The Black Fawn Page 4

  chapter 4

  As he walked toward the road with a lunch pail dangling from one hand,it seemed to Bud that the driveway--endlessly long when he had laboredup it that first day, with a chip on his shoulder and fear in hisheart--had shrunken miraculously. He glanced quickly behind him to seeif he was being watched and, seeing nobody, bent down to loosen thelaces of the shiny black school shoes Gram had bought him in Haleyville.Then he straightened up and walked on, trying to manage a natural gait.But it was hopeless because after the conquest of Old Shark he hadstopped wearing shoes. The soles of his feet had become so callousedthat he could even run over the sharp stones around Gramps' gravel pit.Now, at the end of the summer, it had been so long since he had wornshoes that he felt as if he were dragging a ball and chain on each foot.His shoes pinched, too, but you could not go to school barefooted, notif Gram Bennett had anything to say about it.

  The summer had been so wonderful that, looking back now that it wasending, every minute seemed precious. It had taken Bud a month torealize that there was actually only a bare minimum of work to be doneand that Gram and Gramps had planned it that way. They had laboredprodigiously to rear and educate seven sons and four daughters and, nowthat the children were grown up and had their own families, the oldpeople had made up their minds to do the things they had always wantedto do. For Gramps that meant hunting and fishing; Gram wanted nothingmore than to make other people happy. There was money in the bank andvery little labor was needed to provide for the two old people even nowthat they had taken a hungry orphan into their home.

  Bud reached the blacktop road and waited for the bus to take him to theHaleyville Consolidated School, where he was to enter the eighth grade.He had concealed it from Gram and Gramps, but he dreaded starting out ina new school. As he stood there waiting, he tried to ease his troubledmind by concentrating instead on one of the high points of the summer.

  He had cast a dry fly beneath a hollow stump beside a pool thicklybordered by a jungle of willows. The fly had gone truly and he had takena fourteen-inch brook trout. Gramps had not been effusive, but it hadmeant a great deal to hear him say,

  "Some day you'll be a fisherman, Bud."

  Bud knew that although he might have learned to cast a dry fly, a singleseason or a dozen seasons do not necessarily produce a dry flyfisherman. There were very few masters of the art. Still, Gramps'approval was the next thing to achieving knighthood.

  Sometimes with Gramps and sometimes alone, Bud had gone to see how theblack fawn was faring. Although the fawn and doe had widened their rangesomewhat, they were still in the same general area. Now they were muchmore difficult to approach, but Bud had seen them enough times to knowthat the fawn was doing well. The knowledge that the fawn wasflourishing made Bud less uneasy about his own good fortune, for sincethat first meeting, he had never stopped believing that a bond existedbetween himself and the fawn. Bud's luck had taken its turn for thebetter as soon as he found the little black buck and he was sure thatmisfortune would overtake him again if harm ever befell the fawn.

  Bud had discovered the ruffed grouse, known locally as "pat'tidges," thethickets where foxes hunted and the places where black-masked raccoonswashed their food. He had come to understand what sportsmanship means asopposed to hunting, and instead of recoiling when Gramps asked him to gogrouse hunting, he had accepted eagerly and was looking forward to theopening day of the season.

  Finally, he had found a dream of his own.

  Gramps had a half-dozen turkeys, as many geese, a few ducks and a largeflock of mongrel chickens that ranged from fussy little bantams to hugedunghill roosters. The flock was allowed to wander at will and tointerbreed freely. According to the articles in the farm journals Budhad found stacked in the little closet off the living room, that was notthe proper way to raise chickens. Although purebred fowls cost much morein the beginning, the returns were said to repay the initial investmentmany times over if the flock was correctly fed and housed. So far Budhad not broached the subject with Gram or Gramps because it was uselessto talk about a project until you had the means to carry it out.Nevertheless, he had privately decided that, if and when he got both themoney and Gram and Gramps' permission, he would buy a pen of purebredchickens and try to build up a flock.

  That was for the future, but this was now, and when he saw the schoolbus approaching, Bud drew a deep breath. Then he clenched his teeth andboarded it.

  The trip to Haleyville was over before he thought it could be, and thechildren assembled in little groups in front of the school. Bud went upalone to the entrance to the building and stood by himself with his backagainst the wall pretending to lounge nonchalantly. He was the only onewho did not seem to know exactly where to go or what to do. Bells rangat intervals and the crowd of boys and girls thinned until the only onesleft were Bud and a tall man who was obviously a teacher.

  When Bud told him he was in the eighth grade, the teacher led Bud downseveral long corridors and past rows of closed doors with frosted glasspanes in them. Finally he paused before one of the doors and, openingit, propelled Bud through ahead of him. A man with the physique of awrestler but with gentle eyes looked around.

  "I have one of your lost sheep, Mr. Harris," Bud's escort said.

  "Come in and join the class, sheep," Mr. Harris said, smiling.

  The class tittered and Bud writhed. The only refuge he knew wasdefiance.

  "Don't call me names!" he shouted. "I'm not a sheep!"

  "You're not very polite, either," Mr. Harris said without raising hisvoice. "What is your name?"

  "Bud."

  "Is that all your name? Just Bud?"

  The class tittered again and Bud's mortification mounted as he chokedout,

  "Bud Sloan."

  Mr. Harris consulted his class roll. "It says here you're Allan Sloan."

  "I don't care what it says!" Bud shouted again. "My name's Bud!"

  All at once he found himself sitting on the floor. Lights danced in hishead. He blinked owlishly, and as if from a great distance, he heard Mr.Harris say,

  "Get up, Allan. Your seat is the third one in the first row. Take it."

  Bud walked to his seat and the class was subdued. Bud sat in sullensilence for the rest of the morning. When noon came, he ate a lonelylunch and when the dismissal gong sounded at the end of the day he wasthe first to rise.

  "You're to stay after school, Allan," Mr. Harris said.

  Scowling, Bud sat down again and watched his classmates whoop out tofreedom. As though he had forgotten all about Bud or perhaps because Budwas too insignificant to notice, Mr. Harris methodically and calmly puthis desk in order. Finally he looked up and said,

  "Come on."

  Mr. Harris led the way out through the rear entrance and Bud gulped asthey neared the parking lot. He would have run if his legs would haveobeyed him, but since they would not, he got into Mr. Harris's car. Theystarted up the road toward the Bennetts' farm, and after they were outof town, Mr. Harris said,

  "You needed that cuffing I gave you."

  Bud said nothing as Mr. Harris continued, "You had it coming and youknow it. I know exactly what you were thinking and why. Stop thinkingit.

  "Let me tell you about another boy," Mr. Harris said, "another orphan.He was farmed out when he was just about your age, and he went to a newschool exactly as you did. Inside, he was frightened as a rabbit withfive dogs and nine cats backing him into a corner, but he was afraid tolet anyone else know that. The teacher reprimanded him and he shouted athim. Then, because he was convinced that only tough guys can get along,he hit the teacher with a chair. The boy was twelve when it happened. Hewas eighteen when he finally got out of reform school, and it was areform school even if they called it a training school for boys."

  Bud said nothing and Mr. Harris went on, "It's a true story, as I shouldknow. The boy's name was Jeffrey Chandler Harris, who now teaches eighthgrade at Haleyville Consolidated School. I've wished many a time thatthat teacher had had sense enough to clobber me when I most neede
d it."

  Before Bud could recover or reply, Mr. Harris eased his car to a stop infront of the drive leading to Gram and Gramps' house and was holding outhis hand.

  "Friends?"

  "Friends," Bud said, and shook hands.

  * * * * *

  The autumn days were literally golden days. Gold leaves clung to theaspens and birches and to some of the maples. Goldenrod bloomed. Agolden moon shone down on a field where golden pumpkins lay amongshocked corn. The sun rose golden every morning and set in a goldenblaze every night.

  Most of the crops were harvested and the fields lay bare. The cellarbeneath the farmhouse was bursting with the fruits and vegetables thatcould be stored, and every shelf was filled with jars in which Gram hadcanned those that could not be stored. Split and neatly corded wood wasstacked up to the roof of the woodshed and now the wood boxes on theback porch and in the kitchen were kept heaping full.

  The warmth the kitchen range radiated was welcome these days, for evenat high noon there was a sharp tang in the air. The cattle preferred thesunny to the shady parts of the pasture and a box, which had a hole cutin it and with a cloth hung over the hole, covered Shep's bed on theporch.

  After their first encounter Bud and Mr. Harris had understood each otherand Bud brought home a very creditable first report card. That afternoonhe raced up to his room to exchange school clothes for work clothes andran back down the stairs, stopping in the kitchen only long enough togobble the cookies and drink the milk Gram had ready for him.

  "I have to hurry and help Gramps get everything caught up so we can gogrouse hunting," he explained when Gram remonstrated.

  "Oh. That's real important. Scoot, now."

  Bud drank the last of his milk and ran out. In the corn field Gramps hadthe team hitched to the light box wagon and was walking beside it andlifting ripe pumpkins into the box, starting and stopping the horseswith his voice alone. Bud raced toward Gramps, and Shep came leaping tomeet him. As he petted the big furry dog, Bud looked toward the autumnwoods and for an instant he thought he had caught a glimpse of the blackfawn melting away into the trees.

  For Bud the fawn was outside the laws of nature, but with the taking ofOld Shark he had learned the difference between sport for sport's sakeand killing for killing's sake. Actually, as Gramps had explained, itwas not only fair, it was wise to harvest some creatures. Old Shark, forinstance, had been a ravenous old tyrant who had consumed vast amountsof food, including smaller trout; now that he was gone, the trout leftin the pool would have a better chance. Gramps had made Bud see that itwas, in fact, kind to harvest the surplus game crop because there isenough food for only a limited number of wild creatures. The rest mustdie, and the ways of nature are almost always crueler and more prolongedthan death at the hand of a hunter.

  Bud thought that the swift-winged grouse were among the most fascinatingof wild creatures. He almost never saw them until they thundered intoflight, a thing that never failed to startle him. They were birds ofmystery to him and he could not help being excited because he and Grampswere going to hunt grouse when the season opened. Safe in its case inBud's room was a trim little double-barreled twenty-gauge shotgun, andas soon as the last of the crops was in, Gramps had promised to show himhow to use it.

  Shep bounced ahead to frolic around Gramps, and Gramps stopped work asBud came up to him.

  "Hi, Bud."

  "Hello, Gramps. I hurried so I can help load the rest of the pumpkins."

  "Well now, that's right decent of you. But you won't be sorry. A manain't lived 'til he's helped load and haul punkins. Did you ever stop toconsider what a remarkable thing a punkin is? You can look at 'em andtell what the weather's been by the looks of the punkin, so they're aweather table. You can just about tell the season by the looks of apunkin, so that makes 'em a calendar. You can bounce one off somebody'shead and knock him sillier'n the cow that jumped over the moon and stillnot hurt him, so they're a weapon. You can turn 'em into goblins onHalloween, and you can eat 'em. Yep. A punkin's a right remarkableoutfit."

  "How are they most remarkable?" Bud asked.

  "In punkin pie. Let's get to work."

  When they had loaded the wagon, Gramps unwrapped the reins that had beenaround the wagon's center post, drove to where the great, outer cellardoors yawned wide, and two by two they carried the pumpkins into thecellar. Then, while Bud stabled and cared for the horses, and pitchedhay down the chute for the cows, Gramps milked.

  That night, after the evening meal, Bud gave himself to the complexitiesof English, arithmetic and American history while Gram knitted andGramps pored over the latest issue of _The Upland Gunner_. Bud's eyesstole from his textbook to the magazine in Gramps' hands, and althoughhe made a prodigious effort to return to the conjugation of irregularverbs, he found it a hopeless task. He raised his eyes again to themagazine, which had a gorgeous front cover showing a woodcock in flight,two English setters on perfect point and a hunter who was obviouslyabout to add the woodcock to his bag.

  Gramps spoke from behind the magazine, "That was a mighty fine reportcard you fetched home, Bud."

  "Thanks, Gramps."

  "You fetch home reports like that, and you'n me will have a whack at OldYellowfoot sure after we're done with the grouse."

  Without bothering to find out how Gramps had managed to peer through themagazine and discover that he was not studying, Bud returned to histextbook. Gramps had given him the incentive he needed at the moment,but on a farm everybody has his tasks and Bud knew without being toldthat his chief one was to get everything he could from his school work.

  When Bud came home from school the next day, Gramps was sitting on theback porch with the twenty-gauge shotgun, Bud's gun, across his knees.Nearby was a wooden cleaning rod, some strips of white cloth, a can ofnitro solvent and a can of oil. As though such an occupation was toocommonplace to call for any explanation, Gramps said,

  "Best get moving."

  "Moving?"

  "Now doggone! You didn't think I'd take you grouse hunting 'thout youknow which end of the gun the shot comes out of, did you?"

  Bud changed his clothes in frantic haste, gulped down the milk Gram hadwaiting and caught up some cookies. Gramps looked at him reprovingly ashe burst out the back door.

  "You ain't going to a fire. Slow and easy's the way you take her whenyou're hunting. Come on."

  He led the way to a windmill behind the barn. Before the farmers alongthe road had organized to form their own water company, the windmill hadpumped all the Bennetts' water. The wind furnished power when it blew.When it did not, a gasoline engine operated the pump. Even though therewas another supply of water now, Gramps had not let the windmilldeteriorate in case it should be needed again.

  While Bud had been at school, Gramps had hung cans by eight-foot cordsfrom each of the vanes of the windmill and hooked up power belts so theengine would turn the windmill. A hundred feet away he had also put uptwo wooden standards that looked like sign posts and covered them withnewspapers. Two boxes of shotgun shells were laid out on the enginemount. Gramps picked up one.

  "Some people practice shoot on live pigeons," he said. "I don't holdwith that 'cause I don't hold with killing anything for no good reason.Some shoot at tin cans tossed in the air, but that's no way to learn'cause tossed cans just ain't fast enough. Some shoot clay pigeons,which is all right if you got the money. I have my own way. Now you knowabout choke?"

  "Yes, Gramps."

  "Tell me."

  "The left barrel of this gun is full choke, which means that it has anarrower opening than the right and will shoot a closer pattern, but italso has a longer range. It's to be used for birds flying a considerabledistance away."

  Gramps nodded and took two shells from the box. "Load her."

  Bud flipped the lever that broke the barrels and slipped a shell intoeach. He tried to do it very calmly, but in spite of himself his handsshook. He had broken the barrels a hundred times before and inimagination he had loaded the gun and sig
hted on a speeding bird athousand times. But this was the first time he had ever held the gunarmed with live ammunition. He did not forget to check the safety, andGramps noticed but said nothing.

  The old man said, "So you can see for yourself what pattern means, andthe difference between a full and modified choke, shoot your left barrelinto the left paper and the right into the right."

  Bud braced the gun stock against his shoulder, sighted on the right-handpaper, braced himself, and pulled the trigger. The gun's blasting roarwas much louder than anything he had expected, but the recoil was almostnegligible. He shot the left barrel with more confidence.

  "You flinched on the first but held steady on the second," Grampspronounced. "Now let's see what happened."

  They walked forward and Bud studied both papers. The one to the leftshot with a full choke bore a roughly circular pattern of evenlydistributed pellets that had gone through the paper and imbeddedthemselves in the wood backing. The target shot with the modified barrelwas pock-marked with such a wide circle that it was obvious not all ofthem could have struck the paper.

  "Understand?" Gramps queried.

  "I understand."

  "Then we'll get on, and since anybody who'd shoot a bird on the groundwould catch a trout on a grasshopper, like a certain party did on SkunkCrick, we shoot 'em on the wing. Just a minute."

  Gramps started the gasoline engine. The windmill vanes began to whirland the dangling cans, gaining momentum, strained at the ends of theirstrings. Taking the shotgun, Gramps fired one barrel, then the other,and two of the whirling cans leaped wildly. He gave the shotgun and apair of shells to Bud.

  Bud shot, but although he knew he was on target, he missed the can atwhich he had aimed. He shot again and again until he had scoredtwenty-three consecutive misses. Then, all at once, he found the feeland balance of his gun. It was no longer a separate thing but a part ofhimself. With Gramps' coaching him on leading, or shooting ahead of thetarget, he scored two hits, missed three and scored ten straight.

  "You're real good at shooting tin cans on the wing," Gramps pronounced."Now we'll see how good you are on grouse. Saturday's the day, Bud."