by Alison Hart
Finder
Coal Mine Dog
Written by Alison Hart
Illustrated by Michael G. Montgomery
Published by
PEACHTREE PUBLISHERS
1700 Chattahoochee Avenue
Atlanta, Georgia 30318-2112
www.peachtree-online.com
Text © 2015 by Alison Hart
Illustrations © 2015 by Michael G. Montgomery
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Cover illustration rendered in oil on canvas board; interior illustrations in pencil and watercolor. Title, byline, and chapter headings typeset in Hoefler & Frere-Jones’s Whitney fonts by Tobias Frere-Jones; text typeset in Adobe’s Garamond by Robert Slimbach.
Cover design by Nicola Simmonds Carmack
Book design by Melanie McMahon Ives
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hart, Alison, 1950-
Finder, coal mine dog / Alison Hart ; illustrated by Michael Montgomery. pages cm. — (Dog chronicles ; #3)
ISBN 978-1-56145-766-3 (ebook)
Summary: In 1909, a nine-month-old gunshy puppy, trained unsuccessfully to be a hunting dog, finds a way to earn his keep when disaster strikes in the coal mine where his boy works.
1. Dogs—Juvenile fiction. [1. Dogs—Fiction. 2. Coal mines and mining—Fiction. 3. Rescue dogs—Fiction.] I. Montgomery, Michael, 1952- illustrator. II. Title.
PZ10.3.H247Fi 2015
[Fic]—dc23
2015006673
To the many coal miners who have sacrificed their lives
—A. H.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1—Hunting
September 10, 1909
CHAPTER 2—Potatoes
September 11, 1909
CHAPTER 3—A Hard Decision
September 11, 1909
CHAPTER 4—Missing Thomas
September 12, 1909
CHAPTER 5—The Same Day
September 12, 1909
CHAPTER 6—A New Job
September 19, 1909
CHAPTER 7—Into the Mine
September 22, 1909
CHAPTER 8—Coal Mine Dog
October 10, 1909
CHAPTER 9—Bad Luck
October 11, 1909
CHAPTER 10—Payday
October 16, 1909
CHAPTER 11—The Beginning
November 13, 1909
CHAPTER 12—Finding the Bottom
November 13, 1909
CHAPTER 13—This Way!
November 13, 1909
CHAPTER 14—Rescued
November 13, 1909
CHAPTER 15—Back into the Mine
November 20, 1909
CHAPTER 16—Uncle George
November 20, 1909
The History Behind Finder.
Cherry Coal Mine
Side View
Cherry Coal Mine
Second Vein
Top View, Looking Down
CHAPTER 1
Hunting
September 10, 1909
My nose twitches. I am on the scent of rabbit on the brush and quail in the tall grass. The rabbit trail winds into a mound of thorns. When I poke my head underneath the branches, the perfume of ripe blackberries makes me drool. I pluck a few from the ends with my teeth until the thorns prick my ears and I scuttle out.
Then I catch another smell. It’s sharp and heavy, and I don’t recognize the critter. The track zigzags into tall grass and I follow it.
“Finder’s a straddler like Daisy was,” a voice says behind me. “That means he works with his nose to the ground. Not like a drifter, who catches scent from the air. Straddlers are slower but the wind don’t bother them. Our Daisy could scent a possum in a storm.”
That’s Uncle speaking. We’re “training”—or at least that’s what he calls it. Me, I’m just letting my nose lead me.
The pungent smell grows thicker as I come to a fallen tree. The trunk is rotten, the bark shredded as if animals have been scratching on it.
“What do you think Finder’s hunting?” That voice belongs to my friend, Thomas.
We’ve both lived at Aunt and Uncle Eddy’s house since early winter. Thomas arrived shortly after I left my littermates at Campbell’s farm.
Uncle trains me.
Aunt scolds me.
Thomas loves me.
“Could be rabbit or possum. Or maybe the coon that keeps ripping down the corn stalks,” Uncle tells him. “Let’s hope the cur can do his job and keep his mind on the scent this time.” Uncle’s words are curt. I try hard, but too often I don’t please him. “A hunting dog needs gumption. Daisy had it,” he adds, his voice catching when he says her name.
“Finder’s just a pup,” Thomas says quickly. “He’s still learning.”
Uncle snorts. “By nine months Daisy was treeing varmints without a command,” he says. “She didn’t have to be trained—knew it instinctively. If Finder don’t start showing some of the same gumption, he’ll have to go back to Campbell’s.”
“We can’t send him back,” Thomas says. “Finder belongs with us now.”
“I know you love the dog, but we can’t afford to keep an animal just for a pet like rich folk do.” Uncle sighs. “Fact is, soon you won’t have time for him. Summer and harvest are almost over.”
“I’ll always have time for Finder, even after school starts.”
“Thomas…” Uncle hesitates and looks at the ground. “Your Aunt Helen and I have been talking. School might not start for you this year. I’ve already spoken to the supervisor at Cherry Coal Mine. You can start out digging.”
When I hear Thomas’s sharp intake of breath, I whine and lick his hand. All summer Thomas and I had fun in the fields and woods when we weren’t training. We’d hoe the garden or pick coal from the slag pile. Then we’d splash in the stream and hunt for berries, mushrooms, and perfect sticks for Thomas to whittle and for me to chew. Those moments with Thomas made my tail wag, but now I sense that something is wrong.
“But my pa and ma didn’t want me to work in the mine,” Thomas says.
“I know they didn’t.” Uncle takes off his hat and scratches his head. I scratch too, at the flea nibbling my neck. “Except times are hard, Thomas. Farmers here in Illinois used to be able to live off the land. Now they can make more money under it. I’m lucky that they promoted me to mine examiner. Still, now that you’ve come to live with us, we’ve got another mouth to feed. We barely made it through the winter last year. You’re fourteen, big enough to look eighteen, and Cherry Mine has good wages. You—and that dog—have to work and earn your keep.”
“Sir, please don’t make me quit school,” Thomas says. “I’ll chop wood for the neighbors and keep our stove filled with coal. Finder’s strong—he can pull a full cart of wood or coal from the slag pile. And he’ll get the hang of hunting, I just know it. We’ll earn our keep. You’ll see.”
I whine again, hearing the unhappiness in his voice. I’d like to plant my paws on his chest and give him a kiss, but Uncle says, “The decision is done, Thomas.” Setting his gaze on me, he commands, “Get your track, Finder.”
Dropping my nose, I pick up that heavy smell again. It leads to the end of the rotten trunk, which is hollow and dark inside. When I hunker down, chattering greets me. I freeze. Two glittering eyes stare out, and I hear the click of teeth.
I like following a scent. I like working for Uncle. But I hate the sharp sound of the gun and the smell of blood when the c
ritter falls dead. And it sounds as if this trapped animal aims to claw or bite me.
My body begins to quiver.
“What’s Finder got cornered?” Thomas whispers.
“Sounds like a raccoon.” Uncle says excitedly. “It’ll fight, but it would’ve been no match for Daisy. Let’s see what Finder can do.”
Slowly, I back away from the growling beast. The raccoon skitters forward and swipes my nose with sharp claws. Yelping, I leap up and bolt.
Uncle hollers, “Get back here and fight, dog!”
I run from the coon, crashing through the briars and tall grass. I don’t want to kill it and I sure don’t want it killing me.
I race down a row of drying corn stalks, the crinkly leaves whipping my stinging nose. Finally, I get to the other side of the field where the stream winds through the weeds, and plunge my bleeding muzzle into the cooling water. In the distance, I hear the crack of the gun. The noise rings in my ears, and I want to bury my head in the muddy bank.
Thomas calls me.
I want to go to him, but I can’t. I want to have gumption like Daisy did. But even when my nose sends me in the right direction, my feet take me in the wrong one.
Thomas calls again.
Tail tucked, I slink to a hollow of dirt in the bank. It’s cool and hidden. Curling into a ball, I wrap my tail around my sore nose. If I wait here all night, I can sneak home after Uncle is gone in the morning.
Aunt will be there with her broom. She’ll shoo me from the porch and tell me I need a bath, but Thomas will hug me hard. He’ll feed me bacon he saved from his morning meal, and for a while I’ll forget that Uncle is right: I’ll never be a good hunter like Daisy.
CHAPTER 2
Potatoes
September 11, 1909
There you are,” Thomas says when I belly crawl toward the porch early the next morning. He jumps off the stoop and kneels in front of me. “You’re a sight.” He ruffles my neck and plucks at the burrs in my fur. He sighs. “I don’t think hunting’s the right job for you, but Uncle’s determined. Come on, before Aunt sees you.”
He whistles as he races to the shed. I follow happily, tracking the scent of bacon coming from his back pocket. The pigs squeal and carry on when we run past the pen. Sometimes I like to tease them, but today I’m intent on Thomas.
When we’re hidden behind the shed, he pulls out a waxed piece of brown paper with a rasher inside. As soon as he finishes unwrapping it, I wolf down every scrap and lick the paper. Thomas pats me, but he’s frowning. “Uncle shot the coon, skinned it, and put it in brine to soak. You’ll be lucky if you get the tail.” Brows furrowed, he checks my nose. “Coon got you good.” He gives me a worried look. “Uncle says you’ve got one more chance to prove you’re a hunting dog.”
Staring up at Thomas, I wag my tail ever so slightly. I wish I could do a good job so Uncle would be pleased.
He jumps up. “Come on, boy. We need to prove to Aunt and Uncle that we can earn our keep. I don’t want to work in the mine, and you aren’t going back to Campbell’s.”
I follow Thomas into the shed. Sunlight filters through the slatted walls. He pulls out a feed sack and a pronged fork, which must mean we’re digging potatoes. This time, he’s also bringing along the harness and the wooden cart with rickety wheels. Thomas often hitches me to the cart when we bring coal home from the slag pile.
He pulls the cart to the potato field. I dash ahead, darting at the red-speckled chickens that peck in the dirt. They squawk and flap away, but the rooster flies at me with beady-eyed determination. Thomas laughs. “Leave them be, Finder.” With a woof, I dash between two rows of brown-topped potato plants, my paws sinking into the soft dirt.
Thomas digs the fork into a hill and lifts up. He lets the dirt fall through the tines, leaving behind only the potatoes, which he carefully dumps into the cart.
“Ma and I used to do this every fall. ‘Harvest on a warm, dry, cloudy day,’ she’d tell me.” Thomas’s voice chokes up. I snatch up a loose potato and flop in the dirt to chew on it. “That one’s green, Finder,” he warns. “Give it to me and I’ll toss it to the pigs. Ma says too many green ones can make you sick.”
I don’t know who Ma is, but Thomas’s face grows hot and red every time he says the name. For a while, he works in silence. I stay vigilant. The town of Cherry is not far away—the buildings are a jagged line on the horizon—and I can hear several dogs barking. I woof back, saying stay away, until their chorus dies down. Then I catch grasshoppers, crunching them between my teeth.
“Here, boy.” Thomas holds out the harness. Panting, I stand quietly while he straps it around my back and chest. The harness hooks to short traces that attach to the cart. “What do you think, Finder?” he asks. “Would this be a better job for you than hunting?”
The little cart is piled high with potatoes, but I pull it easily to the shed. This is better than hunting, but not as much fun as chasing the chickens. Thomas follows with a sack of potatoes slung over one shoulder. He looks like a stooped old man. When we reach the shed, he spreads the potatoes on thick straw. “They need to dry before they go into the bins in the root cellar.”
He throws the green and rotten ones to the pigs and then we hurry back to the garden. The empty cart jiggles and bumps over the freshly turned ground. Thomas unharnesses me and fills the cart again. When it’s heaped high, he loads more potatoes into the sack. The sun is hot and I roll on my back, legs flailing in the air.
“Buongiorno.” A voice startles me. A young girl almost as tall as Thomas stands at the edge of the garden, holding a basket by her side. Her dark hair is covered with a shawl. Barking, I trot over to her. She pats me, unafraid of my noisy greeting.
I press against her skirt and slobber on her fingers, making her laugh. She smells of spices, bread, and the earth. I know the scent of this girl—not from walking Thomas to school, but from going to the company store in town. While Thomas is inside, I have to wait out front, tied to a post. I snarl at the town dogs to show them I’m not afraid, my hackles standing high. But the dark-haired girl always walks over, pats my head, and whispers, “Silenzio, bel cane.”
Thomas stops digging when he sees the girl. Sweat rolls from under his cap, and he wipes his forehead with his sleeve, leaving a streak of dirt.
“Buongiorno, Lucia,” he replies. I run to Thomas’s side, even though I would love to nuzzle the girl some more. For a moment, the two stare at each other. I bark, and Thomas tells me “quiet.” Then the girl folds back the cloth on top of the basket. Bright red tomatoes peek out. I know what they are because sometimes when I’m very hungry, I sneak them from the small gardens behind the cottages in town.
The girl gestures toward the potatoes in the cart and says, “Patata?” as she holds out the basket and gingerly steps forward.
Thomas must understand because he nods and carries the half-full sack over to her. She sets the basket on the ground. I whine, wanting the girl to pat me again. She stoops and cradles my muzzle in her hands. “Bel cane,” she coos as she did before, the shawl falling to her shoulders. “Pretty dog.”
Thomas hands her the sack.
“Grazie,” she says shyly. “Thank you.” Leaving the tomatoes, she hurries off. I watch her as she heads down the dirt road for Cherry. Her skirts swish about her legs and her bare feet make puffs of dust rise in the air.
“Lucia’s one of the immigrants who moved here when the mine opened,” Thomas says. “Pa used to say the immigrants in Cherry had many stories to tell.”
I lick his face. Pa. Ma. Thomas says both those words with sadness. I push my head under his arm. “Let’s dig the last row of potatoes and then take the tomatoes to Aunt Helen,” he says. “She’ll be pleased.”
We finish putting the potatoes in the shed. At the house Aunt is hanging wash on the line. Today Aunt smells like lavender soap and boiled cabbage. She wears long, billowy skirts, and I like to plow my nose underneath them until she swats me away with a damp towel.
Thoma
s shows her the basket of tomatoes. “One of the Italian girls traded them for half a sack of potatoes.”
Aunt nods. “The Tonellis’ tomatoes are especially firm and sweet. I’ll throw several in with tonight’s stew and then preserve the rest. Thank you, Thomas.”
“Finder and I brought in two carts of potatoes as well,” he adds. “That should help get us through the winter.”
Aunt raises one brow. “Two cartloads will only get us through a month or two. Then we will need to trade with others or buy from the company store.” She shakes out a wet shirt and hangs it on the line. As it snaps in the wind, a whistle shrieks from the tower rising to the northwest of town. Brick and stone buildings cluster around the tower. Behind it is the slag pile where Thomas and I pick coal.
“That’s the 11:00 a.m. whistle,” Aunt says. “Your uncle left for work before sunup and I’m guessing he’ll be too busy to eat his lunch. Last night he found weakened timbers in one of the mine shafts and had the men replace it before the workers arrived this morning. He takes his responsibilities seriously.” She turns to Thomas. “The safety of the men in the mine is his priority. Your safety would be his priority.”
Thomas frowns. “Yes, ma’am. I understand. You and Uncle George have been good to me since my parents died. But, please, Aunt Helen, I don’t want to work in the mine.” He twirls his cap nervously. I nuzzle his hands, which smell of potatoes and dirt, but it’s as if he doesn’t know I am there. “Pa died alone in that tunnel. Don’t send me below too.”
She bends down and pulls another shirt from her basket. “It is already done, Thomas. You start tomorrow.”
“Nooooo!” Thomas’s howl startles me. “Pa was your brother! You know he wanted something better for me. You know he didn’t want me to follow him into the mine.”
Aunt’s eyes snap like the shirts on the line. “Your father is the reason we are in this situation. When he died, he left your mother deep in debt. He owed the company store almost a thousand dollars. When she grew sick, there was no money to pay the doctor, and when she died, no money for the funeral. Your uncle had to take a loan out on this land.” She sweeps her hand in the air. “Now we must pay off the debt or lose the farm. That means you need to do your part, Thomas. There is no other way.”