The Healer

by Daniel P. Mannix

  In a fortnight Billy's leg was well enough so that he could set wire snares for rabbits, a strictly illegal procedure but one that Abe Zook had practiced all his life. These snares were simply open nooses set at the entrance of tunnels which the rabbits had made through the network of vines covering old fences or around brier patches. The ends of the wires were tied to any convenient branch. Setting the snares required a certain amount of skill: if too low, the rabbit would crawl over them; if too high, his head would hit only the bottom of the open noose. The correct height was four inches from the ground, usually measured by the size of a man's fist. One of Billy's duties was to check the snares every morning. He did not enjoy the job, but he knew that the rabbits were Abe Zook's main source of meat and the boy was not averse to rabbit stew himself. Besides, it gave him a chance to keep a lookout for Wolf and Blackie.

  Billy had a far more exciting, if less practical, way of catching rabbits than using the snares. Dracula, although not as keen in summer as in the cold of winter, was still ready to hunt, and often Billy took the owl along with him for company when he made his rounds. Dracula and Wasser, even though they were not bosom friends, had learned to get along together. The owl no longer hissed and puffed out his feathers whenever he saw the dog, and Wasser had learned to tolerate the owl. Wasser would run down one side of a hedgerow, digging in the tangle until he flushed out a rabbit. Billy, with Dracula on his fist, would parallel the hound's course on the other side of the hedgerow. When the rabbit broke cover, Dracula would have a good chance to take him before the bunny doubled back.

  Dracula's great trouble as a hunter was that it took him so long to get going that the rabbit usually had too good a start. The owl's natural hunting technique was to fly through the woods at night, occasionally emitting his weird hoot and then listening for any small, frightened animal that stirred. Then he would fly to the spot and give the uncanny cry again. If the animal moved a second time, he never moved again. For this sort of hunting speed was not important, but when thrown off Billy's fist in pursuit of a speeding rabbit, the owl was at a disadvantage. Billy soon learned that the most effective way of using the owl was to let the bird take a stand high up in a tall tree. Then when quarry was flushed, the owl could drop down with the full momentum of a long glide to overtake his prey. An additional advantage was that the rabbit was usually watching Billy or Wasser and had no idea that the owl was about until too late.

  Checking snares was considered an early morning task, for it was at night that the rabbits were most active. Still, as his leg got better Billy often checked the snares twice a day, also going to Wolf's scent posts to see if the coyote had visited them. In the evenings he took Dracula with him, as the owl flew best in the cool half-light just after sunset. It was rather risky, for if Dracula got up in a tree and refused to come down by morning, he would be lost for good. Still, Billy took the chance.

  Wasser did not always feel like going, so often Billy had to tramp out the covers himself to bolt the rabbits. One evening in the soft yellow light of the afterglow that threw a fairy light on everything, Billy was walking around a pasture, kicking tussocks where a rabbit might have a form. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the owl drop noiselessly from his perch high in a hickory and swoop across the field. Ahead of him was the white tail-light of a rabbit floating up a hill. Even with the speed of the descent in his favor, the owl was not able to bind to the rabbit before the bunny reached a distant barbed wire fence. The rabbit slipped easily under the bottom wire, and Dracula was so close behind him that Billy was afraid the owl would crash into the wires. At the last instant Dracula saw the danger. Spreading his tail like a fan and dropping the banks of secondary feathers on his broad, downy wings, he shot up and over the fence. Billy expected to see him come down to the ground, for once Dracula missed his initial strike, he usually gave up. For some reason this time the owl was more determined. He could still see the rabbit speeding across a plowed field and gave chase. Billy saw them both disappear over a little rise.

  The boy usually made sure, before he flew Dracula, that he had a dead rabbit from the snares to use as a lure in case the owl was slow about coming back. This time the snares had been empty and he had only a small piece of meat with which to entice the owl to his gloved fist. Still, he was not unduly alarmed, for he was quite sure that when he topped the rise, he would find Dracula on the ground where the rabbit had gone down a hole or plunged into a brier tangle. He climbed the fence and hurried to the top of the rise. There was no sign of the owl, and no matter how he called and waved the piece of meat, Dracula did not respond.

  Billy walked around the edges of the field, looking up into any likely trees and calling. With the leaves on the trees it was much harder to see the owl than in winter. Billy did not know enough to fasten bells on the owl's legs as a falconer would have done so that whenever the bird moved the bells would tinkle and betray his presence. The summer evenings were long, but darkness was coming on and Billy began to be afraid that he had lost the owl for good. He promised himself that if he ever got Dracula back, he would never fly the owl again in the evening—not, at least, without having a rabbit he could drag along with a string to decoy the bird back.

  Then Billy heard the tick—tick—tick alarm call of a song sparrow. It was faint, no louder than the sound of drops of water falling on a hot stove, but Billy would have rather heard that sound than a choir of angels. The sparrow saw something that frightened him. It was not as sure a sign as the cawing of crows, the shrill screeching of a jay, or even the furious screaming of a grackle. The bird might be calling at him or simply be disturbed. Still, it was something. Billy hurried toward the sound.

  The sparrow flew off before he reached the spot and Billy went from tree to tree, standing close to the trunk to look up among the branches without the covering of leaves. He called and held up his glove. Then he came through the line of trees and was looking over a meadow that ended with the beginning of the ridge.

  There was Wolf trotting toward the ridge with a rabbit in his mouth and there, amazingly, was Dracula diving at him. Billy wondered if this was the rabbit Dracula had been chasing. Perhaps the rabbit, terrified of the owl, had run clean through the trees and out into the meadow where the passing coyote had snatched him up. If so, Dracula clearly considered the coyote a hijacker who had robbed him of his rightful prey. Certainly Billy had never seen Dracula behave like this before. The owl would plunge down at Wolf's head, strafe the coyote with his powerful rear talons, go shooting up, turn in mid-air, and go down for another blow. Although it was doubtful whether he could actually hurt the coyote, Wolf obviously did not enjoy the game at all. He ducked every time Dracula struck and finally broke into a lope. Now Dracula found it difficult to keep up with him; the owl was growing tired. He followed the coyote to the end of the meadow and when Wolf slipped through a mass of sumac, Dracula alighted on a fence post. Nothing could have suited Billy better. He ran across the meadow and when he was a few yards from the bird, held out his meat and called. Dracula was much upset. He sat with half-open wings and beak, panting so hard that his throat feathers vibrated with the effort, and ignored the meat. Moving slowly, Billy made in to him and took the bird on his fist. Even so, it was several minutes before Dracula recovered enough to start eating.

  Beyond the sumac patch, there was a stretch of open ground before the woods that topped the ridge began, Watching, Billy saw? a brief glimpse of a slouching, silver-gray form as it crossed the cleared area and disappeared into the woods. By the time Billy got back to the farm, the glass in the windows was silvered by the light of the rising moon, but he had Dracula and was fairly sure that the new den was somewhere along the ridge.

  He spent two days looking for the den and, even then, would never have found it if he had not noticed crows flying through the woods with bits of meat in their beaks. Watching their flight, he finally located the den under the roots of a huge beech that had fallen during a storm. When the tree fell, its roots had torn up a
great circle of earth and here was the entrance, the den itself being under the fallen tree. There was a mass of partly digested food here on which the crows had been feeding, and Billy could only suppose that either Wolf or Blackie had been sick. There was no sign of either of the adults so Billy approached the den cautiously, taking care not to get too close. Listening, he could hear soft whimperings coming from the den and with a tingle of delight, realized it must be the pups.

  Billy had enough confidence in Wolf's alertness to be sure the coyote would know he had visited the den, but he hoped the family would not move again. He felt that both Blackie and Wolf trusted him sufficiently so that unless he actually left his scent in the den's mouth, they would not be alarmed. The next day, on returning to the den he saw Wolf lying on a little mound near the entrance as though keeping watch. The wind was wrong for the coyote's nose and Billy was able to watch him. After a while Wolf rose, yawned, stretched, and trotted off. Billy came a little closer and left an offering of bread. The following day, the bread was gone. There was no sign of Wolf. Billy thought he was off hunting, but when he turned to go, he saw Wolf watching him from a thicket of ironwood. He expected the coyote to dodge back and forth as he had done before and was surprised when Wolf stood quietly watching him. When Billy withdrew, he saw the coyote come over, smell the bread, and taking several pieces in his long jaws, enter the den with them. Then Billy felt that he was accepted.

  A week later, he saw the pups for the first time. Blackie wormed her way out of the den with a determined youngster still fastened to one of her nipples. He was fairly big, and Blackie behaved as though she had had about all she could stand of her demanding family. She even turned her head to give a half snarl at the little fellow, who must have been hurting her, before going on. The pup dropped off after a few feet and began crying so Blackie returned wearily, picked up the pup and shoved him rather roughly back in the den. Then she returned to roll in a honeysuckle tangle and relax.

  Billy spoke to her and Blackie jumped with fright. The boy tossed his bread out, but it was a long time before the dog quieted enough even to smell the food, and then she did not take it. Afraid that he had gone too far, Billy retreated. He did not return to the den for a few days and when he did he found Wolf on guard. Still, the coyote did not seem unduly alarmed and even came toward the boy as though looking for food. Billy tossed him the bread and while he was eating, Blackie came out and joined him. There was a little bickering between them and during the quarrel the pups came toddling out. This was too much for both the adults, who hurriedly drove them back before returning to the bread.

  From then on Billy came every day and the animals got to accept him. The pups ran if they saw him but when he kept still, they usually did not know that he was around and would play on the soft earth of the entrance mound while Billy watched with delight. Whenever Blackie appeared, the pups would try to nurse from her and it was obvious that their growing teeth made this a painful process. Also, Billy suspected that Blackie was running out of milk. Wolf regularly brought food for the family, usually wild game but not infrequently chickens or domestic ducks. Once he brought in something that Billy thought was part of a lamb, but he could not be sure, for after eating as much as she wanted, Blackie buried the rest. The pups tried to eat too, but their teeth were too soft to tear up this tougher meat.

  The pups were beginning to fight among themselves now, and some of the biggest even stood up to Blackie, knowing that she would not use her full strength against them. At first, Wolf seemed even more complacent than their mother, lying down so the pups could pull at his tail and gnaw at his feet, and only holding his head up so they could not bite his tender lips. But as the pups grew older and stronger, Wolf grew less complacent. He would get up and walk away when the play grew too rough, and then one day Billy saw him grab an especially annoying youngster and with a flirt of his head toss the half-grown pup a yard away. The baby went yelping to Blackie as though he had been half-killed, but after being licked and petted awhile, he went back to play with his brothers and sisters.

  Wolf was now beginning to bring in whole quarry for the youngsters, at first meadow mice, which they could eat easily, and then young rabbits. He sat with his head cocked on one side while the pups worried the dead quarry, growling as they shook their heads from side to side to "kill" the prey, dropping it, pouncing on it, and quarreling among themselves for pride of possession. Billy particularly enjoyed watching the little females, who soon learned that although they were not as strong as their brothers, they were quicker and could often snatch a piece of meat away from the larger males if they bided their time. If they developed a healthy respect for their brothers' more powerful jaws, they also learned that males are basically stupid creatures who spend so much time fighting and bullying each other that a clever female could usually get her own way by cunning and quickness. Of course, in cases of real trouble, they had only to prostrate themselves and expose their throats to satisfy the masculine ego and be left alone.

  To Billy's disappointment and surprise, the pups never got to trust him and were always wilder than Blackie or even Wolf. At the first sight of him, they would tumble into the den, jostling each other in their panic. Luckily, they couldn't use their noses intelligently as yet, so unless they saw him, they did not know that he was about. On the other hand, Wolf, and to a lesser extent Blackie, depended more on their noses than their eyes. Wolf would shift his lookout spot, depending on how the wind was blowing, so it was almost impossible for Billy to approach the den without the coyote's knowing it.

  Billy was there the day when Wolf brought in a live meadow mouse which he dropped by the pups, knocking the little creature back with catlike blows of his forepaws when it tried to escape. This was the first live prey Billy had seen Wolf bring in and he expected the pups to tear their little victim to bits immediately. The pups were fascinated but actually seemed afraid of the tiny mouse. As they crept up to sniff at it, the mouse reared up on its hind legs to make itself look larger, giving out a constant shrill cluttering sound. Not even the bravest of the pups dared to come to grips with the determined little warrior and Billy hoped the plucky mouse would escape. He nearly went to its rescue for it seemed unfair that after beating off the whole litter, its fight would do no good. But before he could interfere, Wolf killed the mouse with a quick nip. Only then would the pups tackle it.

  Wolf continued to bring in mice, now so badly crippled that the pups plucked up enough courage to kill them. Billy decided that these pups would never make good hunters, yet, Wolf did not seem discouraged. From mice, he progressed to rabbits, then woodchucks and muskrats. Gradually the pups learned the typical coyote slashing attack—leaping in to rip with their canines like a man slicing with a knife—and only closing in with the neck grip after the quarry was disabled. Their fangs were not nearly as long as their father's, and their other teeth acted mainly as shears to cut up the meat for eating; to do this they had to turn their heads sideways to bring the back teeth into play. Even so, they were dog enough to have more powerful jaws than Wolf, and they relied on taking their hold and hanging on until their prey wore itself out with its own struggles. This technique did them good in pack work, when the whole litter would hurl themselves on some unhappy victim.

  Although Billy knew that it was their nature to behave as they did, he hated to see them practice their grips on still living prey. It was hard for him to understand how these fierce little killers, who obviously enjoyed their victims' futile struggles, could also be the cute, playful little pups who cased each other around the den, wrestled together, and sat with their tongues hanging out and their heads cocked on one side, as though posing for the cover of a magazine over the title "Little Adorables."

  Above everything, the pups liked to play with their father. The short-haired Blackie could take only so much of this roughhousing, but Wolf accepted what looked like painful bites. He seemed to take pride in the pups' growing powers and never snarled or growled at them, which was m
ore than could be said of Blackie. Instead, he would stand with his lips pulled back and the ends turned up as though he were smiling, simply holding his head up and laying his ears back to keep them out of the pups' way. When he had had enough, he would walk away, often with a couple of pups hanging onto his brush, growling their most formidable growls until they let go. But on other matters he was firm and so quick to punish that not even the nimblest of the females could avoid his slash. The pups had to know and instantly obey his danger call—a prolonged, quavering squall. No matter where they might be when they heard it, they were to run for the den. It took them some time to learn this signal, for their mother's danger warning was a deep rumble in her throat. But learn it they did, at the cost of some pain and bewilderment.

  Wolf never struck at Blackie. Abe Zook had told the boy that male dogs showed no interest in their offspring or in females once the mating season was over, but the boy became convinced that Wolf had a deep affection for both the pups and Blackie, and Blackie loved her mate. When Wolf returned from a hunting trip, Blackie would run toward him, crouch before the coyote, and then put her forelegs around his neck. When Wolf went over to inspect the pups, Blackie would walk with him, pressing against his side. If Wolf was a long time absent, Blackie would become restless and circle the den, sniffing the breeze in hopes of catching his scent.

  When the pups had lost their baby wool and had grown steady on their long legs, Wolf took them hunting. In spite of his best efforts, Billy was able to keep the family in sight only once. Then he saw Wolf teaching the pups how to go mouse hunting. Mice were small, but there were a lot of them and they were easy to catch. Billy suspected that mice were Wolf's main meat supply, at least in summer.

  Wolf left the pups with Blackie while he walked daintily into the tall meadow grass. One of the pups tried to follow but one growl from Wolf sent him scampering back. Wolf walked stiff-legged through the grass, putting down one foot at a time and only gradually letting down his weight. Sometimes he would stop with one foot in the air, listening. If he heard the rustle of a mouse he would stop with all four feet slightly together, nose pointed at the spot, ears cocked and body swaying. Then he would suddenly give a tremendous spring, sometimes covering fifteen feet, and come down with both forefeet clamped down on the spot. Instantly his long muzzle would shoot forward, and he would give a series of quick nips at random in the grass. If the mouse held still, Wolf would burrow with his thin nose, sniffing loudly until he located the little creature. Often he would toss the mouse high in the air and let it fall. This was the signal for the pups to come rushing in to finish the job. Encouraged by their father's success, the pups would try the system and it was comical to see their clumsy efforts. Watching them, Billy felt that it would be months before the pups could shift for themselves, and all during this period they would be dependent on Wolf and Blackie for food. Billy knew that not infrequently Wolf and Blackie were hard put to find food for themselves. Blackie, especially, was growing thin and once when Billy brought her half a loaf of bread and the dog snatched it eagerly, Billy was annoyed to see the pups rush up and take it away from her. They even took food from Wolf, although several times Billy was sure that the coyote was half-famished himself, and it required an effort of will for him to allow the robbery. In his affection for Wolf and Blackie, Billy grew angry with the pups, especially when sometimes they would not eat the food but only play with it. To Billy, it seemed selfish of the young coydogs to regard their parents simply as a constant source of food, without worrying about the older animals' problems.