The Yearling Read online

  Jody said, “You shore kin figger what a creetur’ll do.”

  “You belong to figger. A wild creetur’s quicker’n a man and a heap stronger. What’s a man got that a bear ain’t got? A mite more sense. He cain’t out-run a bear, but he’s a sorry hunter if he cain’t out-study him.”

  The pines were becoming scattering. There was suddenly a strip of hammock land, and a place of live oaks and scrub palmettos. The undergrowth was thick, laced with cat-briers. Then hammock, too, ended, and to the south and west lay a broad open expanse that looked at first sight to be a meadow. This was the saw-grass. It grew knee-deep in water, its harsh saw-edged blades rising so thickly that it seemed a compact vegetation. Old Julia splashed into it. The rippling of the water showed the pond. A gust of air passed across the open area, the saw-grass waved and parted, and the shallow water of a dozen ponds showed clearly. Penny watched the hound intently. The treeless expanse seemed to Jody more stirring than the shadowy forest. At any moment the great black form might rear itself high.

  He whispered, “Will we cut around?”

  Penny shook his head. He answered in a low voice.

  “Wind’s wrong. Don’t seem to me like he’s headin’ acrost it, nohow.”

  The hound splashed in a zigzag trail where solid ground edged the saw-grass. Here and there the scent was lost in the water. Once she dipped her head to lap, not in thirst, but for the very taste of the trail. She moved confidently down the middle of the pond. Rip and Perk found their short legs too deep in much for comfort. They retreated to higher ground and shook themselves, watching Julia anxiously. Perk barked shortly, and Penny slapped him, for quiet. Jody stepped cautiously behind his father. A blue heron flew low over him without warning, and he started. The pond water was cold an instant against his legs, his breeches were clammy, the muck sucked at his shoes. Then the water was comfortable, and it was good to walk in the wet coolness, leaving sandy whirlpools behind.

  “He’s feedin’ on the fire-plant,” Penny murmured.

  He pointed to the flat arrow-shaped leaves. Edges showed jagged tooth-marks. Others were bitten clear of the stalk.

  “Hit’s his spring tonic. A bear’ll make for it first thing, time he comes out in the spring.” He leaned close and touched a leaf whose ragged edge was turning brown. “Dogged if he wa’n’t here a night ago, too. That’s how come him to have appetite for a nip o’ pore old Betsy.”

  The hound too paused. The scent lay now, not underfoot, but on the reeds and grasses where the strong-smelling fur had brushed. She laid her long nose against a bulrush and stared into space, then, satisfied as to direction, splashed due south at a lively pace. Penny spoke now freely.

  “He’s done feedin’. Old Julia says he’s clippin’ it for home.”

  He moved to higher land, keeping the hound in sight. He walked briskly, chatting.

  “Many’s the time I’ve seed a bear feedin’ on the fire-plant in the moonlight. He’ll snort and shuffle, and splash and grunt. He’ll rip them leaves offen the stems and cram ’em in his ugly ol’ mouth like a person. Then he’ll nose along and chaw, like a dog chawin’ grass. And the night-birds cryin’ over him, and the bull-frogs hollerin’ like nigger-dogs, and the Mallards callin’ ’Snake! Snake! Snake!’ and the drops o’ water on the leaves o’ the fire-plant shinin’ bright and red as a bull-bat’s eyes——”

  It was as good as seeing it, to hear Penny tell of it.

  “I’d shore love to see a bear feedin’ on the fire-plant, Pa.”

  “Well, you live long as me, and you’ll see that and a heap more things is strange and curious.”

  “Did you shoot ’em, Pa, while they was feedin’?”

  “Son, I’ve helt back my shot and contented myself with watchin’ many a time when creeturs was feedin’ harmless and innocent. It goes agin me to crack down at sich a time. Or when creeturs is matin’. Now and agin, when it was git meat or the Baxters go hongry, I’ve done what I’ve no likin’ to do. And don’t you grow up like the Forresters, killin’ meat you got no use for, for the fun of it. That’s evil as the bears. You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Old Julia gave a sharp cry. The trail cut at right angles, to the east.

  “I feared it,” Penny said. “The bay——”

  The red bay thicket seemed impenetrable. This land of sudden changes gave good cover for the game. Old Slewfoot in his careless feeding had never been far from shelter. The bay saplings stood as close together as the palings of a stockade. Jody wondered how the bear had managed to work his bulk among them. But here and there the saplings thinned, or were young and limber, and he could see, plainly marked, a common trail. Other creatures had used it. Tracks crossed and crisscrossed. Wild-cat had followed deer, lynx had followed wild-cat, and all about were the paw-prints of the small things, ’coons and rabbits and ’possums and skunks, feeding cautiously aside from their predatory kin.

  Penny said, “I reckon I best load.”

  He clucked to Julia to wait for him. She lay down knowingly to rest and Rip and Perk dropped willingly beside her. Jody had been carrying the powder horn over his shoulder. Penny opened it and shook a measure of powder down the muzzle. From his shot-bag he pulled a wisp of dried black Spanish moss, inserted it for wadding, and packed it with the ramrod. He dropped in a measure of low-mould shot, more wadding, and at the last, a cap, and used the ramrod lightly again.

  “All right, Julia. Git him.”

  The morning’s trailing had been a leisurely business; a pleasant jaunting rather than a hunt. Now the dark bay thicket closed in over their heads, jorees flew from the denseness with an alarming whir of wings, the earth was soft and black, and there were scurryings and rustlings on either side in the bushes. On the trail, a bar of sunlight lay occasionally where the thicket parted. The scent, for all the comings and goings, was not confused, for the taint of bear hung heavy in the leafy tunnel. The short fur of the bulldog stood on end. Old Julia ran swiftly. Penny and Jody were forced to stoop to follow. Penny swung the muzzle-loader in his right hand, its barrel tipped at an angle, so that if he stumbled and the charge went off, he would not touch the running dogs before him. A branch crashed behind and Jody clutched at his father’s shirt. A squirrel ran chattering away.

  The thicket thinned. The ground dropped lower and became a swamp. The sunlight came through in patches as big as a basket. There were giant ferns here, taller than their heads. One lay crushed where the bear had moved across it. Its spiced sweetness lay heavy on the warm air. A young tendril sprang back into an upright position. Penny pointed to it. Slewfoot, Jody understood, had passed not many minutes before. Old Julia was feverish. The trail was food and drink. Her nose skimmed the damp ground. A scrub jay flew ahead, warning the game, and crying “Plick-up-wha-a-a.”

  The swamp dipped to a running branch no broader than a fence post. The print of the nubbed foot spanned it. A water moccasin lifted a curious head, then spun down-stream in smooth brown spirals. Across the branch, palmettos grew. The great track continued across the swamp. Jody noticed that the back of his father’s shirt was wet. He touched his own sleeve. It was dripping. Suddenly Julia bayed and Penny began to run.

  “The Creek!” he shouted. “He’s tryin’ to make the Creek!”

  Sound filled the swamp. Saplings crashed. The bear was a black hurricane, mowing down obstructions. The dogs barked and bayed. The roaring in Jody’s ears was his heart pounding. A bamboo vine tripped him and he sprawled and was on his feet again. Penny’s short legs churned in front of him like paddles. Slewfoot would make Juniper Creek before the dogs could halt him at bay.

  A clear space opened at the creek’s bank. Jody saw a vast black shapeless form break through. Penny halted and lifted his gun. On the instant, a small brown missile hurled itself at the shaggy head. Old Julia had caught up with her enemy. She leaped and retreated, and in the moment of retreat, was at him again. Rip darted in beside her. Slewfoot wheeled and slashed at him. Julia flashed at his flank. Penn
y held his fire. He could not shoot, for the dogs.

  Old Slewfoot was suddenly, deceptively, indifferent. He seemed to stand baffled, slow and uncertain, weaving back and forth. He whined, like a child whimpering. The dogs backed off an instant. The moment was perfect for a shot and Penny swung his gun to his shoulder, drew a bead on the left cheek, and pulled the trigger. A harmless pop sounded. He cocked the hammer again and pulled the trigger once more. The sweat stood out on his forehead. Again the hammer clicked futilely. Then a black storm broke. It roared in on the dogs with incredible swiftness. White tusks and curved claws were streaks of lightning across it. It snarled and whirled and gnashed its teeth and slashed in every direction. The dogs were as quick. Julia made swift sorties from the rear, and when Slewfoot wheeled to rake at her, Rip leaped for the hairy throat.

  Jody was in a paralysis of horror. He saw that his father had cocked the hammer again and stood half-crouching, licking his lips, fingering the trigger. Old Julia bored in at the bear’s right flank. He wheeled, not on her, but on the bulldog at his left. He caught him sideways and sent him sprawling into the bushes. Again Penny pulled the trigger. The explosion that followed had a sizzling sound, and Penny fell backward. The gun had back-fired.

  Rip returned to his attempts for the bear’s throat and Julia took up her worrying from the rear. The bear stood again at bay, weaving. Jody ran to his father. Penny was already on his feet. The right side of his face was black with powder. Slewfoot shook free of Rip, whirled to Julia and caught her to his chest with his cupped claws. She yelped sharply. Rip hurled himself at the back and buried his teeth in the hide.

  Jody screamed, “He’s killin’ Julia!”

  Penny ran desperately into the heart of the fracas. He jammed the gun-barrel in the bear’s ribs. Even in her pain, Julia had taken a grip on the black throat above her. Slewfoot snarled and turned suddenly and plunged down the bank of the creek and into the deep water. Both dogs kept their hold. Slewfoot swam madly. Only Julia’s head showed above water, below the bear’s snout. Rip rode the broad back with bravado. Slewfoot made the far bank and scrambled up its side. Julia loosed her hold and dropped limply on the earth. The bear plunged toward the dense thicket. For a moment more Rip stayed with him. Then, confused, he too dropped away and turned back uncertainly to the creek. He snuffed at Julia and sat down on his haunches and howled across the water. There was a crashing in the distant undergrowth, then silence.

  Penny called, “Here, Rip! Here, Julia!”

  Rip wagged his stumpy tail and did not stir. Penny lifted his hunting horn to his lips and blew caressingly. Jody saw Julia lift her head, then fall back again.

  Penny said, “I got to go fetch her.”

  He slipped off his shoes and slid down the bank into the water. He struck out strongly. A few yards from shore the current laid hold of him as though he were a log and shot him down-stream at a fierce clip. He struggled against it, fighting for distance. Jody saw him stagger to his feet far down the run, wipe the water from his eyes and push his way back up the shore to his dogs. He leaned to examine the hound, then gathered her under one arm. This time he went some distance up-stream before taking to the creek. When he dropped into the water, stroking with his free arm, the current picked him up and deposited him almost at Jody’s feet. Rip paddled behind him, landed and shook himself. Penny laid the old hound down gently.

  “She’s bad hurt,” he said.

  He took off his shirt and trussed the dog in it. He tied the sleeves together to make a sling and hoisted it on his back.

  “This settles it,” he said. “I got to git me a new gun.”

  The powder burn on his cheek had already turned into a blister.

  “What’s wrong, Pa?”

  “Near about ever’thing. The hammer’s loose on the cylinder. I knowed that. I been havin’ to cock it two-three times right along. But when it back-fired, that belongs to mean the main-spring’s got weak. Well, le’s git goin’. You tote the blasted ol’ gun.”

  The procession started homeward through the swamp. Penny cut north and west.

  “Now I’ll not rest ’til I git that bear,” he said. “Jest give me a new gun—and time.”

  Suddenly Jody could not endure the sight of the limp bundle in front of him. There were tricklings of blood down his father’s thin bare back.

  “I want to go ahead, Pa.”

  Penny turned and eyed him.

  “Don’t go gittin’ faintified on me.”

  “I kin break a trail for you.”

  “All right. Go ahead. Jody—take the knapsack. Git you some bread. Eat a bite, boy. You’ll feel better.”

  Jody fumbled blindly in the sack and pulled out the parcel of pancakes. The brierberry jelly was tart and cool on his tongue. He was ashamed to have it taste so good. He bolted several of the cakes. He handed some to his father.

  “Rations is mighty comfortin’,” Penny said.

  A whine sounded in the bushes. A small cringing form was following them. It was Perk, the feice. Jody kicked at him in a fury.

  “Don’t bother him,” Penny said. “I suspected him all along. There’s dogs is bear-dogs and there’s dogs jest isn’t bear-dogs.”

  The feice dropped in at the end of the line. Jody tried to break trail, but fallen trees lay, thicker than his body, and would not be stirred. Bull-briers, tougher than his father’s muscles, snared him, and he could only push his way around them or crawl beneath. Penny with his burden had to shift for himself. The swamp was close and humid. Rip was panting. The pancakes lay soothingly in Jody’s belly. He reached in the knapsack for the sweet potato pone. His father refused his share and Jody divided it with Rip. The little feice, he thought, deserved nothing.

  It was good to clear the swamp at last and come into the open pine woods. Even the scrub that followed after for a mile or two seemed light and penetrable. Pushing through the low scrub oaks, the scrub palmettos, the gallberry bushes and the ti-ti was less laborious than crossing the swamp. It was late afternoon when the high pines of Baxter’s Island showed ahead. The procession filed down the sand road from the east and into the clearing. Rip and Perk ran ahead to the hollowed cypress watering trough kept for the chickens. Ma Baxter sat rocking on the narrow veranda, a mound of mending in her lap.

  “A dead dog and no bear, eh?” she called.

  The Fight with Old Slewfoot (p. 34)

  “Not dead yit. Git me water and rags and the big needle and thread.”

  She rose quickly to help. Jody was always amazed at the capability of her great frame and hands when there was trouble. Penny laid old Julia down on the veranda floor. She whimpered. Jody bent to stroke her head and she bared her teeth at him. He trailed his mother disconsolately. She was tearing an old apron into strips.

  “You kin fetch the water,” she told him, and he scurried to the kettle.

  Penny returned to the veranda with an armful of crocus sacks to make a bed for the hound. Ma Baxter brought the surgical equipment. Penny unwrapped his blood-soaked shirt from the dog and bathed the deep gashes. Old Julia made no protest. She had known claws before. He sewed the two deepest cuts and rubbed pine gum into all of them. She yelped once and then was silent as he worked. A rib, he said, was broken. He could do nothing for that, but if she lived, it would mend. She had lost much blood. Her breath came short. Penny gathered her up, bed and all.

  Ma Baxter demanded, “Now where you carryin’ her?”

  “To the bedroom. I got to watch her tonight.”

  “Not to my bedroom, Ezra Baxter. I’ll do for her what’s got to be done, but I’ll not have you poppin’ in and outen the bed all night, wakin’ me. I didn’t half sleep, last night.”

  “Then I’ll sleep with Jody and bed Julia there,” he said. “I’ll not leave her alone in no shed tonight. Fetch me cold water, Jody.”

  He carried her to Jody’s room and laid her in the corner on the pile of sacking. She would not drink, or could not, and he opened her mouth and poured water down her dry thro
at.

  “Leave her rest now. We’ll go do our chores.”

  The clearing possessed this evening a strange coziness. Jody gathered the eggs from the hay-mow, milked the cow and turned the calf in to her, and cut wood for his mother. Penny, as always, went to the sink-hole with a wooden ox-yoke supporting two wooden buckets over his thin shoulders. Ma Baxter cooked supper of poke-greens and dried cow-peas. She fried a frugal slice of the fresh pork.

  “A piece o’ bear meat ’d go mighty good tonight,” she lamented.

  Jody was hungry but Penny had little appetite. He left the table twice to offer Julia food, which she rejected. Ma Baxter rose heavily to clear the table and wash the dishes. She asked for no details of the hunt. Jody longed to talk of it, to cast away the spell of the tracking, and the fight, and the fear that had struck him. Penny was silent. No one noticed the boy and he dipped deeply into the dish of cow-peas.

  The sun set red and clear. Shadows lay long and black in the Baxter kitchen.

  Penny said, “I’m wore out. I could do with bed.”

  Jody’s feet were raw and blistered from the cowhide shoes.

  “Me, too,” he said.

  “I’ll set up a whiles,” Ma Baxter said. “I ain’t done much today, excusin’ fret and worry, and mess with the sausage.”

  Penny and Jody went to their room. They undressed on the side of the narrow bed.

  “Now if you was big as your Ma,” Penny said, “we couldn’t lay in it without somebody fell on the floor.”

  There was room enough for the two thin bony bodies. The red faded from the west and the room was dusky. The hound slept and whimpered in her sleep. The moon rose, an hour past the full, and the small room lay in a silver brightness. Jody’s feet burned. His knees twitched.