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Old Yeller

By Fred Gipson

Chapter Five

That Little Arliss! If he wasn't a mess! From the time

            he'd grown up big enough to get out of the cabin, he'd

            made a practice of trying to catch and keep every

            living thing that ran, flew, jumped, or crawled.

              Every night before Mama let him go to bed, she'd

            make Arliss empty his pockets of whatever he'd cap-

            tured during the day. Generally, it would be a tangled-

            up mess of grasshoppers and worms and praying bugs

            and little rusty free lizards One time he brought in a

            horned toad that got so mad he swelled out round and

            flat as a Mexican tortilla and bled at the eyes. Some-

            times it was stuff like a young bird that had fallen

out

            of its nest before it could fly, or a green-speckled

spring

            frog or a striped water snake. And once he turned out

            of his pocket a wadded-up baby copperhead that

nearly threw Mama into spasms. We never did figure

out why the snake hadn't bitten him, but Mama took

no more chances on snakes. She switched Arliss hard

for catching that snake. Then she made me spend

better than a week, taking him out and teaching him

to throw rocks and kill snakes.

  That was all right with Little Arliss. If Mama wanted

him to kill his snakes first, he'd kill them. But that still

didn't keep him from sticking them in his pockets along

with everything else he'd captured that day. The

snakes might be stinking by the time Mama called on

him to empty his pockets, but they'd be dead.

  Then, after the yeller dog came, Little Arliss started

-catching even bigger game. Like cottontail rabbits and

chaparral birds and a baby possum that sulled and

lay like dead for the first several hours until he finally

decided that Arliss wasn't going to hurt him.

  Of course, it was Old Yeller that was doing the

catching. He'd run the game down and turn it over

to Little Arliss. Then Little Arliss could come in and

tell Mama a big fib about how he caught it himself.

  I watched them one day when they caught a blue

catfish out of Birdsong Creek. The fish had fed out

into water so shallow that his top fin was sticking out.

About the time I saw it, Old Yeller and Little Arliss

did> too. They made a run at it. The fish went scooting

away toward deeper water, only Yeller was too fast

for him. He pounced on the fish and shut his big mouth

down over it and went romping to the bank, where

he dropped it down on the grass and let it flop. And

here came Little Arliss to fall on it like I guess he'd

been doing everything else. The minute he got his

hands on it, the fish finned him and he went to crying.

  But he wouldn't turn the fish loose. He just grabbed

it up and went running and squawling toward the

house, where he gave the fish to Mama. His hands were

all bloody by then, where the fish had finned him. They

swelled up and got mighty sore; not even a mesquite

thorn hurts as bad as a sharp fish fin when it's run

deep into your hand.

  But as soon as Mama had wrapped his hands in a

poultice of mashed-up prickly-pear root to draw out the

-poison, Little Arliss forgot all about his hurt. And that

night when we ate the fish for supper, he told the

biggest windy I ever heard about how he'd dived `way

down into a deep hole under the rocks and dragged

that fish out and nearly got drowned before he could

swim to the bank with it.

  But when I tried to tell Mama what really happened,

she wouldn't let me. Now, this is Arliss' story," she

said. "You let him tell it the way he wants to."

  I told Mama then, I said: "Mama, that old yeller

dog is going to make the biggest liar in Texas out of

Little Arliss."

  But Mama just laughed at me, like she always

laughed at Little Arliss's big windies after she'd gotten

off where he couldn't hear her. She said for me to let

Little Arliss alone. She said that if he ever told a bigger

whopper than the ones I used to tell, she had yet to

hear it.

  Well, I hushed then. If Mama wanted Little Arliss

to grow up to be the biggest liar in Texas, I guessed

it wasn't any of my business.

  All of which, I figure, is what led up to Little Arliss's

catching the bear. I think Mama had let him tell so

many big yarns about his catching live game that he'd

begun to believe them himself.

  When it happened, I was down the creek a ways,

splitting rails to fix up the yard fence where the bulls

had torn it down. I'd been down there since dinner,

working in a stand of tall slim post oaks. rd chop down

a tree, trim off the branches as far up as I wanted, then

cut away the rest of the top. After that's I'd start

splitting the log.

  I'd split the log by driving steel wedges into the

wood. I'd start at the big end and hammer in a wedge

with the back side of my axe. This would start a little

split running lengthways of the log. Then I'd take a

second wedge and drive it into this split. This would

split the log further along and, at the same time, loosen

the first wedge. I'd then knock the first wedge loose

and move it up in front of the second one.

  Driving one wedge ahead of the other like that, I

could finally split a log in two halves. Then I'd go to

work on the halves, splitting them apart. That way,

from each log, I'd come out with four rails.

  Swinging that chopping axe was sure hard work.

The sweat poured off me. My back muscles ached.

The axe got so heavy I could hardly swing it. My

breath got harder and harder to breathe.

  An hour before sundown, I was worn down to a nub.

It seemed like I couldn't hit another lick. Papa could

have lasted till past sundown, but I didn't see how I

could. I shouldered my axe and started toward the

cabin, trying to think up some excuse to tell Mama

to keep her from knowing I was played clear out.

  That's when I heard Little Arliss scream.

  Well, Little Arliss was a screamer by nature. He'd

scream when he was happy and scream when he was

mad and a lot of times he'd scream just to hear himself

make a noise. Generally, we paid no more mind to

his screaming that we did to the gobble of a wild

turkey.

  But this time was different. The second I heard his

screaming, I felt my heart flop clear over. This time I

knew Little Arliss was in real trouble.

  I tore out up the trail leading toward the cabin. A

minute before, I'd been so tired Out with my rail split-

ting that I couldn't have struck a trot. But now I raced

through the tall trees in that creek bottom, covering

ground like a scared wolf.

  Little Arliss's second scream, when it came, was

louder and shriller and more frantic-sounding than the

first. Mixed with it was a whimpering crying sound

that I knew didn't come from him. It was a sound I'd

heard before and seemed like I ought to know what

it was, but right then I couldn't place it.

  Then, from way off to one side came a sound that I

would have recognized anywhere. It was the coughing

roar of a charging bear. I'd just heard it once in my

life. That was the time Mama had shot and wounded

a hog-killing bear and Papa had had to finish it off

with a knife to keep it from getting her.

  My heart went to pushing up into my throat, nearly

choking off my wind. I strained for every lick of speed

I could get out of my running legs. I didn't know what

sort of fix Little Arliss had got himself into, but I knew

that it had to do with a mad bear, which was enough.

  The way the late sun slanted through the trees had

the trail all cross-banded with streaks of bright light

and dark shade. I ran through these bright and dark

patches so fast that the changing light nearly blinded

me. Then suddenly, I raced out into the open where I

could see ahead. And what I saw sent a chill clear

through to the marrow of my bones.

  There was Little Arliss, down in that spring hole

again. He was lying half in and half out of the water,

holding onto the hind leg of a little black bear cub no

bigger than a small coon. The bear cub was out on

the bank, whimpering and crying and clawing the

rocks with all three of his other feet, trying to pull

away. But Little Arliss was holding on for all he was

worth, scared now and screaming his head off. Too

scared to let go.

  How come the bear cub ever to prowl close enough

for Little Arliss to grab him, I don't know. And why

he didn't turn on him and bite loose, I couldn't figure

out, either. Unless he was like Little Arliss, too scared

to think.

  But all of that didn't matter now. What mattered

was the bear cub's mama. She'd heard the cries of her

baby and was coming to save him. She was coming

so fast that she had the brush popping and breaking

as she crashed through and over it. I could see her

black heavy figure piling off down the slant on the far

side of Birdsong Creek. She was roaring mad and ready

to kill.

  And worst of all, I could see that I'd never get there

in time!

  Mama couldn't either. She'd heard Arliss, too, and

here she came from the cabin, running down the slant

toward the spring, screaming at Arliss, telling him to

turn the bear cub loose. But Little Arliss wouldn't do

it. All h&d do was hang with that hind leg and let out

one shrill shriek after another as fast as he could suck

in a breath.

  Now the she bear was charging across the shallows

in the creek. She was knocking sheets of water high in

the bright sun, charging with her fur up and her long

teeth bared, filling the canyon with that awful cough-

ing roar. And no matter how fast Mama ran or how fast

I ran, the she bear was going to get there first!

  I think I nearly went blind then, picturing what was

going to happen to Little Arliss. I know that I opened

my mouth to scream and not any sound came out.

  Then, just as the bear went lunging up the creek

bank toward Little Arliss and her cub, a flash of yellow

came streaking out of the brush.

  It was that big yeller dog. He was roaring like a

mad bull. He wasn't one-third as big and heavy as the

she bear, but when he piled into her from one side, he

rolled her clear off her feet. They went down in a wild,

roaring tangle of twisting bodies and scrambling feet

and slashing fangs.

  As I raced past them, I saw the bear lunge up to stand

on her hind feet like a man while she clawed at the

body of the yeller dog hanging to her throat. I didn't

wait to see more. Without ever checking my stride,

I ran in and jerked Little Arliss loose from the cub.

I grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him up out of

that water and slung him toward Mama like he was a

half-empty sack of corn. I screamed at Mama. "Grab

him, Mama! Grab him and run!" Then I swung my

chopping axe high and wheeled, aiming to cave in the

she bear's head with the first lick.

   But I never did strike. I didn't need to. Old Yeller

hadn't let the bear get close enough. He couldn't handle

her; she was too big and strong for that. She'd stand

there on her hind feet, hunched over, and take a roar-

ing swing at him with one of those big front claws.

She'd slap him head over heels. She'd knock him so far

that it didn't look like he could possibly get back there

before she charged again, but he always did. He'd hit

the ground rolling, yelling his head off with the pain of

the blow; but somehow he'd always roll to his feet.

And here he'd come again, ready to tie into her for

another round.

  I stood there with my axe raised, watching them for

a long moment. Then from up toward the house, I

heard Mama calling: "Come away from there, Travis.

Hurry, son! Run!"

  That spooked me. Up till then, I'd been ready to tie

into that bear myself. Now, suddenly, I was scared

out of my wits again. I ran toward the cabin.

  But like it was, Old Yeller nearly beat me there. I

didn't see it, of course; but Mama said that the minute

Old Yeller saw we were all in the clear and out of

danger, he threw the fight to that she bear and lit Out

for the house. The bear chased him for a little piece,

hut at the rate Old Yeller was leaving her behind,

Mama said it looked like the bear was backing up.

  But if the big yeller dog was scared or hurt in any

way when he came dashing into the house, he didn't

show it. He sure didn't show it like we all did. Little

Arliss had hushed his screaming, but he was trembling

all over and clinging to Mama like he'd never let her

go. And Mama was sitting in the middle of the floor,

holding him up close and crying like she'd never stop.

And me, I was close to crying, myself.

  Old Yeller, though, all he did was come bounding

in to jump on us and lick us in the face and bark so

loud that there, inside the cabin, the noise nearly

made us deaf.

  The way he acted, you might have thought that

bear fight hadn't been anything more than a rowdy

romp that we'd all taken part in for the fun of it.

Chapter Six

Till Little Arliss got us mixed up in that bear fight,

I guess I'd been looking on him about like most boys

look on their little brothers. I liked him, all right, but

I didn't have a lot of use for him. What with his always

playing in our drinking water and getting in the way

of my chopping axe and howling his head off and

chunking me with rocks when he got mad, it didn't

seem to me like he was hardly worth the bother of

putting up with.

  But that day when I saw him in the spring, so help

less against the angry she bear, I learned different.

I knew then that I loved him as much as I did Mama

and Papa, maybe in some ways even a little bit more.

  So it was only natural for me to come to love the

dog that saved him.

     After that, I couldn't do enough for Old Yeller. What

  if he was a big ugly meat-stealing rascal? What if he

  did fall over and yell bloody murder every time I

  looked crossways at him? What if he had run off when

  he ought to have helped with the fighting bulls? None

  of that made a lick of difference now. He'd pitched in

  and saved Little Arliss when I couldn't possibly have

  done it, and that was enough for me.

     I petted him and made over him till he was wiggling

  all over to show how happy he was. I felt mean about

  how I'd treated him and did everything I could to let

  him know. I searched his feet and pulled out a long

  mesquite thorn that had become embedded between

  his toes. I held him down and had Mama hand me a

  stick with a coal of fire on it, so I could burn off three

  big bloated ticks that I found inside one of his ears. I

  washed him with lye soap and water, then rubbed salty

  bacon grease into his hair all over to rout the fleas.

  And that night after dark, when he sneaked into bed

  with me and Little Arliss, I let him sleep there and

  never said a word about it to Mama.

    I  took him and Little Arliss squirrel hunting the

    next day. It was the first time I'd ever taken Little

    Arliss  on any kind of hunt. He was such a noisy pest

    that I always figured he'd scare off the game.

    As it turned out, he was lust as noisy and pesky as

    I'd figured. He'd follow along, keeping quiet like I

    told him, till he saw maybe a pretty butterfly floating

around in the air. Then he'd set up a yell you could

have heard a mile off and go chasing after the butterfly.

Of course, he couldn't catch it; but he would keep

yelling at me to come help him. Then he'd get mad

because I wouldn't and yell still louder. Or maybe he'd

stop to turn over a flat rock. Then he'd stand yelling at

me to come back and look at all the yellow ants and

centipedes and crickets and stinging scorpions that

went scurrying away, hunting new hiding places.

  Once he got hung up in some briars and yelled till

I came back to get him out. Another time he fell down

and struck his elbow on a rock and didn't say a word

about it for several minutes-until he saw blood seep-

ing out of a cut on his arm. Then he stood and screamed

like he was being burnt with a hot iron.

  With that much racket going on, I knew we'd scare

all the game clear out of the country. Which, I guess

we did. All but the squirrels. They took to the trees

where they could hide from us. But I was lucky enough

to see which tree one squirrel went up; so I put some

of Little Arliss's racket to use.

  I sent him in a circle around the tree, beating on

the grass and bushes with a stick, while I stood waiting.

Sure enough, the squirrel got to watching Little Arliss

and forgot me. He kept turning around the tree limb

to keep it between him and Little Arliss, till he was

on my side in plain sight. I shot him out of the tree the

first shot.

  After that, Old Yeller caught onto what game we

were after. He went to work then, trailing and treeing

the squirrels that Little Arliss was scaring up off the

ground. From then on, with Yeller to tree the squirrels

and Little Arliss to turn them on the tree limbs, we had

picking's. Wasn't but a little bit till I'd shot five, more

than enough to make us a good squirrel fry for supper.

  A week later, Old Yeller helped me catch a wild

gobbler that I'd have lost without him. We had gone

up to the corn patch to pick a bait of blackeyed peas.

I was packing my gun. Just as we got up to the slabrock

fence that Papa had built around the corn patch, I

looked over and spotted this gobbler doing our pea-

picking for us. The pea pods were still green yet, most

of them no further along than snapping size. This made

them hard for the gobbler to shell, but he was working

away at it, pecking and scratching so hard that he was

raising a big dust out in the field.

  "Why, that old rascal," Mama said. "He's just claw-

ing those pea vines all to pieces."

  "Hush, Mama," I said. "Don't scare him." I lifted

my gun and laid the barrel across the top of the rock

fence. "I'll have him ready for the pot in just a minute."

  It wasn't a long shot, and I had him sighted in, dead

to rights. I aimed to stick a bullet right where his wings

hinged to his back. I was holding my breath and already

squeezing off when Little Arliss, who'd gotten behind,

came running up.

  "Whatcha shootin' at, Travis?" he yelled at the top

of his voice. "Whatcha shootin' at?"

  Well, that made me and the gobbler both jump. The

gun fired, and I saw the gobbler go down. But a second

later, he was up again, streaking through the tall corn,

dragging a broken wing.

  For a second, I was so mad at Little Arliss I could

have wrung his neck like a frying chicken's. I said,

"Arliss! Why can't you keep your mouth shut? You've

made me lose that gobbler!"

  Well, little Arliss didn't have sense enough to know

what I was mad about. Right away, he puckered up

and went to crying and leaking tears all over the place.

Some of them splattered clear down on his bare feet,

making dark splotches in the dust that covered them.

I always did say that when Little Arliss cried he could

shed more tears faster than any crier I ever saw.

  "Wait a minute!" Mama put in. "I don't think you've

lost your gobbler yet. Look yonder!"

  She pointed, and I looked, and there was Old Yeller

jumping the rock fence and racing toward the pea

patch. He ran up to where I'd knocked the gobbler

down. He circled the place one time, smelling the

ground and wagging his stub tail. Then he took off

through the corn the same way the gobbler went, yell-

ing like I was beating him with a stick.          

  When he barked treed a couple of minutes later, it

was in the woods the other side of the corn patch. We

went to him. We found him jumping at the gobbler that

had run up a stooping liveoak and was perched there,

panting, just waiting for me.

  So in spite of the fact that Little Arliss had caused me

to make a bad shot, we had us a real sumptuous supper

that night. Roast turkey with cornbread dressing and

watercress and wild onions that Little Arliss and I

found growing down in the creek next to the water.

  But when we tried to feed Old Yeller some of the

turkey, on account of his saving us from losing it, he

wouldn't eat. He'd lick the meat and wiggle his stub

tail to show how grateful he was, but he didn't swallow

down more than a bite or two.

  That puzzled Mama and me because, when we re-

membered back, we realized that he hadn't been eating

anything we'd fed him for the last several days. Yet he

was fat and with hair as slick and shiny as a dog eating

three square meals a day.

  Mama shook her head. "If I didn't know better," she

said, "I'd say that dog was sucking eggs. But I've got

three hens setting and one with biddy chickens, and

Fm getting more eggs from the rest of them than I've

gotten since last fall. So he can't be robbing the nests."

  Well, we wondered some about what Old Yeller was

living on, but didn't worry about it. That is, not until the

day Bud Searcy dropped by the cabin to see how we

were making out.