Well, Uncle Dolph had loaned Dad an old two-dollar mail-order pistol, .32 short. Dad said it broke open at the top like a kids cap gun and wouldnt shoot worth a damn, but it was kinda comfortable to have it along. Uncle Dolph shot a Swede in the belly with it a couple years laterput him in the hospital for about six months.
Wow! I said. Whatd he shoot him for?
They were drinking in a saloon in Spokane and got into a fight over something or other. The Swede pulled a knife and Uncle Dolph had to shoot him.
Gee! This was a pretty good story after all.
It took Dad all of three days to get up into the timber country around the lake. Old Dolly and Ned pulled that sled at a pretty steady trot, but it was a long ways. First they went on up out of the wheat country and then into the foothills. It was pretty lonely out there. He only passed two or three farms along the way, pretty broken-down and sad-looking. But most of the time there wasnt anything but the two shallow ruts of the wagon road with the yellow grass sticking up through the snow here and there on each side and now and then tracks where a wolf or a coyote had chased a rabbit across the road. The sky was all kind of gray most of the time, with the clouds kind of low and empty-looking. Once in a while thered be a few flakes of snow skittering in the wind. Most generally itd clear off about sundown, just in time to get icy cold at night.
Come sundown hed camp in the wagon, all rolled up in his blankets with a dog on each side. Hed listen to the wolves howling off in the distance and stare up at the stars and think about how faraway they were. The Old Mans voice kind of drifted off and his eyes got a kind of faraway look in them.
The wood in the stove popped, and I jumped a little.
Well, it had gotten real cold early that year, and when he got to the lake, it was frozen overice so thick you coulda driven the team and wagon right out on it, and about an inch of snow on top of the ice. He scouted around until he found a place that had a lot of deer-sign and he made camp there.
Whats deer-sign, Dad? I asked.
Tracks, mostly. Droppings. Places where theyve chewed off twigs and bark. Anyhow, he pulled up into this grove, you seebig, first-growth timber. Some of those trees were probably two hundred feet tall and fifteen feet at the butt, and there wasnt any of the underbrush you see in the woods around here. The only snow that got in under them was what had got blown in from out in the clearings and such, so the ground was pretty dry.
From where I sat with my head leaned against the Old Mans chest, I could see into the dark kitchen. I could just begin to build a dark pine grove lying beyond the doorway with my eyes. I dusted the linoleum-turned-pine-needle floor with a powder-sugar of snow made of the dim edge of a streetlight on the corner that shone in through the kitchen window. It looked about right, I decided, about the way Dad described it.
He got the wagon set where he wanted it, unhitched the horses, and started to make camp.
Did he build a fire? I asked.
One of the first things he did, the Old Man said.
That was easy. The glow of the pilot light on the stove reflected a small, flickering point on the refrigerator door. It was coming along just fine.
Well, he boiled up some coffee in an old cast-iron pan, fried up some bacon, and set some of the biscuits Grandmad packed for him on a rock near the fire to warm. He said that about that time hed have given the pipe and being grown-up and all of it just to be back home, sitting down to supper in the big, warm, old kitchen, with the friendly light of the coal-oil lamps and Grandmas cooking, and the night coming down around the barn, and the shadows filling up the lines of foot-prints in the snow leading from the house to the outbuildings. Dads voice got faraway again.
But he ate his supper and called the dogs up close and checked his pistol when he heard the wolves start to howl off in the distance. There probably wasnt anybody within fifty miles. Nothing but trees and hills and snow all around.
Well, after hed finished up with all the things you have to do to get a camp in shape, he sat down on a log by the fire and tried not to think about how lonesome he was.
He had those old dogs with him, didnt he, Dad? I asked, and the horses and all? Thats not the same as being all alone, is it? I had a thing about loneliness when I was a kid.
Dad thought it over for a minute. I could see Jack grinding his teeth in irritation out of the corner of my eye, but I didnt really look over at him. I had the deep-woods camp Id built out in the kitchen just right, and I didnt want to lose it. I dont know, Dan, the Old Man said finally, maybe the dogs and the horses just werent enough. It can get awful lonesome out there in the timber by yourself like thatawful lonesome.
I imagine some of the questions I used to ask when I was a kid must have driven him right up the wall, but hed always try to answer them. Mom was usually too busy talking about herself or about the people who were picking on her, and Jack was too busy trying to act like a grown-up or getting people to pay attention to him to have much time for my questions. But Dad always took them seriously. I guess he figured that if they were important enough for me to ask, they were important enough for him to answer. He was like that, my Old Man.
The wood popped in the stove again, but I didnt jump this time. I just slipped the sound on around to the campfire in the kitchen.
Well, he sat up by his fire all night, so he wouldnt sleep too late the next morning. He watched the moon shine down on the ice out on the lake and the shadows from his fire flickering on the big tree trunks around his camp. He was pretty tired, and hed catch himself dozing off every now and then, but hed just fill up that stubby old pipe and light it with a coal from the fire and think about how it would be when he got home with a wagon-load of deer meat. Maybe then his older brothers would stop treating him like a wet-behind-the-ears kid. Maybe theyd listen to what he had to say now and then. And hed catch himself drifting off into the dream and slipping down into sleep, and hed get up and walk around the camp, stamping his feet on the frosty ground. And hed have another cup of coffee and sit back down between his dogs and dream some more. After a long, long time, it started to get just a little bit light way off along one edge of the sky.
The faint, pale edge of daylight was tricky, but I finally managed it.
Now these two hounds Dad had with him were trained to hunt a certain way. They were Pete and Old Buell. Pete was a young dog with not too much sense, but hed hunt all day and half the night, too, if you wanted him to. Buell was an old dog, and he was as smart as they come, but he was getting to the point where hed a whole lot rather lay by the fire and have somebody bring him his supper than go out and work for it. The idea behind deer hunting in those days was to have your dogs circle around behind the deer and then start chasing them toward you. Then when the deer ran by, you were supposed to just sort of bushwhack the ones you wanted. Its not really very sporting, but in those days you hunted for the meat, not for the fun.
Well, as soon as it started to get light, Dad sent them out. Pete took right off, but Old Buell hung back. Dad finally had to kick him in the tail to make him get away from the fire.
Thats mean, I objected. I had the shadowy shapes of my two dogs near my reflected-pilot-light fire, and I sure didnt want anybody mistreating my old dogs, not even my own grandfather.
Thats mean, I objected. I had the shadowy shapes of my two dogs near my reflected-pilot-light fire, and I sure didnt want anybody mistreating my old dogs, not even my own grandfather.
Dog had to do his share, too, in those days, Dan. People didnt keep dogs for pets back then. They kept them to work. Anyway, pretty soon Dad could hear the dogs baying, way back in the timber, and he took the old rifle and the twenty-six bullets and went down to the edge of the lake.
He took his pistol, too, Ill bet, I said. Out in my camp in the forests of the kitchen, I took my pistol.
I expect he did, Dan, I expect he did. Anyway, after a little bit, he caught a flicker of movement back up at camp, out of the corner of his eye. He looked back up the hill, and there was Old Buell slinking back to the fire with his tail between his legs. Dad looked real hard at him, but he didnt dare move or make any noise for fear of scaring off the deer. Old Buell just looked right straight back at him and kept on slinking toward the fire, one step at a time. He knew Dad couldnt do a thing about it. A dog can do that sometimes, if hes smart enough.
Well, it seems that Old Pete was able to get the job done by himself, because pretty soon the deer started to come out on the ice. Well, Dad just held off, waiting for more of them, you see, and pretty soon theres near onto a hundred of them out there, all bunched up. You see, a deer cant run very good on ice, and he sure dont like being out in the open, so when they found themselves out there, they just kind of huddled up to see whats gonna happen.
I could see Jack leaning forward now, his eyes bright with excitement and his lips drawn back from his teeth a little. Of course, I couldnt look straight at him. I had to keep everything in place out on the other side of the doorway.
So Dad just lays that long old rifle out across the log and touches her off. Then he started loading and firing as fast as he could sos he could get as many as possible before they got their sense back. Well, those old black-powder cartridges put out an awful cloud of smoke, and about half the time he was shooting blind, but he managed to knock down seventeen of them before the rest got themselves organized enough to run out of range.
Wow! Thats a lot of deer, huh, Dad? I said.
As soon as Old Pete heard the shooting, he knew his part of the job was over, so he went out to do a little hunting for himself. The dogs hadnt had anything to eat since the day before, so he was plenty hungry, but then, a dog hunts better if hes hungryso does a man.
Anyway, Dad got the team and skidded the deer on in to shore and commenced to gutting and skinning. Took him most of the rest of the day to finish up.
Jack started to fidget again. Hed gone for almost a half hour without saying hardly anything, and that was always about his limit.
Is a deer very hard to skin, Dad? he asked.
Not if you know what youre doing.
But how come he did it right away like that? Jack demanded. Eddie Selvridges old man said you gotta leave the hide on a deer for at least a week or the meatll spoil.
I heard him say that, too, Dad, I agreed.
Funny they dont leave the hide on a cow then when they butcher, isnt it? the Old Man asked. At the slaughterhouse they always skin em right away, dont they?
I never thought of that, I admitted.
Jack scowled silently. He hated not being right. I think he hated that more than anything else in the world.
Along about noon or so, Dad continued, here comes Pete back into camp with a full belly and blood on his muzzle. Old Buell went up to him and sniffed at him and then started casting back and forth until he picked up Petes trail. Then he lined out backtracking Pete to his kill.
Jack howled with sudden laughter. That sure was one smart old dog, huh, Dad? he said. Why work if you can get somebody else to do it for you?
Dad ignored him. Old Pete had probably killed a fawn and had eaten his fill. Anyway, my dad kinda watched the dogs for a few minutes and then went back to work skinning. After he got them all skinned out, he salted down the hides and rolled them in a bundlesold the hides in town for enough to buy his own rifle that winter, and enough left over to get his mother some yard goods shed wanted. Then he drug the carcasses back to camp through the snow and hung them all up to cool out.
He cleaned up, washing his hands with snow, fed the team, and then boiled up another pan of coffee. He fried himself a big mess of deer liver and onions and heated up some more of the biscuits. After he ate, he sat on a log and lit his pipe.
Ill bet he was tired, Jack said, just to be saying something. Not being in bed all the night before and all that.
He still had something left to tend to, Dad said. It was almost dark when he spotted Old Buell slinking back toward camp. He was out on the open, coming back along the trail Pete had broken though the snow. His belly looked full, and his muzzle and ears were all bloody the same way Petes had been.
He found the other dogs deer, Ill betcha. Jack laughed. You said he was a smart old dog.
Beyond the kitchen doorway, one of my shadowy dogs crept slowly toward the warmth of the pilot-light campfire, his eyes sad and friendly, like the eyes of the hound some kid up the block owned.
Well, Dad watched him for a minute or two, and then he took his rifle, pulled back the hammer, and shot Old Buell right between the eyes.
The world beyond the doorway shattered like a broken mirror and fell apart back into the kitchen again. I jerked up and looked straight into my fathers face. It was very grim, and his eyes were very intent on Jack, as if he were telling my brother something awfully important.
He went on without seeming to notice my startled jump. Old Buell went end over end when that bullet hit him. Then he kicked a couple times and didnt move anymore. Dad didnt even go over to look at him. He just reloaded the rifle and set it where it was handy, and then he and Old Pete climbed up into the wagon and went to bed.
The next morning, he hitched up the team, loaded up the deer carcasses, and started back home. It took him three days again to get back to the wheat ranch, and Granddad and Grandma were sure glad to see him. My father lifted me off his lap, leaned back and lit a cigarette.
It took them a good two days to cut up the deer and put them down in pickling crocks. After they finished it all up and Dad and Granddad were sitting in the kitchen, smoking their pipes with their sock feet up on the open oven door, Granddad turned to my Dad and said, Sam, whatever happened to Old Buell, anyway? Did he run off?
Well, Dad took a deep breath. He knew Granddad had been awful fond of that old hound. Had to shoot him, he said. Wouldnt huntwouldnt even hunt his own food. Caught him feeding on Petes kill.
Well, I guess Granddad thought about that for a while. Then he finally said, Only thing you could do, Sam, I guess. Kind of a shame, though. Old Buell was a good dog when he was younger. Had him a long time.
The wind in the chimney suddenly sounded very loud and cold and lonesome.
But whyd he shoot him? I finally protested.
He just wasnt any good anymore, Dad said, and when a dog wasnt any good in those days, they didnt want him around. Same way with people. If theyre no good, why keep them around? He looked straight at Jack when he said it.