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Old Yeller

By Fred Gipson

We located the hogs in plenty of time; but before

we were done with them, I didn't want to go see a bat

cave or anything else.

  Old Yeller struck the hogs' trail at a water hole. He

ran the scent out into a regular forest of prickly pear.

Bright red apples fringed the edges of the pear pads.

In places where the hogs had fed, bits of peel and black

seeds and red juice stain lay on the ground.

  The sight made me wonder again how a hog could

be tough enough to eat prickly-pear apples with their

millions of little hairlike spines. I ate them, myself,

sometimes; for pear apples are good eating. But even

after I'd polished them clean by rubbing them in the

sand, I generally wound up with several stickers in my

mouth. But the hogs didn't seem to mind the stickers.

Neither did the wild turkeys or the pack rats or the

little big-eared ringtail cats. All of those creatures came

to the pear flats when the apples started turning red.

  Old Yeller's yelling bay told me that he'd caught up

with the hogs. I heard their rumbling roars and ran

through the pear clumps toward the sound. They were

the hogs that Rosal Simpson had sent word about. There

were five pigs, three sows, and a couple of bar' hogs,

all but the pigs wearing our mark. Their faces bristled

with long pear spines that they'd got stuck with, reach-

ing for apples. Red juice stain was smeared all over their

snouts. They stood, backed up against a big prickly-

pear clump. Their anger had their bristles standing in

high fierce ridges along their backbones. They roared

and popped their teeth and dared me or Old Yeller to

try to catch one of the squealing pigs.

  I looked around for the closest tree. It stood better

than a quarter of a mile off. It was going to be rough

on Old Yeller, trying to lead them to it. Having to duck

and dodge around in those prickly pear, he was bound

to come out bristling with more pear spines than the

hogs had in their faces. But I couldn't see any other

place to take them. I struck off toward the tree, holler-

ing at Old Yeller to bring them along.

  A deep cut-bank draw ran through the pear flats be-

tween me and the huge mesquite tree I was heading for,

and it was down in the bottom of this draw that the

hogs balked. They'd found a place where the flood

waters had undercut one of the dirt banks to form a

shallow cave.

  They, backed up under the bank, with the pigs be-

hind them. No amount of barking and pestering by

Old Yeller could get them out. Now and then, one of

the old bar' hogs would break ranks to make a quick

cutting lunge at the dog. But when Yeller leaped away,

the hog wouldn't follow up. He'd go right back to fill

the gap he'd left in the hall circle his mates had formed

at the front of the cave. The hogs knew they'd found a

natural spot for making a fighting stand, and they didn't

aim to leave it.

  I went back and stood on the bank above them, look-

ing down, wondering what to do. Then it came to me

that all I needed to do was go to work. This dirt bank

would serve as well as a tree. There were the hogs right

under me. They couldn't get to me from down there,

not without first having to go maybe fifty yards down

the draw to find a place to get out. And Old Yeller

wouldn't let them do that. It wouldn't be easy to reach

beneath that undercut bank and rope a pig, but I be-

lieved it could be done.

  I took my rope from around my waist and shook out a

loop. I moved to the lip of the cut bank. The pigs were

too far back under me for a good throw. Maybe if I

lay down on my stomach, I could reach them.

  I did. I reached back under and picked up the first

pig, slick as a whistle. I drew him up and worked him

over. I dropped him back and watched the old hogs

sniff his bloody wounds. Scent of his blood made them

madder, and they roared louder.

  I lay there and waited. A second pig moved out from

the back part of the cave that I couldn't quite see. He

still wasn't quite far enough out. I inched forward and

leaned further down, to where I could see better. I could

reach him with my loop now.

  I made my cast, and that's when it happened. The

dirt bank broke beneath my weight. A wagon load of

sand caved off and spilled down over the angry hogs.

I went with the sand.

  I guess I screamed. I don't know. It happened too

fast. All I can really remember is the wild heart-stopping

scare I knew as I tumbled, head over heels, down among

those killer hogs.

  The crumbling sand all but buried the hogs. I guess

that's what saved me, right at the start. I remember

bumping into the back of one old bar' hog, then leap-

ing to my feet in a smothering fog of dry dust. I jumped

blindly to one side as far as I could. I broke to run, but

I was too late. A slashing tush caught me in the calf of

my right leg.

  A searing pain shot up into my body. I screamed. I

stumbled and went down. I screamed louder then, know

ing I could never get to my feet in time to escape the

rush of angry hogs roaring down upon me.

  It was Old Yeller who saved me. Just like he'd saved

Little Arliss from the she bear. He came in, roaring with

rage. He flung himself between me and the killer hogs.

Fangs bared, he met them head on, slashing and snarl-

ing. He yelled with pain as the savage tushes ripped

into him. He took the awful punishment meant for me;

but held his ground. He gave me that one-in-a-hundred

chance to get free.

  I took it. I leaped to my feet. In wild terror, I ran

along the bed of that dry wash, cut right up a sloping

bank. Then I took out through the forest of prickly pear.

I ran till a forked stick tripped me and I fell.

  It seemed like that fall, or maybe it was the long

prickly-pear spines that stabbed me in the hip, brought

me out of my scare. I sat up, still panting for breath

and with the blood hammering in my ears. But I was

all right in my mind again. I yanked the spines out of

my hip, then pulled up my slashed pants to look at my

leg. Sight of so much blood nearly threw me into an-

other panic. It was streaming out of the cut and clear

down into my shoe.

  I sat and stared at it for a moment and shivered.

Then I got hold of myself again. I wiped away the

blood. The gash was a bad one, clear to the bone, I

could tell, and plenty long. But it didn't hurt much;

not yet, that is. The main hurting would start later, I

guessed, after the bleeding stopped and my leg started

to get stiff. I guessed I'd better hurry and tie up the

place and get home as quick as I could. Once that leg

started getting stiff, I might not make it.

  I took my knife and cut a Strip off the tail of my shirt.

I bound my leg as tight as I could. I got up to see if I

could walk with the leg wrapped as tight as I had it,

and I could.

  But when I set out, it wasn't in the direction of home.

It was back along the trail through the prickly pear.

  I don't quite know what made me do it. I didn't

think to myself: "Old Yeller saved my life and I can't

go off and leave him. He's bound to be dead, but it

would look mighty shabby to go home without finding

out for sure. I have to go back, even if my hurt leg

gives out on me before I can get home."

  I didn't think anything like that. I just started walk-

ing in that direction and kept walking till I found him.

  He lay in the dry wash, about where I'd left it to go

running through the prickly pear. He'd tried to follow

but was too hurt to keep going. He was holed up

under a broad slab of red sandstone rock that had

slipped off a high bank and now lay propped up against

a round boulder in such a way as to form a sort of cave.

He'd taken refuge there from the hogs. The hogs were

gone now, but I could see their tracks in the sand

around the rocks, where they'd tried to get at him from

behind. I'd have missed him, hidden there under that

rock slab, if he hadn't whined as I walked past.

  I knelt beside him and coaxed him out from under

the rocks, He grunted and groaned as he dragged him-

self toward me. He sank back to the ground, his blood-

smeared body trembling while he wiggled his stub tail

and tried to lick my hog cut leg.

  A big lump came up into my throat. Tears stung my

eyes, blinding me. Here he was, trying to lick my wound,

when he was bleeding from a dozen worse ones. And

worst of all was his belly. It was ripped wide open and

some of his insides were bulging out through the slit.

  It was a horrible sight It was so horrible that for a

second I couldn't look at it. I wanted to run off. I didn't

want to stay and look at something that filled me with

such a numbing terror.

  But I didn't run off. I shut my eyes and made myself

run a hand over Old Yeller's head. The stickiness of

the blood on it made my flesh crawl, but I made myself

do it. Maybe I couldn't do him any good, but I wasn't

going to run off and leave him to die, all by himself.

  Then it came to me that he wasn't dead yet and

maybe he didn't have to die. Maybe there was some-

thing that I could do to save him. Maybe if I hurried

home, I could get Mama to come back and help me.

Mama'd know what to do. Mama always knew what to

do when somebody got hurt.

  I wiped the tears from my eyes with my shirt sleeves

and made myself think what to do. I took off my shirt

and tore it into strips. I used a sleeve to wipe the sand

from the belly wound. Carefully, I eased his entrails

back into place. Then I pulled the lips of the wound

together and wound Strips of my shirt around Yeller's

body. I wound them tight and tied the strips together

so they couldn't work loose.

  All the time I worked with him, Old Yeller didn't let

out a whimper. But when I shoved him back under the

rock where he'd be out of the hot sun, he started whin-

ing. I guess he knew that I was fixing to leave him, and

he wanted to go, too. He started crawling back out of

his hole.

  I stood and studied for a while. I needed something

to stop up that opening so Yeller couldn't get out. It

would have to be something too big and heavy for him

to shove aside. I thought of a rock and went looking for

one. What I found was even better. It was an uprooted

and dead mesquite tree, lying on the bank of the wash.

  The stump end of the dead mesquite was big and

heavy. It was almost too much for me to drag in the

loose sand. I heaved and sweated and started my leg to

bleeding again. But I managed to get that tree stump

where I wanted it.

  I slid Old Yeller back under the rock slab. I scolded

him and made him stay there till I could haul the tree

stump into place.

  Like I'd figured, the stump just about filled the open-

ing Maybe a strong dog could have squeezed through

the narrow opening that was left, but I didn't figure

Old Yeller could. I figured he'd be safe in there till I

could get back.

  Yeller lay back under the rock slab now, staring at

me with a look in his eyes that made that choking lump

come into my throat again. It was a begging look, and

Old Yeller wasn't the kind to beg.

  I reached in and let him lick my hand. "Yeller," I

said, "I'll be back. I'm promising that I'll be back."

  Then I lit out for home in a limping run. His howl

followed me. It was the most mournful howl I ever

heard.

Chapter Eleven

IT LOOKED like I'd never get back to where I'd left Old

Yeller. To begin with, by the time I got home, I'd

traveled too far and too fast. I was so hot and weak and

played out that I was trembling all over. And that hog-

cut leg was sure acting up. My leg hadn't gotten stiff

like I'd figured. I'd used it too much. But I'd strained

the cut muscle. It was jerking and twitching long before

I got home; and after I got there, it wouldn't stop.

  That threw a big scare into Mama. I argued and

fussed, trying to tell her what a had shape Old Yeller

was in and how we needed to hurry back to him. But

she wouldn't pay me any mind.

  She told me: "We're not going anywhere until we've

cleaned up and doctored that leg. I've seen hog cuts

before. Neglect them, and they can be as dangerous as

snakebite. Now, you just hold still till I get through."

  I saw that it wasn't any use, so I held still while she

got hot water and washed out the cut. But when she

poured turpentine into the place, I couldn't hold still.

I lumped and hollered and screamed. It was like she'd

burnt me with a red-hot iron. It hurt worse than when

the hog slashed me. I hollered with hurt till Little

Arliss tuned up and went to crying, too. But when the

pain finally left my leg, the muscle had quit jerking.

  Mama got some clean white rags and bound up the

place. Then she said, "Now, you lie down on that bed

and rest. I don't want to see you take another step on

that leg for a week."

  I was so stunned that I couldn't say a word. Mi I

could do was stare at her. Old Yeller, lying way off out

there in the hills, about to die if he didn't get help, and

Mama telling me I couldn't walk.

  I got up off the stool I'd been sitting on. I said to her,

"Mama, I'm going back after Old Yeller. I promised

him I'd come back, and that's what I aim to do." Then

I walked through the door and out to the lot.

  By the time I got Jumper caught, Mama had her bon-

net on. She was ready to go, too. She looked a little

flustered, like she didn't know what to do with me, but

all she said was, "How'll we bring him back?"

  "On Jumper," I said. "I'll ride Jumper and hold Old

Yeller in my arms.

  "You know better than that," she said. "He's too big

and heavy. I might lift him up to you, but you can't

stand to hold him in your arms that long. You'll give

out."

  "I'll hold him," I said. "If I give out, I'll rest. Then

we'll go on again."

  Mama stood tapping her foot for a minute while she

gazed off across the hills. She said, like she was talking

to herself, "We can't use the cart. There aren't any

roads, and the country is too rough."

  Suddenly she turned to me and smiled. "I know what.

Get that cowhide off the fence. I'll go get some pillows."

  "Cowhide?"

  "Tie it across Jumper's back," she said. "I'll show you

later."

  I didn't know what she had in mind, but it didn't

much matter. She was going with me.

  I got the cowhide and slung it across Jumper's back.

It rattled and spooked him so that he snorted and

jumped from under it.

  "You Jumper!" I shouted at him. "You hold still."

  He held still the next time. Mama brought the pillows

and a long coil of rope. She had me tie the cowhide to

Jumper's back and bind the pillows down on top of

it. Then she lifted Little Arliss up and set him down on

top of the pillows.

  "You ride behind him," she said to me. "I'll walk."

  We could see the buzzards gathering long before we

got there. We could see them wheeling black against

the blue sky and dropping lower and lower with each

circling. One we saw didn't waste time to circle. He

came hurtling down at a long-slanted dive, his Ugly

head outstretched, his wings all but shut against his

body. He shot past, right over our heads, and the

whooshing sound his body made in splitting the air sent

cold chills running all through me. I guessed it was all

over for Old Yeller.

  Mama was walking ahead of Jumper. She looked back

at me. The look in her eyes told me that she figured the

same thing. I got so sick that it seemed like I couldn't

stand it.

  But when we moved down into the prickly-pear flats,

my misery eased some. For suddenly, up out of a wash

ahead rose a flurry of flapping wings. Something had

disturbed those buzzards and I thought I knew what

it was.

  A second later, I was sure it was Old Yeller. His yell-

ing bark sounded thin and weak, yet just to hear it made

me want to holler and run and laugh. He was still alive.

He was still able to fight back!

  The frightened buzzards had settled back to the

ground by the time we got there. When they caught

sight of us, though, they got excited and went to trying

to get off the ground again. For birds that can sail

around in the air all day with hardly more than a move-

ment of their wing tips, they sure were clumsy and

awkward about getting started. Some had to keep

hopping along the wash for fifty yards, beating the air

with their huge wings, before they could finally take

off. And then they were slow to rise. I could have shot

a dozen of them before they got away if I'd thought to

bring my gun along.

  There was a sort of crazy light shining in Old Yeller's

eyes when I looked in at him. When I reached to drag

the stump away, he snarled and lunged at me with

bored fangs.

  I jerked my hands away just in time and shouted

"Yeller!" at him. Then he knew I wasn't a buzzard. The

crazy light went out of his eyes. He sank back into the

hole with a loud groan like he'd just had a big load

taken off his mind.

  Mama helped me drag the stump away. Then we

reached in and rolled his hurt body over on its back and

slid him out into the light.

  Without bothering to examine the blood-caked cuts

that she could see all over his head and shoulders,

Mama started unwinding the stripS of cloth from

around his body.

  Then Little Arliss came crowding past me, asking

in a scared voice what was the matter with Yeller.

  Mama stopped. "Arliss," she said, "do you think you

could go back down this sandy wash here and catch

Mama a pretty green-striped lizard? I thought I saw

one down there around that first bend."

  Little Arliss was as pleased as I was surprised. Always

before, Mama had just sort of put up with his lizard-

catching. Now she was wanting him to catch one just

for her. A delighted grin spread over his face. He

turned and ran down the wash as hard as he could go.

  Mama smiled up at me, and suddenly I understood.

She was lust getting Little Arliss out of the way so he

wouldn't have to look at the terrible sight of Yeller's

slitted belly.

  She said to me: "Go jerk a long hair out of Jumper's

tail, Son. But stand to one side, so he won't kick you.fl

  I went and stood to one side of Jumper and jerked

a long hair Out of his tail. Sure enough, he snorted and

kicked at me, but he missed. I took the hair back to

Mama, wondering as much about it as I had about the

green-striped lizard. But when Mama pulled a long

sewing needle from her dress front and poked the small

end of the tail hair through the eye, I knew then.

  "Horse hair is always better than thread for sewing

up a wound," she said. She didn't say why, and I never

did think to ask her.

  Mama asked me if any of Yeller's entrails had been

cut and I told her that I didn't think so.

  "Well, I won't bother them then," she said. "Anyway,

if they are, I don't think I could fix them."

  It was a long, slow job, sewing up Old Yeller's belly.

And the way his flesh would flinch and quiver when

Mama poked the needle through, it must have hurt.

But if it did, Old Yeller didn't say anything about it.

He lust lay there and licked my hands while I held him.

  We were wrapping him up in some clean rags that

Mama had brought along when here came Little Arliss.

He was running as hard as he'd been when he left. He

was grinning and hollering at Mama. And in his right

hand he carried a green-striped lizard, too.

  How on earth he'd managed to catch anything as fast

running as one of those green-striped lizards, I don't

know; but he sure had one.

  You never saw such a proud look as he wore on his

face when he handed the lizard to Mama. And I don't

guess I ever saw a more helpless look on Mama's face as

she took it. Mama had always been squeamish about

lizards and snakes and bugs and things, and you could

tell that it just made her flesh crawl to have to touch

this one. But she took it and admired it and thanked

Arliss. Then she asked him if he'd keep it for her till

we got home. Which Little Arliss was glad to do.

  "Now, Arliss," she told him, "we're going to play a

game. We're playing like Old Yeller is sick and you

are taking care of him. We're going to let you both

ride on a cowhide, like the sick Indians do sometimes."

  It always pleased Little Arliss to play any sort of

game, and this was a new one that he'd never heard

about before. He was so anxious to get started that we

could hardly keep him Out from underfoot till Mama

could get things ready.

  As soon as she took the cowhide off Jumper's back

and spread it hair-side down upon the ground, I began

to get the idea. She placed the soft pillows on top of

the hide, then helped me to ease Old Yeller's hurt body

onto the pillows.

  "Now, Arliss," Mama said, "you sit there on the

pillows with Old Yeller and help hold him on. But

remember now, don't play with him or get on top of

him. We're playing like he's sick, and when your dog is

sick, you have to be real careful with him."

  It was a fine game, and Little Arliss fell right in with

it. He sat where Mama told him to. He held Old

Yeller's head in his lap, waiting for the ride to start.

  It didn't take long. I'd already tied a rope around

Jumper's neck, leaving the loop big enough that it

would pull back against his shoulders. Then, on each

side of Jumper, we tied another rope into the one

knotted about his shoulders, and carried the ends of

them back to the cowhide. I took my knife and cut two

slits into the edge of the cowhide, then tied a rope into

each one. We measured to get each rope the same

length and made sure they were far enough back that

the cowhide wouldn't touch Jumper's heels. Like most

mules, Jumper was mighty fussy about anything touch-

ing his heels.

  "Now, Travis, you ride him," Mama said, "and I'll

lead him."

  "You better let me walk," I argued. "Jumper's liable

to throw a fit with that hide rattling along behind him,

and you might not can hold him by yourself."

  "You ride him," Mama said. "I don't want you walk-

ing on that leg any more. If Jumper acts up one time,

I'll take a club to him!"

  We started off, with Little Arliss crowing at what a

fine ride he was getting on the dragging hide. Sure

enough, at the first sound of that rattling hide, old

Jumper acted up. He snorted and tried to lunge to one

side. But Mama yanked down on his bridle and said,

"Jumper, you wretch!" I whacked him between the

ears with a dead stick. With the two of us coming at

him like that, it was more than Jumper wanted. He

settled down and went to traveling as quiet as he gen-

erally pulled a plow, with just now and then bending

his neck around to take a look at what he was dragging.

You could tell he didn't like it, but I guess he figured

he'd best put up with it.

  Little Arliss never had a finer time than he did on

that ride home. He enjoyed every long hour of it.

And a part of the time, I don't guess it was too rough

on Old Yeller. The cowhide dragged smooth and even

as long as we stayed in the sandy wash. When we left

the wash and took out across the flats, it still didn't

look bad. Mama led Jumper in a long roundabout way,

keeping as much as she could to the openings where the

tall grass grew. The grass would bend down before the

hide, making a soft cushion over which the hide slipped

easily. But this was a rough country. and try as hard

as she could, Mama couldn't always dodge the rocky

places. The hide slid over the rocks, the same as over

the grass and sand, but it couldn't do it without jolting

the riders pretty much.

  Little Arliss would laugh when the hide raked along

over the rocks and jolted him till his teeth rattled. He

got as much fun out of that as the rest of the ride. But

the jolting hurt Old Yeller till sometimes he couldn't

hold back his whinings.

  When Yeller's whimperings told us he was hurting

too bad, we'd have to stop and wait for him to rest up.

At other times, we stopped to give him water. Once

we got water out of a little spring that trickled down

through the rocks. The next time was at Birdsong

Creek.

  Mama'd pack water to him in my hat. He was too

weak to get up and drink; so Mama would hold the

water right under his nose and I'd lift him up off the

pillows and hold him close enough that he could reach

down and lap the water up with his tongue.

  Having to travel so far and so slow and with so many

halts, it looked like we'd never get him home. But we

finally made it just about the time it got dark enough

for the stars to show.

  By then, my hurt leg was plenty stiff, stiff and numb.

It was all swelled up and felt as dead as a chunk of

wood. When I slid down off Jumper's back, it wouldn't

hold me. I fell clear to the ground and lay in the dirt,

too tired and hurt to get up.

  Mama made a big to-do about how weak and hurt

I was, but I didn't mind. We'd gone and brought Old

Yeller home, and he was still alive. There by the star-

light, I could see him licking Little Arliss's face.

  Little Arliss was sound asleep.