Thats mean, I objected. I had the shadowy shapes of my two dogs near my reflected-pilot-light fire, and I sure didnt want anybody mistreating my old dogs, not even my own grandfather.
Dog had to do his share, too, in those days, Dan. People didnt keep dogs for pets back then. They kept them to work. Anyway, pretty soon Dad could hear the dogs baying, way back in the timber, and he took the old rifle and the twenty-six bullets and went down to the edge of the lake.
He took his pistol, too, Ill bet, I said. Out in my camp in the forests of the kitchen, I took my pistol.
I expect he did, Dan, I expect he did. Anyway, after a little bit, he caught a flicker of movement back up at camp, out of the corner of his eye. He looked back up the hill, and there was Old Buell slinking back to the fire with his tail between his legs. Dad looked real hard at him, but he didnt dare move or make any noise for fear of scaring off the deer. Old Buell just looked right straight back at him and kept on slinking toward the fire, one step at a time. He knew Dad couldnt do a thing about it. A dog can do that sometimes, if hes smart enough.
Well, it seems that Old Pete was able to get the job done by himself, because pretty soon the deer started to come out on the ice. Well, Dad just held off, waiting for more of them, you see, and pretty soon theres near onto a hundred of them out there, all bunched up. You see, a deer cant run very good on ice, and he sure dont like being out in the open, so when they found themselves out there, they just kind of huddled up to see whats gonna happen.
I could see Jack leaning forward now, his eyes bright with excitement and his lips drawn back from his teeth a little. Of course, I couldnt look straight at him. I had to keep everything in place out on the other side of the doorway.
So Dad just lays that long old rifle out across the log and touches her off. Then he started loading and firing as fast as he could sos he could get as many as possible before they got their sense back. Well, those old black-powder cartridges put out an awful cloud of smoke, and about half the time he was shooting blind, but he managed to knock down seventeen of them before the rest got themselves organized enough to run out of range.
Wow! Thats a lot of deer, huh, Dad? I said.
As soon as Old Pete heard the shooting, he knew his part of the job was over, so he went out to do a little hunting for himself. The dogs hadnt had anything to eat since the day before, so he was plenty hungry, but then, a dog hunts better if hes hungryso does a man.
Anyway, Dad got the team and skidded the deer on in to shore and commenced to gutting and skinning. Took him most of the rest of the day to finish up.
Jack started to fidget again. Hed gone for almost a half hour without saying hardly anything, and that was always about his limit.
Is a deer very hard to skin, Dad? he asked.
Not if you know what youre doing.
But how come he did it right away like that? Jack demanded. Eddie Selvridges old man said you gotta leave the hide on a deer for at least a week or the meatll spoil.
I heard him say that, too, Dad, I agreed.
Funny they dont leave the hide on a cow then when they butcher, isnt it? the Old Man asked. At the slaughterhouse they always skin em right away, dont they?
I never thought of that, I admitted.
Jack scowled silently. He hated not being right. I think he hated that more than anything else in the world.
Along about noon or so, Dad continued, here comes Pete back into camp with a full belly and blood on his muzzle. Old Buell went up to him and sniffed at him and then started casting back and forth until he picked up Petes trail. Then he lined out backtracking Pete to his kill.
Jack howled with sudden laughter. That sure was one smart old dog, huh, Dad? he said. Why work if you can get somebody else to do it for you?
Dad ignored him. Old Pete had probably killed a fawn and had eaten his fill. Anyway, my dad kinda watched the dogs for a few minutes and then went back to work skinning. After he got them all skinned out, he salted down the hides and rolled them in a bundlesold the hides in town for enough to buy his own rifle that winter, and enough left over to get his mother some yard goods shed wanted. Then he drug the carcasses back to camp through the snow and hung them all up to cool out.
He cleaned up, washing his hands with snow, fed the team, and then boiled up another pan of coffee. He fried himself a big mess of deer liver and onions and heated up some more of the biscuits. After he ate, he sat on a log and lit his pipe.
Ill bet he was tired, Jack said, just to be saying something. Not being in bed all the night before and all that.
He still had something left to tend to, Dad said. It was almost dark when he spotted Old Buell slinking back toward camp. He was out on the open, coming back along the trail Pete had broken though the snow. His belly looked full, and his muzzle and ears were all bloody the same way Petes had been.
He found the other dogs deer, Ill betcha. Jack laughed. You said he was a smart old dog.
Beyond the kitchen doorway, one of my shadowy dogs crept slowly toward the warmth of the pilot-light campfire, his eyes sad and friendly, like the eyes of the hound some kid up the block owned.
Well, Dad watched him for a minute or two, and then he took his rifle, pulled back the hammer, and shot Old Buell right between the eyes.
The world beyond the doorway shattered like a broken mirror and fell apart back into the kitchen again. I jerked up and looked straight into my fathers face. It was very grim, and his eyes were very intent on Jack, as if he were telling my brother something awfully important.
He went on without seeming to notice my startled jump. Old Buell went end over end when that bullet hit him. Then he kicked a couple times and didnt move anymore. Dad didnt even go over to look at him. He just reloaded the rifle and set it where it was handy, and then he and Old Pete climbed up into the wagon and went to bed.
The next morning, he hitched up the team, loaded up the deer carcasses, and started back home. It took him three days again to get back to the wheat ranch, and Granddad and Grandma were sure glad to see him. My father lifted me off his lap, leaned back and lit a cigarette.
It took them a good two days to cut up the deer and put them down in pickling crocks. After they finished it all up and Dad and Granddad were sitting in the kitchen, smoking their pipes with their sock feet up on the open oven door, Granddad turned to my Dad and said, Sam, whatever happened to Old Buell, anyway? Did he run off?
Well, Dad took a deep breath. He knew Granddad had been awful fond of that old hound. Had to shoot him, he said. Wouldnt huntwouldnt even hunt his own food. Caught him feeding on Petes kill.
Well, I guess Granddad thought about that for a while. Then he finally said, Only thing you could do, Sam, I guess. Kind of a shame, though. Old Buell was a good dog when he was younger. Had him a long time.
The wind in the chimney suddenly sounded very loud and cold and lonesome.
But whyd he shoot him? I finally protested.
He just wasnt any good anymore, Dad said, and when a dog wasnt any good in those days, they didnt want him around. Same way with people. If theyre no good, why keep them around? He looked straight at Jack when he said it.