The Black Fawn Read online

  chapter 5

  The friday after the target practice the sky was overcast when Bud camehome from school and the wind was variable. There was a wintry tang inthe air. The day that Bud had thought would never come was tomorrow.

  Less than half aware of what he was doing, or of how he was doing it,Bud helped with the nightly chores and made no serious mistakes simplybecause by now he could do them by rote. He returned to earth longenough to enjoy Gram's excellent supper and afterward tried toconcentrate on his school books, which might as well have been writtenin Sanskrit. Finally he gave himself up to dreaming.

  Shotgun in hand, he was walking slowly through crisp autumn woods. Agrouse, a wary old cock bird that had been taught by experience how toavoid hunters, rose in front of him. The grouse flew into a rhododendronthicket and, keeping brush between Bud and himself, was seen only as ahurtling ball of feathers and at uncertain intervals. Bud, the mastersportsman, made a swift mental calculation of the bird's line of flight,aimed where he knew it would reappear and scored a hit so perfect thateven Gramps was impressed. With complete nonchalance befitting a hunter,Bud retrieved his trophy and said casually, "Not a bad grouse."

  "And not a bad hunter!" Gramps ejaculated. "I've been practicing onthese babies for more than forty years, and I never saw a finer shot!"

  "Hadn't you better go to bed, Allan?" Gram asked, bringing him back toreality.

  "You said," Gramps chuckled, "that you've been practicing on thesebabies for more than forty years and never saw a finer shot. What wereyou shooting at, Bud?"

  Bud wriggled in embarrassment, knowing that he had once again inviteddisaster by revealing his thoughts. But it was no longer the risk thatit would have been a few short months ago, for neither Gram nor Grampshad shown any sign of wanting to exploit his weaknesses. He grinned andsaid sheepishly,

  "I must have been thinking out loud."

  "You're tired," Gram said soothingly. "Now you just run along."

  He said good night and for a moment before crawling into bed stood atthe window. Then he caressed the cased shotgun, got into bed and pulledthe covers up. Five minutes later wind-driven snow began to rattlecrisply against his bedroom window.

  It was a magic sound that seemed to bring Bennett's Woods and all theycontained into Bud's bedroom. He imagined he saw the black buck, awell-grown fawn now, pawing snow aside to get at the vegetation beneath,while his mother flirted coyly nearby with Old Yellowfoot. Cottontailrabbits played on the snow and sharp-nosed foxes sought them out. Bluejays huddled on their roosts and dreamed up new insults to scream at theworld. Tiny chickadees, tiny puffs of feathers never daunted by even thebitterest winter weather, chirped optimistically to one another in thenight.

  Bud's imagination always returned to the grouse that left theirthree-toed tracks, like small chicken tracks, clearly imprinted in thenew snow as they sought out the evergreen thickets where they would besure of finding food and shelter from the first biting blast of winter.Bud followed the tracks. The grouse burst out of their thickets likefeathered bombs and each time he choose his bird and never missed.

  It occurred to him suddenly that, even though no hint of daylight showedagainst his window, he must have overslept. Bud sprang hastily up andconsulted the battered clock on his dresser to find he had been in bedfor only an hour. And so he returned to more dreams of grouse.

  Always he found them by first locating their tracks and following theminto the thicket. Grouse after grouse fell to his deadly aim whileGramps, who couldn't even hope to match this kind of shooting, finallystopped trying and stood by admiringly. Then without any warning, Budwas confronted by a gigantic cock grouse whose head towered a full twofeet over his own. Bud halted in his tracks, first astonished and thenafraid. When he turned to run, the grouse ran after him, snapped him upin its bill, and began to shake him as Shep shook the rats that hesometimes surprised around the barn. As the giant grouse shook him, itsaid in a thunderous voice that Bud had already shot nine hundredgrouse, far more than any one hunter should ever take, and now he mustface his just punishment.

  Bud awoke in a cold sweat to find Gramps shaking his shoulder. "Time tomove," Gramps said, and left.

  Bud shook off the remnants of sleep as only a youngster can andremembering the snow that had rattled against his window during thenight, rushed across the floor to look out. The barn roof was starklywhite in the early morning gloom, and the earth was snow-covered. Budran to the chair beside his bed where he stacked his clothing anddressed hurriedly, aware of the cold for the first time. He pulled onand laced his rubber-bottomed pacs, and then took up his shotgunaffectionately and ran down the stairs.

  As anxious as he was to be in the woods, it never occurred to Bud thathe was free to surrender to anxiety and be on with the hunting. It wasright to anticipate but not to fret because first the stock had to betended and fed. The farm creatures were utterly helpless and dependent,and the humans whose chattels they were had a responsibility to them.Bud came into the kitchen where Gram was busy and said cheerfully,

  "Good morning, ma'am."

  "Good morning, Allan."

  As he was putting on a jacket so he could rush out and help Gramps withthe morning chores, Bud stopped with his arm half in and half out of thesleeve. Gram's face was wan and her smile was tired, and sudden fearleaped in Bud's heart. Nothing could possibly go wrong with Gram, butobviously something had gone wrong. Bud said because he had to saysomething,

  "I'm going out to help Gramps."

  "Wait just a minute," Gram said as though she had just made up her mind,"I'd like to talk with you."

  "Yes?" Bud said uncertainly.

  "Will you watch over Gramps very carefully today, Allan?"

  Bud was speechless, for Gramps was like one of the great white oaks thatgrew in Bennett's Woods, or one of the granite boulders that rearedtheir humped backs on the hills. He watched over everything andeverybody. With Gram, he made the Bennett farm a happy fortress wherepeople could live as people were meant to live. Being asked to watchover Gramps made Bud feel small and incompetent.

  "Is Gramps sick?" he asked.

  "No," and he knew that she was speaking only half the truth. "It's justthat he isn't as young as he used to be and I don't like to see him goin the woods alone."

  "Perhaps we should stay home?"

  "Oh no!" Gram said vehemently. "That would be far worse than going.Gramps was never meant for a rocking chair. Just watch over him."

  Bud threw his arms around her. He was a little surprised, now that theystood so close together, to discover that he did not have to rise at allto kiss her seamed cheek. He had always thought of Gram as being fartaller than he, but now he knew she wasn't at all.

  "Don't you worry, Gram. I'll take care of him."

  "Now I just knew you would!" There was a sudden, happy lilt in Gram'svoice and her weariness had disappeared.

  Bud kissed her again and went into the snowy morning, and if some of hiszest had evaporated, something better had taken its place. He had knownalmost from the beginning how desperately he needed Gram and Gramps, andhis greatest fear had been that, somehow, he would be separated fromthem. The thought of parting from them had worried him endlessly, and hehad schemed to make himself indispensable. But there seemed to be noway, for he was not indispensable; he wasn't even important. Now,miraculously, the way had opened. Without understanding just how it hadbeen brought about, Bud knew that Gram and Gramps needed him, too, andthe knowledge gave him new stature and strength, and broke the finalbarriers that had held him aloof. It was impossible to remain distantwhen Gram's very heart cried out to him.

  The brisk wind whirled little snow devils across the yard and the barnroof was covered with snow. Shep came out of the partly open door tomeet him, and Bud stooped to ruffle his ears. The collie remained by hisside as Bud entered the barn, which was warm from the heat given off bythe animals' bodies.

  As he was milking Cherub, the only cow of the four that would kick ifshe caught the milker off guard, Gramps
looked up and said happily,"It's a great day for it."

  "It looks that way, Gramps," said Bud, his apprehension lessening in theface of Gramps' enthusiasm. "I'll get to work."

  He got his own pail and started milking Susie, thinking of the time whenmilking had seemed an art so involved that only a genius could masterit. Now Bud could match Gramps' milking skill. He rose to empty hisfull milk pail into the can standing in the cooler. In another hour orso, Joe Travis would be along to collect it with his truck and carry itto the creamery at Haleyville. Household milk for both drinking andchurning was always saved from the last pail. Gram still poured milkinto shallow pans in the cool cellar, and separated milk from cream byskimming off the cream with a great spoon when it rose to the top of thepan.

  Coming back to milk the last cow, Bud stood aside so Gramps could passwith his brimming pail and said,

  "If you want to finish Clover, I'll take care of the horses andchickens."

  "Hop to it," Gramps said cheerfully. "Though I'd like to get goingthere's no tearing rush. Those grouse are going to stay where it'swarm."

  Breathing a silent prayer because his ruse had worked--it was easier tomilk another cow than to fork down hay for the horses and care for thepoultry--Bud went to the horse stable. Tied to mangers, the two placidhorses raised their heads and nickered a soft welcome when he entered.Bud filled the mangers with hay, gave each horse a heaping measure ofgrain, filled their water containers, groomed them and went on to thepoultry house.

  The turkeys, geese and ducks had long since gone to one of the freezinglockers Pat Haley kept in the rear of his store, where, dressed andplucked, they awaited the various winter holidays and the homecomings ofthe Bennetts' children and grandchildren. Most of the chickens remainedalive, however. A few were still on the roosts, and in the dim light,none was very active.

  As Bud filled the mash and grain hoppers and checked the supply ofcrushed oyster shell, he daydreamed about the flock he hoped to have.Instead of these mongrel chickens, he visualized an evenly matched,evenly colored flock. This morning he favored Rhode Island Reds, butsometimes he was for White Leghorns, or Anconas, or one of the manyvarieties of Plymouth Rocks or White or Buff Wyandottes. Bud had not yetdecided whether it was better to breed for eggs or meat, or to choose aspecies of fowl that would supply both. But he did know that he wantedchickens. Although he never saw himself reaping great wealth from them,in his imagination he often heard himself assuring Gram and Gramps thatthe egg money, or the broiler money, depending on the breed he happenedto fancy at the moment, was ample to pay all the current bills and leavea substantial reserve.

  He finished and he had no sooner shut the henhouse door than he ceasedbeing a poultryman and became a hunter. The light was stronger now, thenew snow was soft beneath his pacs and the wind was cold enough so thatthe season's first snow would not melt. The snow gave a special glamourto the forthcoming hunt, for in all the hunting stories Bud had likedthe hunters had worked on snow. Moreover, the snow and the cold windwould keep the grouse concentrated in or near their evergreen thickets,and since Gramps knew every thicket in Bennett's Woods, the shootingwould be fine.

  Gramps was at the table paying no attention to what he ate or how he ateit. Gram started to fill Bud's plate as he came in, and she looked athim meaningfully: he was to watch over Gramps and Gram knew that hewould. But all she said was,

  "Get them while they're hot, Allan."

  "Sure, Gram," Bud said cheerfully.

  As he was about to stuff two pancakes rolled around two strips of baconand doused with syrup into his mouth, Gramps stopped with the foodhalfway from his plate.

  "What'd you call Mother?"

  "Gram," Bud said, and now it seemed that he had never called her by anyother name.

  "Why of course, Delbert," Gram said. "Where have your ears been?"

  "Wish I knew," Gramps said, and resumed eating.

  They finished, pushed their plates back, and Bud donned a belt-lengthwool jacket over his wool shirt. He stuffed the pockets full of shotgunshells, caught up his shotgun and kissed Gram again.

  "'Bye. We'll bring you back something nice."

  "Just bring yourselves back safely, and have a good time."

  They left the house, and when Shep fell in beside them, Gramps did notorder him back. Bud said nothing. He had learned long ago why Shepscared trout, for the smallest shadow that fell across their pool wouldsend trout scurrying for the shelter of overhanging banks or intocrannies beneath rocks. It stood to reason that Shep would also frightengrouse, but that was a different matter. When Bud and Gramps approached,the grouse were sure to be frightened anyway and a dog prowling aboutwas as likely to offer shots by sending grouse rocketing skyward as hewas to frighten them out of range.

  Bud stole a sidewise glance at Gramps and saw nothing amiss. But he wastroubled by Gramps' silence until the old man spoke,

  "When'd it happen, Bud?"

  "When did what happen?"

  "You called Mother 'Gram.' You kissed her when we left."

  "Well," Bud said, and then he came out with it, "I've wanted to do itfor a long time."

  "A body ought to do what he wants more often," Gramps said. "Maybe it'dmake a heap of people feel a heap better a lot sooner. Do you like ithere with us?"

  "Oh, yes!"

  "So'd our young'uns, but after they grew up, they couldn't wait toleave. That's right and as it should be; the old have no call to tellthe young what they must do. What are you aiming to be when you growup?"

  "I haven't thought."

  "Don't you want to do anything?"

  "Yes. I want to raise chickens," Bud said recklessly.

  "Raise chickens!" Gramps was surprised. "How come? Tell me."

  Bud told him of the agricultural journals he had found in the closet offthe living room and of the articles he had read about chickens, whichhad convinced him that the farm's present flock ought to be exchangedfor purebreds. At any rate, he told Gramps, as soon as he could somehowearn enough money to buy a small pen of purebreds, he wanted to test histheory, if he could have Gram and Gramps' permission.

  "Guess we can find room for a few more chickens. We'll think about it,"Gramps said when Bud finished. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper."We'd best take it easy. Should be grouse round this next bend."

  Noting that Shep had left them for an excursion of his own, Bud balancedthe shotgun with both hands and poised his thumb to slip the safetycatch. They rounded the bend and stopped in their tracks.

  About a hundred and fifty feet away there was a dense thicket of younghemlocks, small bushy trees about eight feet high. Ten feet from thethicket, so still that at first he seemed to be a statue rather than aliving thing, stood a mighty buck. His head was turned toward them andhis ears flicked forward as he tested the wind with his black nose. Fromthe tip of his nose to the tip of his tail, every line was graceful andyet brutally powerful. His craggy antlers curved high and spread wide.As little as he knew about deer, Bud knew his antlers were superb. Fromthe hocks and knees down, each of the buck's feet was a light yellow.

  An instant later the buck had melted like a ghost into the hemlocks andGramps said in awed tones,

  "Old Yellowfoot!"

  Bud looked again where the legendary buck of Bennett's Woods had been,half expecting to see him still there. But Old Yellowfoot was gonewithout a sound. It seemed impossible for so large an animal to havefaded out of sight so quickly, and for a moment Bud wondered if hereally had been there. But he had seen Old Yellowfoot, the buck nohunter ever saw fully.

  "Was that really Old Yellowfoot?" he asked.

  "That was him right enough!" Gramps said.

  "We might have shot him."

  "With a couple of shotguns and number six shot?" Gramps said. "Don'tfool yourself, Bud. That old buck knows as well as we do that wewouldn't no more'n sting him if we did shoot, and he knew we wouldn'tshoot 'cause he knows it ain't deer season."

  "How does he know?"

  Gramps said seriously, "I don't
know how he knows it, but I'm sure hedoes. Naturally deer don't carry calendars, but they do tick off thedays 'bout as accurately as we can and Old Yellowfoot's been through alot of deer seasons. He can smell danger far's we can a skunk. If we'dbeen coming up here with a couple of thirty-thirtys, in deer season, wewouldn't have got within sniffing distance. I told you that buck'ssmarter'n most people. Wait'll we get on his tail and you'll see foryourself."

  They came to the place where the big buck had been standing and examinedthe hoofprints that were clearly defined in the snow. They were biggerthan any deer tracks Bud had ever seen, and there seemed to be somethingmystical about them just because they were Old Yellowfoot's.

  Shep panted up, wagging his tail agreeably. He sniffed briefly at OldYellowfoot's tracks and sat down in the snow. Gramps skirted thehemlocks, eyes to the ground, and presently he called,

  "They're in here."

  Advancing to Gramps' side, Bud saw that half a dozen grouse had gonefrom the open woods into the little evergreens. Bud looked into thegrove trying to penetrate the closely interlaced branches. It seemedhopeless. If the copse could swallow Old Yellowfoot as though he hadmelted into the air, how could you expect to find the grouse?

  "Let's go in," Gramps said.

  They entered the copse, Gramps following the grouse tracks and Bud tenfeet to one side. Bud's shotgun was half raised, ready to snap toshooting position at his shoulder, and his pulse was throbbing withexcitement. Too eager, he pushed a few feet ahead of Gramps but fellback at once so that, when the grouse rose, both of them would have anequal chance to shoot. Bud knew that otherwise Gramps wouldn't dareshoot for fear of hitting him.

  The grouse rose so suddenly and unexpectedly that for a moment Budforgot his gun. He had thought they would be deeper in the thicket.Gramps' gun blasted, and Bud saw a grouse pitch from the air into thesnow. Then they were gone.

  "I didn't hear you shoot," Gramps said.

  "I couldn't get ready."

  There was the suspicion of a chuckle in his voice, but Gramps' face wasperfectly solemn when he faced Bud. "There'll be more," he said.

  As they went forward, the only grouse that had not yet risen rocketed upbeneath their feet. Bud saw the bird clearly as it soared over the topsof the hemlocks. He raised his gun and after he had shot, a shower ofhemlock twigs filtered earthward from a place two feet beneath and threefeet to one side of where the bird had been. Bud shuffled his feet andlooked bewildered.

  "You get too excited," Gramps said. "Take it easier."

  "Yes, Gramps," Bud said meekly.

  They broke out of the other side of the thicket and came upon the placewhere Old Yellowfoot had left the hemlocks to slink into a stand ofyellow birch. The tracks were not those of a running or excited deer,for Old Yellowfoot hadn't kept his regal antlers by surrendering toexcitement. He had walked all the way and by this time was probably backin some hiding place that only he knew.

  Now they were in a thicket of small pines which were more scattered thanthe hemlocks had been. Grouse tracks led into it, and Gramps tumbledanother bird out of the air. Bud saw one running on the snow, and heslipped the safety and aimed. He almost shot, but at the last momentreleased his finger tension on the trigger and let the bird run out ofsight. That was not the way to take grouse.

  Two hours and fifteen shots later, they came to still another thicketand prepared to work through it. Gramps was no longer shooting, for eventhough the limit was four grouse, half the limit was enough for anyone.Bud's cheeks were burning, and he was grimly determined as they went on.Gramps had two grouse with two shots; he had none with fifteen. Then thegrouse went up.

  This time it was different. Just as when he had been shooting at the tincans tied to the windmill, his gun became a part of him and he seemed tobe directed by something outside of himself.

  Bud swung on a grouse, shot and saw the bird fold its wings and tumblegracefully. Then he swung on a second bird and that one, too, dropped tothe earth. He had shot fifteen times without coming even close to agrouse, but now he had redeemed himself by scoring a double. Not evenGramps had done that, and Bud turned proudly to the old man.

  Gramps was on his knees, trying desperately to keep from going all theway down by bracing himself with his shotgun. His head was bent forwardas though he was too tired to hold it up, and what Bud could see of hisface was blue. Gramps' breath came in hoarse, far-apart gasps--the mostterrifying sound the boy had ever heard.