Shiloh (10 page)

Slowly the minutes and hours of Friday tick by, then it's Saturday, and our last day with Shiloh. We give him every little treat we can
think of, a wonder we don't make him sick, and after supper we sit out on the back porch like we usually do. Becky and Dara Lynn are rolling around in the grass, and Shiloh limps out there to join in the fun. I show Becky how if you lay down on your stomach with your arms up over your face, Shiloh will work to turn you over. Both girls have to try it, and Shiloh does just like I said, trying his best to get those girls up on their feet.

“If Becky ever fell in the creek, I'll bet Shiloh would pull her out,” Ma says.

“If I ever saw a snake, I'll bet Shiloh would kill it for me,” says Dara Lynn.

I got a sadness inside me growing so big I feel I'm about to bust. That night I sleep a little bit, wake a bit, sleep a bit, wake some more. About dawn, however, I know what I got to do.

I get up quiet as can be. Soon as Shiloh hears me, of course, he's out of his box.

“Shhh, Shiloh,” I say, my finger to my lips. He watches me a moment, then crawls back in his box, good as ever.

I dress, pull on my sneakers, take me a slice of bread from the loaf on the counter and a peach off the tree in the yard. Then I take the shortcut through the east woods toward Judd Travers's.

It's the only thing left to do. I'd talked to Dad, to Ma, to David, and nobody's got any more idea what to do than they did before. What I'm fixing
to do is talk to Judd Travers straight and tell him I'm not going to give Shiloh back.

Rehearsed my lines so often I can say 'em by heart. What I don't know, though, is what Judd's going to say—what he's going to do. I'll tell him he can beat me, punch me, kick me, but I'm not going to give that dog up. I'll buy Shiloh from Judd, but if he won't sell and comes to get him, I'll take Shiloh and head out in the other direction. Only way he can get his dog back is to take me to court, and then I'll tell the judge how Judd treats his animals.

Halfway through the woods, I'm thinking that what I'm about to do could get my dad in a whole lot of trouble. Around here it's serious business when you got a quarrel with your neighbor and you got to carry it as far as the law. Folks ain't that fond of Judd, and most of 'em likes my dad, but when it comes to taking a man's property, I figure they'll side with Judd. I'm not makin' life one bit easier for my parents or Dara Lynn or Becky, but I just can't give up Shiloh without a fight.

Will he shoot me? That thought crosses my mind, too. Some kid got shot down in Mingo County once. Easy as pie for Judd Travers to put a bullet hole in my head, say he didn't see me. I got my feet pointed toward Judd Travers's place, though, and they ain't about to turn back.

Still so early in the morning the mist is rising
up out of the ground, and when I come to a stretch of field, looks like the grass is steaming. Sky's light, but the sun hasn't showed itself yet. You live in hill country, it takes a while for the sun to rise. Got to scale the mountains first.

I'm practicing being quiet. What I hope is to get to Judd's house before he's wide awake, take him by surprise. He sees me coming a half mile off, without Shiloh, he's likely to figure what I got to say and have his answer ready. I want to be sitting there on his porch the moment he gets out of bed.

A rabbit goes lickety-split in front of me, then disappears. I went out hunting with Dad once, and he said that when you first scare up a rabbit, it hops a short way, then stops and looks back. That's when you got to freeze. Can't move nothing but your eyeballs, Dad says. What you have to look for is that shiny black dot—the rabbit's eye. If you look for the whole rabbit, you almost never see him because he blends into the scenery.

So I don't move a muscle and look for the shiny black dot. And there it is. I wonder what's going on inside that rabbit—if its heart's pounding fierce. No way I could tell it I wasn't going to do it harm. So I go on, back into the second stretch of woods, heading for that second field.

I'm just about to come out of the trees when I
stop dead still again, for right there in the meadow is a deer, a young doe. She's munching on something, and every so often she stops, looks up, then goes on eating again.

Hardest thing in the world for me to see how anybody could shoot an animal like that. Then I think of a couple winters ago we hardly had any meat on our table, and I guess I can see how a father with three kids could shoot a deer. Hope I never have to, though. I'm just about to step out into the meadow, when
crack
!

It's the sound of a rifle. It splits the air and echoes back against the hills.

The doe takes out across the meadow, heading for the woods. Its front legs rear up, then its back legs as it leaps, its tail a flash of white.

Crack!

The rifle sounds again, and this time the deer goes down.

I can't move. One part of me wants to go to the deer, the other part knows that somebody's out here with a rifle shooting deer out of season. And before I can decide whether to go on or turn back, out of the woods on the other side steps Judd Travers, rifle in hand.

H
e's wearing this army camouflage shirt, a brown cap, and the weirdest grin that could fit on a human face.

“Whooeee!” he says, holding the rifle up with one hand as he plows through the weeds. “I got 'er! Whooeee!”

I know he wasn't out shooting rabbits and happened to get a doe instead, because he doesn't have his hounds with him; Judd Travers had gone out that morning with the clear intention of getting himself a deer. I also know that if the game warden finds out about it, Judd's in big trouble, 'cause the deer he shot out of season wasn't even a buck.

He slogs over through waist-high weeds to where the doe lays. Bending over, he looks at her, walks around her a little piece, then says “Whooeee!” again, soft-like.

That's when I come out of the woods. He's got his back to me now, his hands on the doe's front legs, trying to see can he pull her himself. Drags her a little way and stops. And when he looks up again, I'm right beside him.

He whirls around. “Where'd you come from?” he says.

“Was on my way over to see you,” I tell him, and for the first time, standing next to Judd Travers, I feel taller than I really am.

He looks at me a moment like he don't know if he's glad I'm there or not. Then I guess he figures me being there, only a kid, don't matter. “Look what I got!” he says. “Found her eatin' at my garden this morning, and I chased her over here.”

“That's a lie,” I say. “I was back in the woods watching her eat. She was comin' down from the hills the other way. You went out deer huntin' for anything you could get.”

“Well, supposing I did!” says Judd Travers, and he hates me worse'n snot.

“Deer ain't in season, that's what,” I answer. “There's a two-hundred-dollar fine for killing a doe.”

Judd Travers is staring at me like he's about to crack me across the mouth. Way we're raised around here, children don't talk back to grown folks. Don't hardly talk much at all, in fact. Learn to listen, keep your mouth shut, let the grown folks do the talking. And here I am, shooting off my mouth at five-thirty in the morning to a man holding a rifle. Am I crazy or what?

“Not unless the game warden finds out, there's not,” Judd says. “And who's going to tell him? You?”

All at once I realize I got Judd Travers right where I want him. One way you look at it, it's my duty to report a killed doe. The way folks up here look at it, though, that's snitching. And if I
might
could tell, but bargain not to, it's something else again: It's blackmail. But, like I said, I'd got to the place I'd do most anything to save Shiloh.

“Yeah,” I say, my heart pounding like crazy. “I'll tell. There's a free number to call.” There is, too. It's on Dad's hunting regulation papers. Boy, I sure didn't know I was going to step into all this when I come up here this morning.

Now Judd's looking at me good, eyes narrowed down to little slits. “Your pa put you up to this?”

“No. This is me talking.”

“Well, ain't you something now! And who's to believe you?”

“I'll get the game warden up here, show him
the spot the doe was hit, the blood, and when he finds the deer at your place, he'll believe me.” The words are coming out quicker than I can think, almost.

“I'll tell him he was eatin' my garden.”

“And I'll say different. The new game warden won't make any allowance even if the deer
was
eating your garden. You just don't shoot deer out of season no way. 'Specially a doe.”

Now Judd's really angry, and his words come at me like bees. “What you trying to do, boy? Start up trouble? You think I can't put you in your place mighty quick?”

“So what you going to do?” I ask. “Shoot me?”

Travers is so surprised his jaw drops. But I'm cooking now. Nothing can stop me. Braver than I ever been in my life.

“Going to shoot me like that dog I found up here six months back with a bullet in his head?”

Travers stares some more.

“I know whose bullet that was, Judd, and I told Dad, and if folks find me up here with a bullet in me, Dad'll know whose bullet that is, too.”

I can't hardly believe the words that's coming out of my mouth. Been scared most my life of Judd Travers, and here I am, half his size, talking like a grown person. It's because I know Shiloh's still got a chance.

“So what you waiting for?” Judd says finally.
“Go get the game warden.” And when I don't move, he says, “Come off it, Marty. Here. You take one of those legs, I'll take another, we'll drag it to my place, and I'll give you half the meat. And don't tell me your ma won't be glad to get it.”

“I don't want the meat. I want Shiloh.”

Now Judd's really surprised and whistles through his teeth. “Boy, you just come up here to set me up, didn't you?”

“Didn't have an idea in this world you was out with your rifle,” I tell him, and that's one of the first truths I told in two weeks. “I come up here because it's Sunday, the day you said to bring your dog back, and I wanted you to know you got to fight me first to get him. Now I'm telling you I mean to keep him, and you expect to keep that deer without a fine, you'll make the trade.”

“Whoa!” says Travers. “That's no kind of trade at all! If I
hadn't
got me a deer this morning, what would you have bargained with then?”

I didn't have an answer to that because I hadn't been thinking about a deal. Judd had already said he wouldn't sell Shiloh.

Judd's eyes narrow down even more till it almost looks like he's asleep. “I just bet you
would
tell the game warden, too.”

“Jesus' name, I would.”

“And you're sayin' if I let you keep my huntin' dog, you're going to keep this deer a secret?”

I begin to see now I'm no better than Judd Travers—willing to look the other way to get something I want. But the something is Shiloh.

“Yes, I will,” I tell him, not feeling all that great about it.

“Well, you got to do more than that, boy, because I paid thirty-five dollars for that dog, and I want forty to let him go.”

For the first time, I see a thin ray of hope that maybe he'll let me buy Shiloh. “I'll get you the money somehow, by and by,” I promise.

“I don't want the money by and by. I want it now. And you haven't got it now, you work for me and pay it off.”

You make a deal with Judd Travers and you're only eleven years old, you take what you can get. But all I'm thinking is
dog.

“You got a bargain,” I tell Judd, and now my feet want to dance, my face wants to smile, but I don't dare let the delight show through.

“You listen here,” says Judd. “I'll pay you two dollars an hour, and that comes to twenty hours to earn forty dollars. And the work ain't easy.”

“I'll do it,” I say.

“Beginning now,” says Judd, and I can tell he's gettin' a bit edgy that someone else might come through the field, wondering about those rifle shots, and see how he got a doe. “Help me get this deer to my trailer.”

I'm so glad to be gettin' Shiloh, I can hardly think straight. But I'm thinkin' straight enough as I help drag that doe to Judd's to know that by lettin' him get away with this, I'm putting other deer in danger. He kill this one out of season, he'll figure maybe he can kill some more. To save Shiloh, I'm making it harder for deer. I swallow. All I got to do, though, is think of the way he'd look at me, I ever give him back to Judd, and then I get on with my job.

When we get to the trailer at last, we carry the deer around to the three-sided shed Judd's got in his backyard. First thing Judd does is bleed the doe, keep the meat from spoilin'. Then he goes out and messes up the tracks with his foot, kicking up the grass where we'd matted it down, and covering the trail of blood with dust.

“I git home from work every day at three,” Judd says, “and I want you here when I pull up. You work for me two hours a day, five days a week. I want that wood back there stacked. I want the weeds cut and the grass mowed. I want my beans picked, the corn hoed. . . . Whatever I think of to be done, that's what you do. And I want you here startin' tomorrow.”

“I'll be here,” I says. “But I want it in writing that after I do twenty hours' work for you, Shiloh belongs to me.”

Travers grunts and goes in his trailer. He comes out with a piece of grocery sack and the words “Beagle hunting dog to Marty Preston for twenty hours work. J. Travers.”

It occurs to me suddenly that maybe after I do the work, he'll try to pay me off with one of his other dogs.