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Old Yeller

By Fred Gipson

As soon as the job of burning the bull was over, Mama

told us we had to do the same for the Spot heifer. That

was all Mama said about it, but I could tell by the

look in her eyes how much she hated to give up. She'd

had great hopes for Spots making us a real milk cow,

especially after Old Yeller had gentled her so fast; but

that was all gone now.

  Mama looked tired, and more worried than I think

I'd ever seen her. I guess she couldn't help thinking

what I was thinking~that if hydrophobia had sickened

one of our cows, it just might get them all.

  "I'll do the shooting," I told her. "But fm going to

follow her out a ways from the house to do it. Closer

to some wood."

  "How about your leg?" Mama asked.

  "That leg's getting all right," I told her. "Think it'll

do it some good to be walked on."

  "Well, try to kill her on bare ground," Mama cau-

tioned. "As dry as it is now, we'll be running a risk of

setting the woods afire if there's much old grass around

the place."

  I waited till Spot circled past the cabin again, then

took my gun and followed her, keeping a safe distance

behind.

  By now, Spot was so sick and starved I could hardly

stand to look at her. She didn't look like a cow; she

looked more like the skeleton of one. She was just skin

and bones. She was so weak that she stumbled as she

walked. Half a dozen times she went to her knees and

each time I'd think she'd taken her last step. But she'd

always get up and go on again and keep bawling.

  I kept waiting for her to cross a bare patch of ground

where it would be safe to build a fire. She didn't; and

I couldn't drive her, of course. She was too crazy mad

to be driven anywhere. I was afraid to mess with her.

She might be like the bull. If I ever let her know I was

anywhere about, she might go on the fight.

  I guess she was a mile from the cabin before I saw

that she was about to cross a dry sandy wash, some-

thing like the one where Yeller and I had got mixed

up with the hogs. That would be a good place I knew.

It was pretty far for us to have to come to burn her,

but there was plenty of dry wood around. And if I

could drop her out there in that wide sandy wash,

there'd be no danger of a fire getting away from us.

  I hurried around and got ahead of her. I hid behind

a turkey-pear bush on the far side of the wash. But as

sick and blind as she was, I think I could have stood out

in the broad open without her ever seeing me. I waited

till she came stumbling across the sandy bed of the

wash, then fired, dropping her in the middle of it.

  I'd used up more of my strength than I knew, follow-

ing Spot so far from the cabin. By the time I got back,

I was dead beat. The sweat was pouring off me and I

was trembling all over.

  Mama took one look at me and told me to get to

bed. "We'll go start the burning," she said. "You stay

on that leg any longer, and it'll start swelling again."

  I didn't argue. I knew I was too weak and tired to

take another walk that far without rest. So I told Mama

where to find Spot and told her to leave Little Arliss

with me, and watched her and Lisbeth head out, both

mounted on Jumper. Mama was carrying a panful of

live coals to start the fire with.

  At the last minute, Yeller got up off his cowhide.

He stood watching them a minute, like he was trying to

make up his mind about something; then he went

trotting after them. He was still thin and rough looking

and crippling pretty badly in one leg. But I figured he

knew better than I did whether or not he was able

to travel. I didn't call him back.

  As it turned out, it's a good thing I didn't. Only,

afterward, I wished a thousand times that I could have

had some way of looking ahead to what was going to

happen. Then I would have done everything I could

to keep all of them from going.

  With Little Arliss to look after, I sure didn't mean

to drop off to sleep. But I did and slept till sundown,

when suddenly I jerked awake, feeling guilty about

leaving him alone so long.

  I needn't have worried. Little Arliss was right out

there in the yard, playing with the speckled pup. They

had themselves a game going. Arliss was racing around

the cabin, dragging a short piece of frayed rope. The

pup was chasing the rope. Now and then he'd get close

enough to pounce on it. Then he'd let out a growl and

set teeth into it and try to shake it and hang on at the

same time. Generally, he got jerked off his feet and

turned a couple of somersets, but that didn't seem to

bother him. The next time Arliss came racing past, the

pup would tie into the rope again.

  I wondered if he wouldn't get some of his baby

teeth lerked out at such rough play, but guessed it

wouldn't matter. He'd soon be shedding them, anyhow.

  I wondered, too, what was keeping Mama and Lis-

beth so long. Then I thought how far it was to where

the dead cow lay and how long it would take for just

the two of them to drag up enough wood and get a

fire started, and figured they'd be lucky if they got

back before dark.

  I went off to the spring after a bucket of fresh water

and wondered when Papa would come back. Mama

had said a couple of days ago that it was about that

time, and I hoped so. For one thing, I could hardly

wait to see what sort of horse Papa was going to bring

me. But mainly, this hydrophobia plague had me scared.

I'd handled things pretty well until that came along.

Of course, I'd gotten a pretty bad hog cut, but that

could have happened to anybody, even a grown man.

And I was about to get well of that. But if the sickness

got more of our cattle, I wouldn't know what to do.

Chapter Fifteen

IT WASN'T until dark came that I really began to get

uneasy about Mama and Lisbeth. Then I could hardly

stand it because they hadn't come home. I knew in my

own mind why they hadn't: it had been late when

they'd started out; they'd had a good long piece to go;

and even with wood handy, it took considerable time

to drag up enough for the size fire they needed.

  And I couldn't think of any real danger to them.

They weren't far enough away from the cabin to be

lost. And if they were, Jumper knew the way home.

Also, Jumper was gentle; there wasn't much chance

that he'd scare and throw them off. On top of all that,

they had Old Yeller along. Old Yeller might be pretty

weak and crippled yet, but he'd protect them from just

about anything that might come their way.

  Still, I was uneasy. I couldn't help having the feeling

that something was wrong. I'd have gone to see about

them if it hadn't been for Little Arliss. It was past his

suppertime; he was getting hungry and sleepy and

fussy.

  I took him and the speckled pup inside the kitchen

and lit a candle. I settled them on the floor and gave

them each a bowl of sweet milk into which I'd crum-

bled cold cornbread. In a little bit, both were eating

out of the same bowl. Little Arliss knew better than

that and I ought to have paddled him for doing it.

But I didn't. I didn't say a word; I was too worried.

  I'd just about made up my mind to put Little Arliss

and the pup to bed and go look for Mama and Lisbeth

when I heard a sound that took me to the door in a

hurry. It was the sound of dogs fighting. The sound

came from `way out there in the dark; but the minute

I stepped outside, I could tell that the fight was moving

toward the cabin. Also, I recognized the voice of Old

Yeller.

  It was the sort of raging yell he let out when he

was in a fight to the finish. It was the same savage roar-

ing and snarling and squawling that he'd done the day

he fought the killer hogs off me.

  The sound of it chilled my blood. I stood, rooted to

the ground, trying to think what it could be, what I

ought to do.

Then I heard Jumper snorting keenly and Mama

calling in a frightened voice. "Travis! Travis! Make a

light, Son, and get your gun. And hurry!"

  I came alive then. I hollered back at her, to let her

know that I'd heard. I ran back into the cabin and got

my gun. I couldn't think at first what would make the

sort of light I needed, then recollected a clump of bear

grass that Mama'd recently grubbed out, where she

wanted to start a new fall garden. Bear grass has an

oily sap that makes it burn bright and fierce for a long

time. A pile of it burning would make a big light.

  I ran and snatched up four bunches of the half-

dried bear grass. The sharp ends of the stiff blades

stabbed and stung my arms and chest as I grabbed

them up. But I had no time to bother about that. I ran

and dumped the bunches in a pile on the bare ground

outside the yard fence, then hurried to bring a live

coal from the fireplace to start them burning.

  I fanned fast with my hat. The bear-grass blades

started to smoking, giving off their foul smell. A little

flame started, flickered and wavered for a moment,

then bloomed suddenly and leaped high with a roar.

  I lumped back, gun held ready, and caught my first

glimpse of the screaming, howling battle that came

wheeling into the circle of light. It was Old Yeller, all

right, tangled with some animal as big and savage as

he was.

Mama called from outside the light's rim. "Careful,

Son. And take close aim; it's a big loafer wolf, gone

mad."

  My heart nearly quit on me. There weren't many of

the gray loafer wolves in our part of the country, but

I knew about them. They were big and savage enough

to hamstring a horse or drag down a full-grown cow.

And here was Old Yeller, weak and crippled, trying to

fight a mad one!

  I brought up my gun, then held fire while I hollered

at Mama. "Y'all get in the cabin," I yelled. I'm scared

to shoot till I know you're out of the line of fire!"

  I heard Mama whacking Jumper with a stick to

make him go. I heard Jumper snort and the clatter of

his hoofs as he went galloping in a wide circle to come

up behind the cabin. But even after Mama called from

the door behind me, I still couldn't fire. Not without

taking a chance on killing Old Yeller.

  I waited, my nerves on edge, while Old Yeller and

the big wolf fought there in the firelight, whirling and

leaping and snarling and slashing, their bared fangs

gleaming white, their eyes burning green in the half

light.

  Then they went down in a tumbling roll that stopped

with the big wolf on top, his huge jaws shut tight on

Yeller's throat. That was my chance, and one that I'd

better make good. As weak as Old Yeller was, he'd

never break that throat hold.

There in the wavering light, I couldn't get a true

bead on the wolf. I couldn't see my sights well enough.

All I could do was guess-aim and hope for a hit.

  I squeezed the trigger. The gunstock slammed back

against my shoulder, and such a long streak of fire

spouted from the gun barrel that it blinded me for a

second; I couldn't see a thing.

  Then I realized that all the growling and snarling

had hushed. A second later, I was running toward the

two still gray forms lying side by side.

  For a second, I just knew that I'd killed Old Yeller,

too. Then, about the time I bent over him, he heaved

a big sort of sigh and struggled up to start licking my

hands and wagging that stub tail.

  I was so relieved that it seemed like all the strength

went out of me. I slumped to the ground and was

sitting there, shivering, when Mama came and sat down

beside me.

  She put one arm across my shoulders and held it

there while she told me what had happened.

  Like I'd figured~ it had taken her and Lisbeth till

dark to get the wood dragged up and the fire to going

around the dead cow. Then they'd mounted old Jumper

and headed for home. They'd been without water all

this time and were thirsty. When they came to the

crossing on Birdsong Creek, they'd dismounted to get

a drink. And while they were lying down, drinking, the

wolf came.

He was right on them before they knew it. Mama

happened to look up and see the dark hulk of him come

bounding toward them across a little clearing. He was

snarling as he came, and Mama just barely had time

to come to her feet and grab up a dead chinaberry pole

before he sprang. She whacked him hard across the

head, knocking him to the ground. Then Old Yeller       

was there, tying into him.

  Mama and Lisbeth got back on Jumper and tore out

for the house. Right after them came the wolf, like he

had his mind fixed on catching them, and nothing else.

But Old Yeller fought him too hard and too fast. Yeller

wasn't big and strong enough to stop him, but he kept

him slowed down and fought away from Jumper and

Mama and Lisbeth.

  "He had to've been mad, son,,, Mama wound up.

"You know that no wolf in his right senses would have

acted that way. Not even a big loafer wolf."

  "Yessum," I said, "and it's sure a good thing that

Old Yeller was along to keep him fought off." I shud-

dered at the thought of what could ~ave happened

without Old Yeller.

  Mama waited a little bit, then said in a quiet voice:

"It was a good thing for us, son; but it wasn't good for

Old Yeller."

  The way she said that gave me a cold feeling in the

pit of my stomach. I sat up straighter. "What do you

mean?" I said. "Old Yeller's all right. He's maybe

chewed up some, but he can't be bad hurt. See, he's

done trotting off toward the house."

  Then it hit me what Mama was getting at. All my

insides froze. I couldn't get my breath.

  I jumped to my feet, wild with hurt and scare. "But

Mama!" I cried out. "Old Yeller's just saved your life!

He's saved my life. He's saved Little Arliss's life! We

can't."

  Mama got up and put her arms across my shoulder

again. "I know, son," she said. "But he's been bitten

by a mad wolf."

  I started off into the blackness of the night while my

mind wheeled and darted this way and that, like a

scared rat trying to find its way out of a trap.

  "But Mama," I said. "We don't know for certain. We

could wait and see. We could tie him or shut him up

in the corncrib or some place till we know for sure!"

  Mama broke down and went to crying then. She

put her head on my shoulder and held me so tight that

she nearly choked off my breath.

  "We can't take a chance, Son" she sobbed. "It would

be you or me or Little Arliss or Lisbeth next. I'll shoot

him if you can't, but either way, we've got it to do.

We just can't take the chance!"

  It came clear to me then that Mama was right. We

couldn't take the risk. And from everything I had

heard, I knew that there was very little chance of Old

Yeller's escaping the sickness. It was going to kill

something inside me to do it, but I knew then that I

had to shoot my big yeller dog.

  Once I knew for sure I had it to do, I don't think

I really felt anything. I was just numb all over, like

a dead man walking.

  Quickly, I left Mama and went to stand in the light

of the burning bear grass. I reloaded my gun and called

Old Yeller back from the house. I stuck the muzzle

of the gun against his head and pulled the trigger.

Chapter Sixteen

DAYS went by, and I couldn't seem to get over it. I

couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't cry. I was all

empty inside, but hurting. Hurting worse than I'd ever

hurt in my life. Hurting with a sickness there didn't

seem to be any cure for. Thinking every minute of my

big yeller dog, how we'd worked together and romped

together, how he'd fought the she bear off Little Arliss,

how he'd saved me from the killer hogs, how he'd

fought the mad wolf off Mama and Lisbeth. Thinking

that after all this, I'd had to shoot him the same as I'd

done the roan bull and the Spot heifer.

  Mama tried to talk to me about it, and I let her. But

while everything she said made sense, it didn't do a

thing' to that dead feeling I had.

  Lisbeth talked to me. She didn't say much; she was

too shy. But she pointed out that I had another dog,

the speckled pup.

  "He's part Old Yeller," she said. "And he was the

best one of the bunch."

  But that didn't help any either. The speckled pup

might be part Old Yeller, but he wasn't Old Yeller. He

hadn't saved all our lives and then been shot down

like he was nothing.

  Then one night it clouded up and rained till daylight.

That seemed to wash away the hydrophobia plague.

At least, pretty soon afterward, it died out completely.

  But we didn't know that then. What seemed im-

portant to us about the rain was that the next morning

after it fell, Papa came riding home through the mud.

  The long ride to Kansas and back had Papa drawn

down till he was as thin and knotty as a fence rail. But

he had money in his pockets, a big shouting laugh

for everybody, and a saddle horse for me.

  The horse was a cat stepping blue roan with a black

mane and tail. Papa put me on him the first thing and

made me gallop him in the clearing around the house.

The roan had all the pride and fire any grown man

would want in his best horse, yet was as gentle as a pet.

  "Now, isn't he a dandy?" Papa asked.

  I said "Yessir" and knew that Papa was right and

that I ought to be proud and thankful. But I wasn't.

I didn't feel one way or another about the horse.

  Papa saw something was wrong. I saw him look a

question at Mama and saw Mama shake her head. Then

late that evening, just before supper, he called me off

down to the spring, where we sat and he talked.

  "Your mama told me about the dog," he said.

  I said "Yessir," but didn't add anything.

  "That was rough," he said. "That was as rough a

thing as I ever heard tell of happening to a boy. And

I'm mighty proud to learn how my boy stood up to it.

You couldn't ask any more of a grown man.

  He stopped for a minute. He picked up some little

pebbles and thumped them into the water, scattering

a bunch of hairy-legged water bugs. The bugs darted

across the water in all directions.

  "Now the thing to do," he went on, `is to try to

forget it and go on being a man."

  "How?" I asked. "How can you forget a thing like

that?"

  He studied me for a moment, then shook his head.

"I guess I don't quite mean that," he said. "It's not a

thing you can forget. I don't guess it's a thing that you

ought to forget. What I mean is, things like that hap-

pen. They may seem mighty cruel and unfair, but that's

how life is a part of the time.

  "But that isn't the only way life is. A part of the

time, it's mighty good. And a man can't afford to waste

all the good part, worrying about the bad parts. That

makes it all bad. . . . You understand?"

  "Yessir," I said. And I did understand. Only, it still

didn't do me any good. I still felt just as dead and

empty.

  That went on for a week or better, I guess, before

a thing happened that brought me alive again.

  It was right at dinnertime. Papa had sent me out

to the lot to feed Jumper and the horses. I'd just started

back when I heard a commotion in the house. I heard

Mama's voice lifted high and sharp. "Why, you thieving

little whelp!" she cried out. Then I heard a shrieking

yelp, and out the kitchen door came the speckled pup

with a big chunk of cornbread clutched in his mouth.

He raced around the house, running with his tail

clamped. He was yelling and squawling like somebody

was beating him to death. But that still didn't keep

him from hanging onto that piece of cornbread that

he'd stolen from Mama.

  Inside the house, I heard Little Arliss. He was fight-

ing and screaming his head off at Mama for hitting

his dog. And above it all, I could hear Papa's roaring

laughter.

  Right then, I began to feel better. Sight of that little

old pup, tearing out for the brush with that piece of

cornbread seemed to loosen something inside me.

  I felt better all day. I went back and rode my horse

and enjoyed it. I rode `way off out in the brush, not

going anywhere especially, just riding and looking

and beginning to feel proud of owning a real horse

of my own.

  Then along about sundown, I rode down into Bird-

song Creek, headed for the house. Up at the spring, I

heard a splashing and hollering. I looked ahead. Sure

enough, it was Little Arliss. He was stripped naked and

romping in our drinking water again. And right in there,

romping with him, was that bread-stealing speckled

pup.

  I started to holler at them. I started to say: "Arliss!

You get that nasty old pup out of our drinking water."

  Then I didn't. Instead, I went to laughing. I sat there

and laughed till I cried. When all the time I knew that

I ought to go beat them to a frazzle for messing up

our drinking water.

  When finally I couldn't laugh and cry another bit,

I rode on up to the lot and turned my horse in. To-

morrow, I thought, I'll take Arliss and that pup out

for a squirrel hunt. The pup was still mighty little. But

the way I figured it, if he was big enough to act like

Old Yeller, he was big enough to start learning to

earn his keep.