Shiloh (11 page)

“Write ‘Shiloh,'” I tell him.

He gives me a pained look and crosses out “beagle,” writes “Shiloh” in its place, but don't spell it right. Leaves off the “h” at the end.

I take the paper and put it in my pocket. “I'll be here tomorrow,” I say.

“And you ever tell
anyone
about this deer, boy, you're going to be more'n sorry you opened your lips.”

“You got my word,” I say, which, considering all the lying I'd been doing lately, didn't seem like it amounted to much. It did, though.

I walk away from Judd's trailer in a sort of zigzag line, half expecting a bullet in my back any moment, even though I'm pretty sure he wouldn't. Soon as I'm out of sight, though, I race through the woods, heart going
thumpity-thump.
Can't keep the smile back no longer.

Shiloh's mine! The words keep coming back again and again. He's safe!

Should feel even more joyful, though. Thought once if I could just get Shiloh for my
own, it would be the finest day of my life. In a way it is, in a way it isn't.

Could be Judd gave in 'cause he couldn't think of nothing else at the moment to do. Said I could have Shiloh just 'cause he needed some help with that deer. Could be that once he got rid of the evidence, he'd tell me to go ahead and get the warden, that I wasn't to have the dog. Could even say he never wrote that on the grocery sack, that I'd wrote it myself.

I don't think so, though. What worries me most is that Judd could go through with the bargain, give Shiloh to me, but then someday, when Shiloh's running free in the woods by himself, Judd might put a bullet in his head, just to spite me.

C
loser I get to home, though, the bigger the grin on my face, and when I burst in the kitchen, I got a smile from ear to ear.

Dad's having his coffee and Ma's in the living room listening to the Sunday morning service by Brother Jonas. She watches him every Sunday at seven, which tells me what time it is already.

“Where you been?” says Dad, and I can tell Ma's paying attention, too. “You up and gone, we got to worrying.”

I slide into my chair and almost have to push my cheeks in to keep the smile from going all the way around my head.

“Went to see Judd Travers,” I say, still breathless, “and I'm buying his dog.”

Ma gets up and comes to the kitchen doorway. “What?”

“Thought he wasn't selling,” says Dad, looking at me hard.

“He wasn't, but I talked him into it. He needs help around his place, and he says if I work hard for him for twenty hours, at two dollars an hour, that will pay the forty dollars he wants for Shiloh.”

Ma's smile getting broader by the minute. “I don't
believe
it!” she says. “Shiloh's yours?”

“Not yet, but he will be, and we don't have to take him over to Judd's.” Before I can get the last word out, she's got her arms around me, squeezing the breath from my chest, almost.

I think Shiloh can smell Judd Travers on me. He can smell the deer's blood, too; I know by the way he sniffs my shoes. But finally he just can't stand it no more. He's joyful I'm back, and he's lickin' me, welcoming me home.

But Dad's still studying my face. “I can't figure it, Marty. Judd seemed pretty definite about keepin' that dog. What was said between you?”

I really didn't want to lie no more. If I tell Ma and Dad everything except about the deer, that's lying by omission, Ma says: not telling the whole truth. But if I tell about the deer after promising
Judd I wouldn't, then I would have lied to Judd. Rather lie to Judd than my folks, but I figure it this way: Dad wouldn't report Judd even if
he
saw him shoot a doe out of season, because that's the way it's always been around here. That don't necessarily make it right, of course, but with him feeling that way, nothing's going to change if I
do
tell him about Judd and the deer, and because I promised not to, I don't. Right now, the most important thing to me is Shiloh.

“Told him I wasn't going to give Shiloh back no matter what,” I tell Dad.

They are sure staring at me now, him and Ma.

“You said that to Judd Travers?” Dad asked, scooting back in his chair.

“Only thing left to say. Only thing I could think of to do I hadn't tried already. Was going to tell him he could take me to court, and I'd tell the judge how he kicked his dogs. But didn't have to go that far. Guess he needs help around his place.”

Ma turns to Dad. “You know, I think it's because Shiloh was hurt. I think he figures that dog's never going to be what it was, and that's why he was willing to let it go. Figured he got rid of a lame dog, and the best of the bargain, too.”

“That's what I figure,” I say.

And at last Dad begins to smile. “So we got ourselves a new member of the family,” he tells
me, and that's about the nicest thing I heard said in this house in my life.

Then Becky and Dara Lynn wakes up, sad faced 'cause they think we got to take Shiloh over to Judd's. I tell 'em the news, and Dara Lynn, she starts dancing. Becky joins in, whirling herself around, and then Shiloh, smiling his dog-smile, everybody whooping and carrying on.

Ma turns off the TV and makes waffles, with a big pat of margarine in the center of each one and hot homemade brown-sugar syrup filling the plates. She even makes a waffle for Shiloh. We're going to make that dog sick if we're not careful.

“Now all we got to worry about is how we can afford to feed him as well as ourselves,” Dad says finally. “But there's food for the body and food for the spirit. And Shiloh sure enough feeds our spirit.”

We about pet Shiloh to death. Every time he turns around, someone's got a hand on him somewheres. I take him out for his first gentle run since he got hurt, and once up on the hill, him running free, the good feeling inside me grows bigger and bigger and I have to let it out. I hunch up my shoulders and go, “Heeeowl!”

Shiloh jumps and looks at me.

“Heeeowl!” I go again, out of joy and jubilation, the way they do in church. And suddenly Shiloh joins in with a bark. A pitiful
kind of bark, like he's got to be taught how, but it's a happy bark, and he's learnin'.

Only bit of sadness left in me is for the deer. Wondering, too, about whose business it is when someone breaks the law. Wonder if Dad wouldn't never tell on Judd no matter what he done. Bet he would. There's got to be times that what one person does is everybody's business.

Monday afternoon at three o'clock, I'm waiting on Judd's porch when he pulls up. All his dogs is chained out to the side of the house, and they get to barkin' like crazy. I don't try to get near 'em, 'cause a chained dog can be mean. I've already restacked Judd's woodpile, but he wants me to do it again, put the big pieces here, the little ones there. He is looking mean and grumpy, like maybe he's disgusted with himself for lettin' me have that dog so easy.

When I finish the woodpile, Judd hands me the hoe. “You see that garden?”

I nod.

“You see that corn? I want the dirt chopped up so fine I can sift it through my fingers,” he tells me.

Now I see what he's getting at. He's going to make it so there's no way I can please him. I'll put in my twenty hours and he'll tell me my work wasn't no good, he wants his dog back.

I hoe till I got blisters on both hands, sweat
pouring down my back. Wish I could do my work in the early morning before the sun's so fierce. But I don't complain. I take off my T-shirt finally, wrap it around my head to keep the sweat out of my eyes, and I keep on. Shoulders so red I know they'll hurt worse'n anything the next morning, and they do.

Next afternoon, Judd sets me to scrubbing down the sides of his trailer and his porch, shining up the windows, raking the yard. He sits on a folding chair in the shade, drinking a cold beer. Don't offer me nothing, even water. I hate him more than the devil. My mouth so dry it feels like fur.

Third day, though, he puts out a quart jar of water for me when I go to pick his beans. I bend over them rows so long, dropping the beans into a bucket, I think I'm going to be bent for life. When I'm through, Judd sort of motions me to the porch, like I can sit there if I want while I drink my water.

I almost fall onto that porch, glad to be in the shade.

“Looks like you got yourself some blisters,” he says.

“I'm okay,” I tell him, and take another long drink.

“How's Shiloh?” he asks. First time he's called the dog by that name.

“He's doing fine. Still got a limp, but he eats good.”

Judd lifts his beer to his lips. “Would have been a good hunting dog if I could just have kept him home,” he says. “The other dogs never run off.”

I think about that awhile. “Well,” I say finally, “each one is different.”

“That's the truth. Kick one and he just goes under the porch for an hour. Kick another, he goes off and don't come back.”

I'm trying my best to think what to say to that. Like how come he has to kick them at all? Then I figure nobody likes to be preached at, no matter how much he needs it, least of all Judd Travers, who is thirty years old if he's a day.

“Some dogs, it just makes 'em mean when you kick 'em,” I say finally. “Other dogs, it makes 'em scared. Shiloh got scared.”

“Never beat my dogs with a stick,” Judd goes on. “Never did that in my life.”

I don't say anything right away. Finally, though, I ask, “How
your
dogs doing?”

“Rarin' to go out rabbit hunting,” Judd says. We look over at his three dogs, all pullin' at their chains and snarlin' at each other. “That biggest dog, now,” Judd goes on. “He's the loudest squaller I got. I can tell from his racket whether he's following a fresh track or an old one, if he's
runnin' a ditch, swimmin', or treed a coon.”

“That's pretty good,” I say.

“Littlest one, he's nothin' but a trashy dog—he'll run down most anything 'cept what I'm after. Hope the others'll learn him something. And the middle dog, well, she gives a lot of mouth, too. Even barks at dead trees.” The dogs were fighting now, and Judd throws his Pabst can at 'em. “You-all shut up!” he yells. “Hush up!”

The can hits the biggest dog, and they all scatter.

“Don't much like bein' chained,” Judd says.

“Guess nobody would,” I tell him.

I put in ten hours that week, meaning I make up twenty of the dollars I owe him; got one more week to go. When I leave of an afternoon for Judd's, Shiloh goes with me just so far, then he gets to whining and turns back. I'm glad he won't go on with me. Don't want him anywhere near Judd Travers.

Monday of the second week it seem like Judd's out to break my back or my spirit or both. This time he's got me splittin' wood. I got to roll a big old piece of locust wood over to the stump in his side yard, drive a wedge in it, then hit the wedge with a sledgehammer, again and again till the wood falls apart in pieces to fit his wood stove. Then another log and another.

I can hardly get the sledgehammer up over my
head, and when I bring it down, my arms is so wobbly my aim ain't true. Almost drop the hammer. This ain't a job for me, and if Dad saw what Judd was makin' me do, he'd tell him it wasn't safe.

But Judd's out to teach me a lesson, and I'm out to teach him one. So I keep at it. Know it takes me twice as long as Judd to split that wood, but I don't stop. And all the while, Judd sits on his porch, drinking his beer, watching me sweat. Sure does his heart good, I can tell.

Then he says somethin' that almost stops my heart cold. Laughs and says, “Boy, you sure are puttin' in a whole lot of work for nothin'.”

I rest my back a moment, wipe one arm across my face. “Shiloh's somethin',” I tell him.

“You think you're goin' to get my dog just 'cause you got some handwritin' on a piece of paper?” Judd laughs and drinks some more. “Why, that paper's not good for anything but to blow your nose on. Didn't have a witness.”

I look at Judd. “What you mean?”

“You don't even know what's legal and what's not, do you? Well, you show a judge a paper without a witness's signature, he'll laugh you right out of the courthouse. Got to have somebody sign that he saw you strike a bargain.” Judd laughs some more. “And nobody here but my dogs.”

I feel sick inside, like I could maybe throw up.
Can't think of what to do or say, so I just lift the sledgehammer again, go on splittin' the wood.

Judd laughs even harder. “What are you, boy? Some kind of fool?” And when I don't answer, he says, “What you breakin' your back for?”

“I want that dog,” I tell him, and raise the sledgehammer again.

That night when I'm sittin' out on the porch with Ma and Dad, Shiloh in my lap, I check it out. “What's a witness?” I say.

“Somebody who knows the Lord Jesus and don't mind tellin' about it,” says Ma.

“No, the other kind.”

“Somebody who sees something happen and signs that it's true,” Dad says. “What you got in mind now, Marty?”

“You make a bargain with somebody, you got to have a witness?” I ask, not answering.

“If you want it done right and legal, I suppose you do.”

I can't bear to have Dad know I was so stupid I made an agreement with Judd Travers without a witness.

“What you thinking on?” Dad asks again, hunching up his shoulders while Ma rubs his back.

“Just thinking how you sell something, is all. Land and stuff.”

Dad looks at me quick. “You're not trying to sell off some of my land for that dog, are you?”

“No,” I tell him, glad I got him off track. But I sure am worried. Every trace of that deer's gone now. Don't know what Judd done with the meat—rented him a meat locker somewhere, maybe. But there's no bones around, no hide. I report him now, I can't prove a thing.