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Old Yeller

By Fred Gipson

Chapter Twelve

FOR the next couple of weeks, Old Yeller and I had

a rough time of it. I lay on the bed inside the cabin

and Yeller lay on the cowhide in the dog run, and we

both hurt so bad that we were wallowing and groaning

and whimpering all the time. Sometimes I hurt so bad

that I didn't quite know what was happening. I'd hear

grunts and groans and couldn't tell if they were mine

or Yeller's. My leg had swelled up till it was about

the size of a butter churn. I had such a wild hot fever

that Mama nearly ran herself to death, packing fresh

cold water from the spring, which she used to bathe

me all over, trying to run my fever down.

  When she wasn't packing water, she was out digging

prickly-pear roots and hammering them to mush in a

sack, then binding the mush to my leg for a poultice.

  We had lots of prickly pear growing close to the

house, but they were the big tall ones and their roots

were no good. The kind that made a good poultice are

the smaller size. They don't have much top, but lots

of knotty roots, shaped sort of like sweet potatoes.

That kind didn't grow close to the house. Along at the

last, Mama had to go clear over to the Salt Licks to

locate that kind.

  When Mama wasn't waiting on me, she was taking

care of Old Yeller. She waited on him just like she did

me. She was getting up all hours of the night to doctor

our wounds, bathe us in cold water, and feed us when

she could get us to eat. On top of that, there were the

cows to milk, Little Arliss to look after, clothes to wash,

wood to cut, and old Jumper to worry with.

  The bad drought that Bud Searcy predicted had come.

The green grass all dried up till Jumper was no longer

satisfied to eat it. He took to jumping the field fence

and eating the corn that I'd never yet gotten around

to gathering.

  Mama couldn't let that go on; that was our bread

corn. Without it, we'd have no bread for the winter.

But it looked like for a while that there wasn't any way

to save it. Mama would go to the field and run Jumper

out; then before she got her back turned good, he'd

)ump back in and go to eating corn again.

  Finally, Mama figured out a way to keep Jumper

from jumping. She tied a drag to him. She got a rope

and tied one end of it to his right forefoot. To the other

end, she tied a big heavy chunk of wood. By pulling

hard, Jumper could move his drag along enough to

graze and get to water; but any time he tried to rear

up for a jump, the drag held him down.

  The drag on Jumper's foot saved the corn but it

didn't save Mama from a lot of work. Jumper was

always getting his chunk of wood hung up behind a

bush or rock, so that he couldn't get away. Then he'd

have himself a big scare and rear up, fighting the rope

and falling down and pitching and bawling. If Mama

didn't hear him right away, he'd start braying, and he'd

keep it up till she went and loosened the drag.

  Altogether, Mama sure had her hands full, and Little

Arliss wasn't any help. He was too little to do any

work. And with neither of us to play with, he got

lonesome. He'd follow Mama around every step she

made, getting in the way and feeling hurt because she

didn't have time to pay him any mind. When he wasn't

pestering her, he was pestering me. A dozen times a

day, he'd come in to stare at me and say: "Whatcha

doin' in bed, Travis? Why doncha get up? Why doncha

get up and come play with me?"

  He nearly drove me crazy till the day Bud Searcy

and Lisbeth came, bringing the pup.

  I didn't know about the pup at first. I didn't even

know that Lisbeth had come. I heard Bud Searcy's

talk to Mama when they rode up, but I was hurting too

bad even to roll over and look out the door. I remem-

ber just lying there, being mad at Searcy for coming.

I knew what a bother he'd be to Mama. For all his

talk of looking after the women and children of Salt

Licks while the men were gone, I knew he'd never turn

a hand to any real work. You wouldn't catch him

offering to chop wood or gather in a corn crop. All

he'd do was sit out under the dog run all day, talking

and chewing tobacco and spitting juice all over the

place. On top of that, he'd expect Mama to cook him

up a good dinner and maybe a supper if he took a

notion to stay that long. And Mama had ten times too

much to do, like it was.

  In a little bit, though, I heard a quiet step at the

door. I looked up. It was Lisbeth. She stood with her

hands behind her back, staring at me with her big

solemn eyes.

  You hurting pretty bad?" she asked.

  I was hurting a-plenty, but I wasn't admitting it to

a girl. "I'm doing all right," I said.

  "We didn't know you'd got hog cut, or we'd have

come sooner," she said.

  I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't say

anything.

  "Well, anyhow," she said, "I brung you a surprise."

  I was too sick and worn out to care about a surprise

right then; but there was such an eager look in her eyes

that I knew I had to say "What?" or hurt her feelings,

so I said "What?"

  "One of Miss Prissy's pups!" she said.

  She brought her hands around from behind her back.

In the right one, she held a dog pup about as big as

a year old possum. It was a dirty white in color and

speckled all over with blue spots about the size of cow

ticks. She held it by the slack hide at the back of its

neck. It hung there, half asleep, sagging in its own

loose hide like it was dead.

  "Born in a badger hole" she said. "Seven of them.

I brung you the best one!

  I thought: If that puny-looking thing is the best one,

Miss Prissy must have had a sorry litter of pups. But

I didn't say so. I said: "He sure looks like a dandy."

  "He is," Lisbeth said. "See how I've been holding

him, all this time, and he hasn't said a word."

  I'd heard that one all my life that if a pup didn't

holler when you held him up by the slack hide of his

neck, he was sure to turn out to be a gritty one. I didn't

think much 0œ that sign. Papa always put more stock

in what color was inside a pup's mouth. If the pup's

mouth was black inside, Papa said that was the one

to choose. And that's the way I felt about it.

  But right now I didn't care if the pup's mouth was

pea-green on the inside. Mi I wanted was lust to quit

hurting.

  I said, "I guess Little Arliss will like it," then knew

I'd said the wrong thing. I could tell by the look in

her eyes that I'd hurt her feelings, after all.

She didn't say anything. She lust got real still and

quiet and kept staring at me till I couldn't stand it

and had to look away. Then she turned and went out

of the cabin and gave the pup to Little Arliss.

  It made me mad, her looking at me like that. What

did she expect, anyhow? Here I was laid up with a

bad hog cut, hurting so bad I could hardly get my

breath, and her expecting me to make a big to-do over

a little old puny speckled pup.

  I had me a dog. Old Yeller was all cut up, worse

than I was, but he was getting well. Mama had told

me that. So what use did I have for a pup? Be all right

for Little Arliss to play with. Keep him occupied and-

out from underfoot. But when Old Yeller and I got

well and took to the woods again, we wouldn't have

time to wait around on a fool pup too little to follow.

  I lay there in bed, mad and fretful all day, thinking

how silly it was for Lisbeth to expect me to want a

pup when I already had me a full grown dog. I lay

there, just waiting for a chance to tell her so, too; only

she never did come back to give me a chance. She

stayed outside and played with Little Arliss and the

pup till her grandpa finally wound up his talking and

tobacco spitting and got ready to leave Then I saw

her and Little Arliss come past the door, heading for

where I could hear her grandpa saddling his horse.

She looked in at me, then looked away, and suddenly

I wasn't mad at her any more. I felt sort of mean. I

wished now I could think of the right thing to say

about the pup, so I could call her back and tell her.

I didn't want her to go off home with her feelings still

hurt.

  But before I could think of anything, I heard her

grandpa say to Mama: "Now Mrs. Coates, you all are

in a sort of bind here, with your man gone and that boy

crippled up. I been setting out here all evening, worry-

ing about it. That's my responsibility you know, seeing

that everybody's taken care of while the men are gone,

and I think now we've got a way figured. I'll just leave

our girl Lisbeth here to help you all out."

  Mama said in a surprised voice: "Why, Mr. Searcy,

there's no need for that. It's mighty kind of you and all,

but we'll make out all right."

  "No, now, Mrs. Coates; you got too big a load to

carry, all by yourself. My Lisbeth, she'll be proud to

help out."

  "But," Mama argued, "she's such a little girl, Mr.

Searcy. She's probably never stayed away from home

of a night."

  "She's little," Bud Searcy said, "but she's stout and

willing. She's like me; when folks are in trouble, she'll

pitch right in and do her part. You just keep her here

now. You'll see what a big help she'll be."

  Mama tried to argue some more, but Bud Searcy

wouldn't listen. He just told Lisbeth to be a good girl

and help Mama out, like she was used to helping out

at home. Then he mounted and rode on off.

Chapter Thirteen

I WAS like Mama. I didn't think Lisbeth Searcy would

be any help around the place. She was too little and

too skinny. I figured she'd just be an extra bother for

Mama.

  But we were wrong. Just like Bud Searcy said, she

was a big help. She could tote water from the spring.

She could feed the chickens, pack in wood, cook corn-

bread, wash dishes, wash Little Arliss, and sometimes

even change the prickly-pear poultice on my leg.

  She didn't have to be told, either She was right

there on hand all the time, just looking for something

to do. She was a lot better about that than I ever was.

She wasn't as big and she couldn't do as much as

I could, but she was more willing.

  She didn't even back off when Mama hooked Jumper

to the cart and headed for the field to gather in the

corn. That was a job I always hated It was hot work,

and the corn shucks made my skin itch and sting till

sometimes ~d wake up at night scratching like I'd

stumbled into a patch of bull nettles.

  But it didn't seem to bother Lisbeth. In fact, it looked

like she and Mama and Little Arliss had a real good

time gathering corn. I'd see them drive past the cabin,

all three of them sitting on top of a cartload of corn.

They would be laughing and talking and having such

a romping big time, playing with the speckled pup,

that before long I hall wished I was able to gather

corn too.

  In a way, it sort of hurt my pride for a little old

girl like Lisbeth to come in and take over my jobs.

Papa had left me to look after things. But now I was

laid up and here was a girl handling my work about

as good as I could. Still, she couldn't get out and mark

hogs or kill meat or swing a chopping axe. ...

  Before they were finished gathering corn, however,

we were faced with a trouble a whole lot too big for

any of us to handle.

  The first hint of it came when the Spot heifer failed

to show up one evening at milking time. Mama had

come in too late from the corn gathering to go look

for her before dark, and the next morning she didn't

need to. Spot came up, by herself, or rather, she came

past the house.

  I heard her first. The swelling in my leg was about

gone down. I was weak as a rain-chilled chicken, but

most of the hurting had stopped. I was able to sit up

in bed a lot and take notice of things.

  I beard a cow coming toward the house. She was

bawling like cows do when they've lost a calf or when

their bags are stretched too tight with milk. I recog-

nized Spot's voice.

  Spot's calf recognized it, too. It had stood hungry

in the pen all night and now it was nearly crazy for a

bait of milk. I could hear it blatting and racing around

in the cowpen, so starved it could hardly wait.

  I called to Mama. "Mama," I said, "you better go

let old Spot in to her calf. I hear her coming"

  "That pesky Spot," I heard her say impatiently. "I

don't know who's got into her, staying out all night

like that and letting her calf go hungry."

I heard Mama calling to Spot as she went out to the

I heard Mama calling to Spot as she went out to the        

cowpen. A little later, I heard Spot beller like a fight-

  ing bull, then Mama's voice rising high and sharp.

  Then here came Mama, running into the cabin, calling

  for Lisbeth to hurry and bring in Little Arliss. There

  was scare in Mama's voice. I sat up in bed as Lisbeth

  came running in, dragging Little Arliss after her.

  Mama slammed the door shut, then turned to me.

"Spot made fight at me," she said. "I can't understand

it. It was like I was some varmint that she'd never seen

before."

  Mama turned and opened the door a crack. She

looked out, then threw the door wide open and stood

staring toward the cowpen.

  "Why, look at her now," she said. "She's not paying

one bit of attention to her calf. She's just going on

past the cowpen like her call wasn't there. She's acting

as crazy as ff she'd got hold of a bait of pea vine.

  There was a little pea vine that grew wild all over

the hills during wet winters and bloomed pale lavender

in the spring. Cattle and horses could eat it, mixed

with grass, and get fat on it. But sometimes when they

got too big a bait of it alone, it poisoned them. Gen-

erally, they'd stumble around with the blind staggers

for a while, then gradually get well. Sometimes, though,

the pea vine killed them.

  I sat there for a moment, listening to Spot. She was

bawling again, like when I first heard her. But now

she was heading off into the brush again, leaving her

calf to starve. I wondered where she'd gotten enough

pea vine to hurt her.

  "But Mamma," I said, "she couldn't have eaten pea

vine. The pea vine is all dead and gone this time of

year.

  Mama turned and looked at me, then looked away.

"I know," she said. "That's what's got me so worried."

  I thought of what Burn Sanderson had told me about

animals that didn't act right. I said, "Cows don't ever

get hydrophobia, do they?"

  I saw Lisbeth start at the word. She stared at me

with big solemn eyes.

  "I don't know," Mama said. "I've seen dogs with it,

but I've never heard of a cow brute having it. I just

don't know."

  In the next few days, while Old Yeller and I healed

fast, we all worried and watched.

  All day and all night, Spot kept right on doing what

she did from the start: she walked and she bawled. She

walked mostly in a wide circle that brought her pretty

close to the house about twice a day and then carried

-her so far out into the hills that we could just barely

ùhear her. She walked with her head down. She walked

ùslower and her bawling got weaker as she got weaker;

but she never stopped walking and bawling.

  When the bull came, he was worse, and a lot more

dangerous. He came two or three days later. I was

sitting out under the dog run at the time. I'd hobbled

out to sit in a chair beside Old Yeller, where I could

scratch him under his chewed-off ear. That's where

he liked to be scratched best. Mama was m the kitchen,

cooking dinner. Lisbeth and Little Arliss had gone off

to the creek below the spring to play with the pup and

to fish for catfish. I could see them running and laugh-

ing along the bank, chasing after grasshoppers for bait.

  Then I heard this moaning sound and turned to

watch a bull come out of the brush. He was the roan

bull, the one that the droopy-horned chongo had

dumped into the Mexican cart the day of the fight. But

he didn't walk like any bull I'd ever seen before. He

walked with his head hung low and wobbling. He

reeled and staggered like he couldn't see where he was

going. He walked head on into a mesquite tree like it

wasn't there, and fell to his knees when he hit it. He

scrambled to his feet and came on, grunting and stag-

gering and moaning, heading toward the spring.

  Right then, for the first time since we'd brought him

home, Old Yeller came up off his cowhide bed. He'd

been lying there beside me, paying no attention to

sight or sound of the bull. Then, I guess the wind must

have shifted and brought him the bull's scent; and

evidently that scent told him for certain what I was

only beginning to suspect.

  He rose, with a savage growl. He moved out toward

the bull, so trembly weak that he could hardly stand.

His loose lips were lifted in an ugly snarl, baring his

white fangs. His hackles stood up in a ragged ridge

along the back of his neck and shoulders.

  Watching him, I felt a prickling at the back of my

own neck. I'd seen him act like that before, but only

when there was the greatest danger. Never while lust

facing a bull.

  Suddenly, I knew that Mama and I had been fooling

ourselves. Up till now, we'd been putting off facing

up to facts. We'd kept hoping that the heifer Spot

would get over whatever was wrong with her. Mama

and Lisbeth had kept Spot's calf from starving by

letting it suck another cow. They'd had to tie the cow's

hind legs together to keep her from kicking the calf

off; but they'd kept it alive, hoping Spot would get

well and come back to it.

  Now, I knew that Spot wouldn't get well, and this

bull wouldn't, either. I knew they were both deathly

sick with hydrophobia. Old Yeller had scented that

sickness in this bull and somehow sensed how fearfully

dangerous it was.

  I thought of Lisbeth and Little Arliss down past the

spring. I came up out of my chair, calling for Mama.

"Mama!" I said. "Bring me my gun, Mama!"

  Mama came hurrying to the door. "what is it,

Travis?" she wanted to know.

  "That bull!" I said, pointing. "He's mad with hydro-

phobia and he's heading straight for Lisbeth and Little

Arliss."

  Mama took one look, said "Oh, my Lord!" in almost

a whisper. She didn't wait to get me my gun or anything

else. She just tore out for the creek, hollering for Lis-

beth and Little Arliss to run, to climb a tree, to do

anything to get away from the bull.

  I called after her, telling her to wait, to give me a

chance to shoot the bull. I don't guess she ever heard

me. But the bull heard her. He tried to turn on her,

stumbled and went to his knees. Then he was back

on his feet again as Mama went flying past. He charged

straight for her. He'd have gotten her, too, only the

sickness had his legs too wobbly. This time, when he

fell, he rooted his nose into the ground and just lay

there, moaning, too weak even to try to get up again.

  By this time, Old Yeller was there, baying the bull,

keeping out of his reach, but ready to eat him alive

if he ever came to his feet again.

  I didn't wait to see more. I went and got my gun.

I hobbled down to where I couldn't miss and shot the

roan bull between the eyes.

Chapter Fourteen

WE COULDN'T leave the dead bull to lie there that close

to the cabin. In a few days, the scent of rotting flesh

would drive us Out. Also, the carcass lay too close to

the spring. Mama was afraid it would foul up our drink-

ing water.

  "We'll have to try to drag it further from the cabin

and burn it," she said.

  "Burn it?" I said in surprise. "Why can't we just

leave it for the buzzards and varmints to clean up?"

  "Because that might spread the sickness," Mama said.

"II the varmints eat it, they might get the sickness too."

  Mama went to put the harness on Jumper. I sent

Lisbeth to bring me a rope. I doubled the rope and tied

it in a loop around the bulls horns. Mama brought

Jumper, who snorted and shied away at the sight of

the dead animal. Jumper had smelled deer blood plenty

of times, so I guess it was the size of the bull that scared

him. Or maybe like Yeller, Jumper could scent the

dead bull's sickness. I had to talk mean and threaten

him with a club before we could get him close enough

for Mama to hook the singletree over the loop of rope

I'd tied around the bull's horns.

  Then the weight of the bull was too much for him.

Jumper couldn't drag it. He leaned into his collar and

dug in with his hoofs. He grunted and strained. He

pulled till I saw the big muscles of his haunches flatten

and start quivering. But the best he could do was

slide the bull carcass along the ground for about a foot

before he gave up.

  I knew he wasn't throwing off. Jumper was full of

a lot of pesky, aggravating mule tricks; but when you

called on him to move a load, he'd move it or bust

something.

  I called on him again. I drove him at a different angle

from the load, hoping he'd have better luck. He didn't.

He threw everything he had into the collar, and all he

did was pop a link out of his right trace chain. The

flying link whistled past my ear with the speed of a

bullet. It would have killed me just as dead if it had

hit me.

  Well, that was it. There was no moving the dead

bull now. We could patch up that broken trace chain

for pulling an ordinary load. But it would never be

strong enough to pull this one. Even if Jumper was.

  I looked at Mama. She shook her head. "I guess

there's nothing we can do but burn it here," she said.

"But it's going to take a sight of wood gathering."

  It did, too. We'd lived there long enough to use

up all the dead wood close to the cabin. Now, Mama

and Lisbeth had to go `way out into the brush for it.

I got a piece of rawhide string and patched up the

trace chain, and Mama and Lisbeth used Jumper to

drag up big dead logs. I helped them pile the logs on

top of the bull. We piled them up till we had the carcass

completely covered, then set fire to them.

  In a little bit, the fire was roaring. Sheets of hot flame

shot high into the air. The heat and the stench of burnt

hair and scorching hide drove us back.

  It was the biggest fire I'd ever seen. I thought there

was fire enough there to burn three bulls. But when

it began to die down a couple of hours later, the bull

carcass wasn't half burnt up. Mama and Lisbeth went

back to dragging up more wood.

  It took two days and nights to burn up that bull.

We worked all day long each day, with Mama and

Lisbeth dragging up the wood and me feeding the

smoking fire. Then at night, we could hardly sleep. This

was because of the howling and snarling and fighting

of the wolves lured to the place by the scent of the

roasting meat. The wolves didn't get any of it; they

were too afraid of the hot fire. But that didn't keep

them from gathering for miles around and making

the nights hideous with their howlings and snarlings.

  And all night long, both nights, Old Yeller crippled

back and forth between the fire and the cabin, baying

savagely, warning the wolves to keep away.

  Both nights, I lay there, watching the eyes of the

shifting wolves glow like live mesquite coals in the

firelight, and listening to the weak moaning bawl of

old Spot still traveling in a circle. I lay there, feeling

shivery with a fearful dread that brought up pictures in

`fly mind of Bud Searcy's uncle.

  I sure did wish Papa would come home.