Shiloh

by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  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,

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  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

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  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

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  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'11 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, "Gome 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."

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  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.

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  "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

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  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

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  do the work, he'll try to pay me off with one of his other dogs.

  "Write 'Shiloh,' " I te
ll 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

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  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.

  CHAPTER 15

  Closer 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

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  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

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  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 danc-

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  ing. 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 margerine 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. Everytime he turns around, someone's got a hand on him some-wheres. 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

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  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

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  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, dropp
ing 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."

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  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."