The Black Fawn Page 3

  chapter 3

  The oil lantern that hung from a hook in the ceiling of the cow stablecast a progressively weaker glow as the light of a summer dawn becamestronger. Bud sat on a milking stool, his head pillowed against the softflank of the same red and white cow that he had tried so hard, and sofutilely, to milk when he had first come to live with Gram and GrampsBennett.

  Milk did not surge into the pail as it did when Gramps milked; Grampsmilked a cow almost as though the animal's teats were spigots that hecould turn on at will and with no effort on his part. But there was nocomparison between this and Bud's first sorry attempt to coax milk fromthe same cow. Her name was Susie, and when he gave her an affectionatepat she turned and looked at him with mournful eyes.

  As Bud began to strip the last few squirts from each teat, he thoughtabout the day ahead. He had slept soundly and the dawn had been so faintthat his bedroom window was almost black when Gramps had awakened him.Bud had sat up hastily and a bit guiltily. His dream of a mother wasstill with him and in that uncertain moment between sleep andwakefulness, he half believed the dream was real.

  Gramps had said, "Time to get under way, Bud," and then left.

  Bud had dressed and gone at once to the window to stare toward the placewhere he had left the black fawn. As he stood there, he had heard athousand faint scrapings, rustlings and murmurings of an entire worldthat seemed anxious to greet a new day, and he had whirled around to godown the stairs, through the empty kitchen and on out to the cow barn.He was coaxing a final trickle of milk from Susie when Gramps said,

  "Let me have your pail and turn 'em out, will you?"

  Bud wondered again that a man of Gramps' age and bulk could move sostealthily. Bud had not known Gramps had been beside him in the woodslast night until the old man had spoken, and now Gramps had surprisedhim again. Bud surrendered his pail proudly for this was the first timehe had been able to milk one cow while Gramps was milking three. Then hefreed the cows from their stanchions and walked behind them as theylumbered out the open barn door and down the lane to the pasture.

  "See you at the house," Gramps bellowed.

  By the time Bud came into the kitchen, Gram had transformed it from theempty, silent and forbidding room it had been when he had walked throughit earlier. Now the big stove cast a warm glow, hotcakes were browningon a griddle, bacon sizzled in a skillet, the coffeepot steamed andBud's milk was poured. Gram glanced up and the corners of her eyescrinkled.

  "My land, Allan. It's really going to be a big day."

  "Yes, ma'am," he said stiffly.

  Her smile became wistful and Bud flushed and looked away. It was easy tofight back when the enemy had a ferocious scowl and charged withclenched fists. It was hard when the weapons were glasses of cold milkand big wedges of pie, smiles, tender glances and soft words, and whenthe enemy seemed to know exactly what you were thinking. But Bud had nointention of letting himself be deceived.

  Gramps, who was nowhere in sight when Bud entered the kitchen, appearedpresently with a jointed fly rod that had a reel attached to the reelseat.

  "Try this on for size," he said.

  He placed the butt end of the rod in Bud's hand, and the boy tightenedhis fingers around the cork grip. The tip swayed downward. When Budjerked it up, it collided with a chair and the rod bent in an arc beforehe could swing it away. Bud stood there frightened, not knowing what todo and not daring to move. The rod undulated and quivered like a livething that had a mind and a will of its own. It seemed to defy control.

  "It ain't a club," Gramps said. "Don't grab it like one. Let me showyou."

  He took the rod from Bud. Tensed like a hunting cat about to pounce, therod still seemed to have a life of its own. But it had surrendered itswill to Gramps. He was master of this delicate rod just as he was masterof so many things, and Bud could not help admiring.

  "I'll string her up and let you try her out."

  "Not in my kitchen you won't," Gram said firmly. "I'll have no moredishes broken by practice casts."

  On the point of arguing, Gramps reconsidered and said meekly, "I'll showyou when we get on the crick. Take her and hold her this way."

  He put the rod back in Bud's hand, placing it with Bud's palm just backof the seated reel and arranging his thumb and each finger for properbalance. Bud remained afraid to move it, or to shift even one finger,for now he commanded the rod. If he made one wrong move, and any move hemade might be wrong, the rod would again command him. Gramps steppedback for a critical study.

  "It'll do," he pronounced finally. "I pondered on starting you out withone of the old seven-ounce rods but what the dickens. You're going tofish for trout, you ought to begin right and you can't begin right'thout the right tackle. Four and a half ounces this rod weighs 'thoutthe reel, and you'll be put to it to find a better. It took me a solidsix weeks, working every night, to put her together the way I wantedher."

  "Do you make these, too?"

  "Yup. Something to do on long winter evenings."

  "Breakfast," Gram announced. "They're only good while they're hot."

  Bud laid his rod across two chairs and sat down to golden-brown griddlecakes, bacon and milk. He couldn't help looking at Gramps. At the othermeals they had eaten together, Gramps' table manners had been correctenough. Now he didn't even seem to be thinking about food, as he put twopancakes together, laid two strips of bacon on the topmost pancake anddoused everything with syrup. Then he rolled the bacon in the pancakesand ate the rolled mixture with his fingers. It was plain that in histhoughts he was already out on Skunk Creek. Gramps was no blasesophisticate who had tasted all he could stomach of life by the time hewas thirty. His eye to the grassroots, Gramps had long ago understoodthat everything was as old as creation itself and yet was eternally new.Nothing ever lost its sheen; some eyes just couldn't see it.

  Gramps finished and looked meaningfully at Bud's place. Bud hastened tofinish as Gramps rose.

  "It isn't polite to eat and run, Mother, but the day's getting noyounger. Ready, Bud?"

  "All ready," Bud said, forebearing this time to add "Gramps."

  "Bring me back at least one to eat, Delbert," Gram said. "I haven't hadtrout in almost three weeks."

  "How'd you like Old Shark?" Gramps asked.

  "I wouldn't," Gram sniffed. "In the first place, I'll believe you havehim when I see him. In the second, if you should get him, who's going toeat him after you're through showing him to everybody in Dishnoe County?I want an eating fish, not a showing trout."

  "Sure," Gramps said.

  Gramps brought another rod that was not jointed but had a reel on thereel seat. He gave Bud a leather-bound case similar to the one fromwhich he'd taken dry flies last night, a limp leather case containingwet flies, and two leader boxes.

  "Your flies and leaders," he explained. "If you're going to be a troutfisherman, you need your own tackle. Get your rod and come on."

  Gingerly, hoping Gramps would carry it for him but taking it up himselfwhen Gramps told him to, Bud tried to place his hand exactly as it hadbeen when Gramps showed him how to balance a fine fly rod. After alittle experimentation he found the proper grip, but his hand remainedstiff on the butt. After looking appealingly at Gramps, who saw the lookbut pretended not to, Bud clenched his teeth and grimly resolved tocarry through. Gramps went out first and Bud wondered how he would openthe door after Gramps had closed it but Gramps stopped and held itopen.

  "'Bye, Mother."

  "Have a good time," Gram called. "Good-by, Allan."

  "Good-by, ma'am."

  To Bud's relief Gramps continued to hold the door open as if he hadsomething else to say to Gram. Thus the first major hurdle was taken;Bud was out of the kitchen without either breaking his rod or anythingelse. Then, apparently forgetting what he intended to say, Gramps letthe door close.

  Shep rose to join them when they emerged onto the porch, but Grampsordered him back. Ears drooping and looking abused, Shep sat down infront of the door and watched. When they were fifty yards awa
y, hebarked hopefully.

  "It'll do you no good," Gramps said firmly. "Can't have a dog along whenyou're trout fishing," he said to Bud.

  "Why?"

  "He scares the trout."

  "How can a dog scare trout?"

  "'Cause trout are scary, Bud. A shadow'll send 'em scooting and a dogcan cast a shadow."

  When they started down the path Bud had followed the night before, Bud'sinterest mounted. The black fawn lived there. Maybe he would see itagain today. But as they walked along, resentment welled up in him, too.Gramps' rod was disjointed, which made it easy to carry. Bud's, however,had been left jointed so that he had constantly to be alert for everybranch, every bush, and even every twig on every branch and bush. Budthrust the tip of his rod into a hemlock tree and the rod bentalarmingly. Gramps, striding ahead, did not even bother to look around.Disgruntled, Bud disengaged his rod and hurried to catch up. He wouldhave liked to carry a disjointed rod, too, but he didn't know how totake his apart and he wouldn't ask Gramps to show him.

  Ten minutes later he was glad that Gramps was so eager to fish for OldShark that he thought of nothing else. He was finding his rod easier tohandle and he stopped gripping it desperately. He was becomingaccustomed to its feel and balance, and beginning to understand it. Andhe hadn't called for help.

  As they neared the thicket where the black fawn lived, Bud grew excited.But just before they came to it, Gramps swerved from the path into thewoods. Bud kept his thoughts to himself. As much as he wanted to see theblack fawn again, he wasn't going to ask Gramps to go out of the way forhim.

  The trees among which they threaded their way were mostly second-growthyellow birch but now and then there was a grove of aspens, a solitaryblack cherry or a copse of laurel and rhododendrons. It was such hardwork to keep from tangling his rod in the twigs and branches that Budalmost bumped into Gramps before he was aware that the old man hadstopped.

  Gramps stood absolutely motionless and, without speaking, pointed. Abouta hundred yards away, a very dark-colored doe was leaping toward a copseof sheltering rhododendron. Behind her, matching his mother's everyleap, ran the little black buck.

  Now, Bud knew the fawn had not been abandoned. Just as Gramps hadpromised, his mother had come back to look for him and he was in safecare. And between last night and this morning, he had learned to use hislegs. Not again, or at least not easily, would any human lay hands onhim. The doe and fawn disappeared, and Gramps turned to Bud.

  "There's your pal. After seeing his mammy, I know where he gets hiscolor."

  "Yes." Bud's eyes danced.

  "I figured she'd take him away from that tote road after you and Shepfound out where he was."

  "Tote road?"

  "The path we followed used to be a road. The lumbermen who cut the pineand hemlock that was in here made it and a hundred more like it."

  "Why do they call them tote roads?"

  Gramps shrugged. "I reckon 'cause they toted things back and forth onthem."

  "Were you here when the lumbermen came?"

  "Saw the tail end of it but took no part. I wasn't much bigger'n thatlittle black fawn. Been here ever since."

  "When they cut the forests . . ." Bud began.

  "We'd best get moving," Gramps said.

  Gramps swerved at right angles to the direction they had been followingand Bud wondered. Had Gramps brought him this way so Bud could see forhimself that the black fawn was safe? If he had, what lay behind it? Budwas forced to concede that, if Gramps had deliberately set out to findthe doe and fawn, he had shown wonderful woodcraft. Never once had hefaltered or been at a loss as to the route to follow. He had knownexactly where to find the doe and her baby.

  Ten minutes later they reached Skunk Creek, a beautiful little woodlandstream with pools of various sizes and depths and with sparklingriffles. Except for the larger pools, some of which were forty feetwide, the stream was less than a dozen feet wide. Most of Skunk Creekwas bordered with willows and other trees, but the pool to which Grampsled Bud had almost no growth on the near bank and only scraggly willowson the far bank. Gramps laid his tackle on a moss-grown rock and turnedto Bud.

  "This ain't where Old Shark lives, but it's a darn' good place to showyou how to lay a fly on the water. Let's have your rod."

  Bud surrendered his rod. With skill honed to a razor's edge by vastexperience, Gramps strung line through the guides, whipped the rod backand forth and paid out line from the reel as he did so. As he waskeeping the line in the air, he said,

  "See that little hunk of grass, maybe thirty-five feet out and a littleup? I'll aim for it."

  The rod described a graceful backward arc and an equally perfect forwardsweep. The line glided forth as though it was not a flexible object atall, but a solid thing that Gramps was somehow shooting from the tip ofhis finger. The extreme tip of the line settled perfectly over the bitof grass. Gramps twitched it free, retrieved his line, and turned toBud.

  "Got it?"

  Bud was flabbergasted.

  "Try it and find out," Gramps said.

  Bud took the rod, now strung and with a bit of line the length of theeight and a half foot rod dangling from the tip. But where the rod was alive thing in Gramps' hands, in Bud's it unaccountably went dead. Hewhipped it back, then forward, and the dangling line splashed at thevery edge of the pool.

  "You forgot to pay out line," Gramps said patiently. "You didn't useyour reel. Let me show you."

  He took the rod a second time, and once again laid the line smoothly onthe water. Although Gramps had named no target, Bud knew that he waslaying the line on the water exactly where he wanted it. Gramps returnedthe rod and Bud tried again. He remembered to pay out line as he cast,but the line slapped the water only about a dozen feet from shore and afull eight feet downstream from the target Bud had selected.

  "You're throwing it," Gramps said, "and you're throwing with your wholearm. Here." He pressed the upper part of Bud's right arm against hisribs. "That's as much as you need and use your wrist. Let the rod workfor you; don't you do everything."

  Forty minutes later, although he couldn't come close to Gramps' distanceor, unless the wildest luck was on his side, lay the line within twofeet of any target he picked, Bud felt that he was improving. At leasthe was able to lay the line on the surface instead of whipping it intothe water. Gramps tied a nine-foot tapered leader, a spiderweb at thethick end and like gossamer at the thin end, to Bud's line and showedhim how to attach a dry fly to it. Then Gramps put a drop of oil on thefly, greased ten feet of line, and took the rod.

  "Watch."

  The fly soared out, hovered over the pool, settled on it precisely as alive insect might have, and began to float downstream. Gramps pulled thefly away from a small trout that rose and handed the rod to Bud.

  "Go ahead."

  Bud's first cast snagged a ground-hugging bush twenty feet behind him.The next time the fly bellied back to float beside the floating line.Then he hooked the only willow growing on the near side of the pool. Butall the same Bud was elated. He forgot that the object of this wonderfulart was to catch fish and, trying to remember all Gramps had told him,he kept on casting and learning through trial and error. When, afteranother hour, he was able to make ten successive casts and lay his flyreasonably well, Gramps pronounced judgment,

  "Guess we can try now."

  Without another word he turned and led the way downstream. Bud followed,knowing that his casting had not won the old man's approval but thatGramps had not wholly disapproved either. Bud did not care or at leasthe tried not to think about it, for he had discovered another new world.In time, he promised himself grimly, he would be a dry fishermanequal--well, almost equal--to Gramps.

  Ten minutes later, Gramps slowed to a turtle's pace. He stole stealthilytoward a twenty-foot-wide rock ledge that overhung a deep pool. When hecame to the near border of the ledge, he turned and whispered,

  "Leave your tackle. We'll crawl the rest of the way."

  Bud laid his rod down carefully and,
dropping to all fours, crawledbeside Gramps toward the water. Five feet from the edge, Gramps droppedto his belly and began to inch toward the pool.

  "No fast moves and show no more of yourself than you have to," Grampswhispered.

  Bud nodded and wriggled toward the water. He peered down from the ledgeand saw a broad, long pool formed by the ledge and fed by rushingriffles that curled around the upstream end of the ledge. On the farside the water was relatively shallow, or perhaps it only looked shallowbecause there was white sand on the bottom there. Schools of shinersand minnows swam lazily in that part of the pool and the white sand waspock-marked with driftwood that had floated down in flood time and,having become waterlogged, gone to the bottom.

  At first glance the water at the near edge of the white sand seemedalmost black. This was partly because the white sand ended and partlybecause the water was deeper there. Actually, it was green-blue, and thehigh-riding sun bored well into it.

  Presently Bud saw a school of fish almost directly beneath him. The fishranged in length from about five to nearly eighteen inches, and they layvery still in what appeared to be a quiet pocket of water, the biggestfish at the head of the school and the smallest at the end. Farther out,Bud saw more fish. The deepest part of the pool was too deep for the sunto penetrate it, and its invisible depths were tantalizing. Toward thefoot of the pool, just before it was gathered in by the riffles thatdrained it, the trunk of a leaning sycamore jutted out about six feetover the water. The water near the sycamore was sun-sprayed, too. Budsaw flat stones on the bottom away from the bank, but in closer thebottom was in shadow and he could see nothing.

  "The fish 'neath us are trout," Gramps whispered. "Those farther outare suckers and mullets. The shallows 'cross the pool are loaded withminnows and shiners. Down there Old Shark hangs out 'neath that sycamoretrunk." He spoke as reverently as a fanatic Moslem referring to Mecca.

  "Stay here and watch. Don't move. You do, you'll send every trout in thepool kiting under the ledge."

  Gramps wriggled backward and disappeared. A few minutes later Bud sawhim near the foot of the ledge standing behind a rock spire that hid himfrom the pool and at the same time gave him freedom of action. Grampsmade a perfect cast. The fly floated lazily toward the leaning sycamoreand gathered speed as the water became swifter.

  Old Shark rose and Bud saw him, a great, dark shadow that left theshaded bank and rose into the clear water upstream from the leaningsycamore. Old Shark did seem more like a shark than a trout as he pausedwithin an inch of the fly and then sank back into the shadows from whichhe had come.

  Almost unable to tear his eyes from Old Shark's lair, Bud's attentionwas distracted for a moment by a ripple in the water beneath him. It wasa grasshopper struggling toward the ledge; before it reached safety, atwelve-inch trout from the school rose and took it.

  Twenty minutes later Gramps called,

  "Your turn. Take it slow and crawl away, mind you."

  Bud took his place behind the spire of rock and cast. He knew how clumsyhe was in comparison with Gramps, but he didn't care, for now he knewwhy Gramps spoke so reverently of Old Yellowfoot and Old Shark.

  When Bud's second turn was over, he went back to where Gramps wassitting well back on the ledge.

  "We didn't get him," Gramps said, but if he was disappointed he did notshow it. "There's always another day and we'll come again. Reckon we'dbetter go in after this last try, though. Mother's all alone."

  Bud stayed where he was and watched Gramps walk down to cast. Agrasshopper the old man's feet had disturbed came to rest on Bud's leftarm. He clapped his right hand over it and held the grasshopper untilGramps shrugged, reeled in and indicated that he was finished by hookinghis fly in the cork butt of his rod.

  Then, taking up his own rod, Bud strung the grasshopper on over the flyand crept across the ledge. He eased his grasshopper onto the water nearthe school of trout and a trout, which might well have been the one thathad taken the other grasshopper, darted upward and sucked in thegrasshopper. Bud struck, and his rod bent and his line grew taut as thehooked trout tried frantically to escape.

  "Keep the tip up! The tip up, Bud!" Gramps shouted.

  With a heave that bent his rod double, Bud jerked the trout from thewater and sent him ten feet back on the ledge, where he lay flapping.Bud raced back to get his catch.

  "You did it!" Gramps shouted deliriously. "You did it! Your first trouton a dry fly!"

  "I caught him on a grasshopper," Bud panted.

  "What'd you say?" Gramps asked blankly.

  "I caught him on a grasshopper."

  "A hopper?"

  "Yes."

  "Surely you're not going to keep him?"

  Bud looked at the ground without replying.

  "Well," Gramps said with an effort, "I guess that's your business."

  Without another word the old man turned to start homeward. Bud followed,miserable in the knowledge that he had betrayed Gramps. But even thoughit was abominable to take a trout on anything except a dry fly, hecouldn't have done otherwise. Gram had asked them to bring her onetrout.

  * * * * *

  They took old shark on their seventh trip to the ledge. Gramps did itwith a cunningly placed midge. Bud knew he would never forget the battlethat followed or the plucking of Old Shark from shallow water whenGramps had finally worked him there.

  They bore their prize proudly home, showed it to Gram. Then, in Gramps'asthmatic pickup truck--a vehicle that, until now, Bud had not evensuspected was on the farm--they carried the trout to Pat Haley's storeat Haleyville. Old Shark was a sensation and Pat Haley began at once tofreeze him in a block of ice.

  "What now?" Bud asked, as he and Gramps started home.

  "Find us another big trout."

  "I mean, what about Old Shark?"

  "Oh, him. Even if he had any flavor and wasn't tougher'n a shoehorn,he's too much for us to eat. Nobody else'll want him for the samereasons." Gramps drove in silence for a while and then said, "Tell youwhat we'll do. When Pat's finished and everybody who wants a look at OldShark has had it, we'll send him down to the orphanage. They don't oftenhave trout there."