and roaring his mightiest. And here

      came Roany to meet him, charging with his head low

      and his tail high in the air.

        I let out an excited yell. They met head on, with a

      loud crash of horns and a jar so solid that it seemed

      like I could feel it clear up there on the fence. Roany

      went down. I yelled louder, thinking Chongo was com-

      ing.

        A second later, though, Roany was back on his feet

      and charging through the cloud of dust their hoofs

      had churned up. He caught Chongo broadside. He

      slammed his sharp horns up to the hilt in the shoulder

      of the mustard-colored bull. He drove against him so

      fast and hard that Chongo couldn't wheel away. All

      he could do was barely keep on his feet by giving

      ground.

        And here they came, straight for our rail fence.

  "Land Sakes!"" Mama cried suddenly and leaped from

the fence, dragging Little Arliss down after her.

  But I was too excited about the fight. I didn't see

the danger in time. I was still astride the top rail when

the struggling bulls crashed through the fence, splinter-

ing the posts and rails, and toppling me to the ground

almost under them.

  I lunged to my feet, wild with scare, and got knocked

flat on my face in the dirt.

  I sure thought I was a goner. The roaring of the

bulls was right in my ears. The hot, reeking scent of

their blood was in my nose. The bone-crushing weight

of their hoofs was stomping all around and over me,

churning up such a fog of dust that I couldn't see a

thing.

  Then suddenly Mama had me by the hand and was

dragging me out from under, yelling in a scared voice:

"Run, Travis, run!"

  Well, she didn't have to keep hollering at me. I was

running as fast as I ever hoped to run. And with her

running faster and dragging me along by the hand, we

scooted through the open cabin door just about a quick

breath before Roany slammed Chongo against it.

  They hit so hard that the whole cabin shook. I saw

great big chunks of dried-mud chinking fall from be-

tween the logs. There for a second, I thought Chongo

was coming through that door, right on top of us. But

turned broadside like he was, he was too big to be

shoved through such a small opening. Then a second

later, he got off Roany's horns somehow and wheeled

on him. Here they went, then, down alongside the

cabin wall, roaring and stomping and slamming their

heels against the logs.

  I looked at Mama and Little Arliss. Mama's face was

white as a bed sheet. For once, Little Arliss was so

scared that he couldn't ~cream. Suddenly, I wasn't

scared any more. I was just plain mad.

  I reached for a braided rawhide whip that hung in

a coil on a wooden peg driven between the logs.

  That scared Mama still worse. "Oh, no, Travis," she

cried. "Don't go out there!"

  "They're fixing to tear down the house, Mama," I said.

  "But they might run over you," Mama argued.

  The bulls crashed into the cabin again. They grunted

and strained and roared. Their horns and hoofs clat-

tered against the logs.

  I turned and headed for the door. Looked to me like

they'd kill us all if they ever broke through those log

walls.

  Mama came running to grab me by the arm. "Call the

dog!" she said. "Put the dog after them!"

  Well, that was a real good idea. I was half aggra-

vated with myself because I hadn't thought of it. Here

was a chance for that old yeller dog to pay back for

all the trouble he'd made around the place.

  I stuck my head out the door. The bulls had fought

away from the house. Now they were busy tearing

down more of the yard fence.

  I ducked out and around the corner. I ran through

the dog run toward the back of the house, calling,

"Here, Yeller! Here Yeller! Get `em, boy! Sic em!"

  Old Yeller was back there, all right. But he didn't

come and he didn't sic `em. He took one look at me

running toward him with that bullwhip in my hand

and knew I'd come to kill him. He tucked his tail and

lit out in a yelling run for the woods.

  If there had been any way I could have done it,

right then is when I would have killed him.

  But there wasn't time to mess with a fool dog. I had

to do something about those bulls. They were wrecking

the place, and I had to stop it. Papa had left me to look

after things while he was gone, and I wasn't about to

let two mad bulls tear up everything we had.

  I ran up to the bulls and went to work on them with

the whip. It was a heavy sixteen-footer and I'd prac-

ticed with it a lot. I could crack that rawhide popper

louder than a gunshot. I could cut a branch as thick

as my little finger off a green mesquite with it.

  But I couldn't stop those bulls from fighting. They

were too mad. They were hurting too much already; I

might as well have been spitting on them. I yelled and

whipped them till I gave clear out. Still they went right

on with their roaring bloody battle.

I guess they would have kept on fighting till they

leveled the house to the ground if it hadn't been for

a freak accident.

  We had a heavy two-wheeled Mexican cart that Papa

used for hauling wood and hay. It happened to be

standing out in front of the house, right where the

ground broke away in a sharp slant toward the spring

and creek.

  It had just come to me that I could get my gun and

shoot the bulls when Chongo crowded Roany up

against the cart. He ran that long single horn clear

under Roany's belly. Now he gave such a big heave

that he lifted Roany's feet clear off the ground and

rolled him in the air. A second later, Roany landed

flat on his back inside the bed of that dump cart, with

all four feet sticking up.

  I thought his weight would break the cart to pieces,

but I was wrong. The cart was stronger than I'd

thought. All the bulls weight did was tilt it so that the

wheels started rolling. And away the cart went down

the hill, carrying Roany with it.

  When that happened, Chongo was suddenly the

silliest-looking bull you ever saw. He stood with his

tail up and his head high, staring after the runaway

cart. He couldn't for the life of him figure out what

he'd done with the roan bull.

  The rolling cart rattled and banged and careened

its way down the slope till it was right beside the

spring. There, one wheel struck a big boulder, bounc-

ing that side of the cart so high that it turned over and

skidded to a stop. The roan bull spilled right into the

spring. Water flew in all directions.

  Roany got his feet under him. He scrambled up out

of the hole. But I guess that cart ride and sudden

wetting had taken all the fight out of him. Anyhow, he

headed for the timber, running with his tail tucked.

Water streamed down out of his hair, leaving a dark

wet trail in the dry dust to show which way he'd gone.

  Chongo saw Roany then. He snorted and went after

him. But when he got to the cart, he slid to a sudden

stop. The cart, lying on its side now, still had that top

wheel spinning around and around. Chongo had never

seen anything like that. He stood and stared at the

spinning wheel. He couldn't understand it. He lifted

his nose up close to smell it. Finally he reached out a

long tongue to lick and taste it.

  That was a bad mistake. I guess the iron tire of the

spinning wheel was roughed up pretty badly and maybe

had chips of broken rock and gravel stuck to it. Any-

how, from the way Chongo acted, it must have scraped

all the hide off his tongue.

  Chongo bawled and went running backward. He

whirled away so fast that he lost his footing and fell

down. He came to his feet and took out in the opposite

direction from the roan bull. He ran, slinging his head

and flopping his long tongue around, bawling like

he'd stuck it into a bear trap. He ran with his tail

clamped just as tight as the roan bull's.

  It was enough to make you laugh your head off, the

way both those bad bulls had gotten the wits scared

clear out of them, each one thinking he'd lost the fight.

  But they sure had made a wreck of the yard fence.