Irish Red

by Jim Kjelgaard

  “It’s good to be back,” Mr. Haggin smiled. “I’ve covered a lot of the world in the past few months without finding anything I like better than the Wintapi.”

  Mike, having decided that he could not bluff this stranger, stopped barking and wagged forward to snuffle. He went from Mr. Haggin to the horse, who bent an inquisitive muzzle to Mike’s. Mr. Haggin looked at the puppy with uncommunicative eyes. Danny felt suddenly uncomfortable.

  “That’s Mike,” he said defensively. “He’s one of Sheilah’s pups. The runt.”

  “I know.”

  Danny fumbled for more words, caught in an awkward situation and not knowing just what he should do about it. He was saved by Ross’s appearance at the cabin door. Mr. Haggin swung toward Danny’s father.

  “Hello, you old ridge-runner.”

  “Hi, Mr. Haggin.”

  They met and shook hands, two men who were worlds apart in everything save deep-rooted friendship. Mr. Haggin looped his horse’s reins about the porch rail, and the restive black stamped his feet and snorted.

  “Come on in,” Ross invited. “How’d you know we were here?”

  “Curley told me where to find you.”

  They went into the cabin. Danny took a stance near the stove, and said nothing. Red sidled up against his legs and Danny tickled the big dog’s ears.

  “Why did you two walk out on me?” Mr. Haggin said challengingly.

  “Wasn’t you we walked out on,” Ross said. “We quit on John Price.”

  “I was depending on both of you.”

  Anger underlined Ross’s words. “You got Danny and me to handle your Irish setters. We got plumb sick of shovellin’ cedar shavin’s, cleanin’ kennels, and nothin’ else.”

  “Somebody has to do it.”

  “We would have done it,” Danny put in, “but we didn’t aim to stand by while Joe Williams ruined Sheilah’s pups.”

  “I tried to explain to you before I left that part of your job was to make my nephew and his trainer understand Irish setters.”

  “We weren’t in charge,” Danny replied stubbornly. “We were just told what to do.”

  Mr. Haggin sighed. “Maybe you’ve got something,” he admitted. “John did sort of take things into his own hands. Among other things, he tore down your old cabin and built a hunting lodge which we need about like we need the colic. To say one thing for him, he built a good lodge while he was about it. Want to live there again?”

  Danny and Ross looked at each other. Ross asked the question that was on both their tongues.

  “With Sheilah and the pups?”

  Mr. Haggin’s face clouded. He got up to walk around the cabin. When he spoke, his tone was decisive.

  “Look here. You two know my position, but I’ll review it. I bought this Wintapi estate with one major purpose in mind. I thought that, among all of us, we could breed and train fine animals. I tried to start with the finest, and if possible wanted to improve them.

  “As for dogs, I started with Irish setters because I thought they were the best. But I kept an open mind, and I’m guided by what I see. I’m switching to English setters. John has one pup there that’ll be a world-beater. Joe Williams says he’ll be ready for the National Field Trials in a couple of years, and he’s almost certain to win on the bench too. Now what I want both of you to do is to keep promising hunters up at your old place---I’ll build kennels---and train them. But you’ll have to work closely with Joe Williams. What do you say?”

  Danny glanced questioningly at his father, who turned his eyes away. When Ross spoke, it was to Mr. Haggin.

  “Speakin’ for myself, and only for myself, the answer is no.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you why. For a long while I thought hounds couldn’t be beat. I didn’t put any stock in Irish setters when Danny fetched Red home. I was glad because the boy had found somethin’ he liked. Then I began to see. Red was all dog. He fought Old Majesty to a standstill, and he was the only dog in the mountains able to do it. He proved his heart, his brains, and somethin’ besides. When Sheilah came, she was ‘most as good. Mr. Haggin, I switched from hounds to Irishmen because they was the best dogs. They still are.”

  Mr. Haggin shook his head. “I’ve seen proof that English setters are better.”

  “Well, I ain’t!” Ross’s voice rang through the cabin. “You say your nephew has a huntin’ dog! We’ve got one too! He’s your dog, but he ran away and came to us!” Ross pointed at Mike. “Put ‘em together, Mr. Haggin! Let ‘em run in the same cover, and see which one finds the most birds. Then tell me you got a better dog!”

  “Is this a challenge?”

  “That’s what it is.”

  “I’ll accept it,” said Mr. Haggin quietly. “Where and when?”

  “Tomorrow mornin’. Pick your own stretch of beech woods.”

  “All right, then. Until tomorrow.”

  Without another word Mr. Haggin mounted his horse and rode away. Danny turned to Ross.

  “Think Mike can do it? He ‘might break.”

  “No, he won’t. I told you from the first he’s got what it takes. Besides, you didn’t see him workin’ on pa’tridges when you was laid up with those busted ribs. Wait and see.”

  At dawn, with Mike on a leash to keep him from overexercising, and Red trailing behind, they left the cabin. For a while Danny walked glumly, full of forebodings. Then, unaccountably, he felt a surge of confidence. Ross always knew what he was doing. Danny laid a companionable hand on his father’s shoulder.

  “Going again, Pappy.”

  “That’s it, boy. You and me, and Red and Mike. Sort of seems right, don’t it?”

  “It does that.”

  The sun was up when they came to the Haggin estate. Curley Jordan grinned at them from the barn.

  “Good luck. We know about it.”

  “Rubbed my best rabbit’s foot this mornin’,” Ross assured him. “We got all the luck, but thanks anyway,”

  Mike moved a little closer to Ross when Mr. Haggin, John Price, and Joe Williams came from the big house. Mr. Haggin smiled.

  “You fellows all know each other, I guess.”

  They nodded across the space that separated them, and though it was only a few feet Danny felt that it was a great distance, almost too far to span.

  “I’ll get Jack,” Joe Williams said noncommittally.

  He disappeared toward the kennels, and Danny heard Sheilah’s delighted bark. She knew Ross was near. Joe Williams came back with the English setter, and Danny’s heart sank.

  The black and white youngster was a dog of fire, and superbly conditioned. Still, there was a certain air in the way he looked at his trainer, and responded instantly to his every command, that gave Danny a ray of hope. Jack had been trained, at least partly, by force. No matter where he went or what he did, he would always keep a wary eye out for Joe Williams. He could never be completely spontaneous.

  Red remained quiet, but Mike strained forward to greet the newcomer. They touched noses, then Ross drew Mike back to him. Mr. Haggin cleared his throat.

  “We’re going on the ridge right back of the house. Is that all right with you?”

  “Sure,” Ross said cheerfully.

  The trainer leading Mr. Haggin and John Price next, and Ross and Danny bringing up the rear with Mike and Red, they cut directly across a meadow. Joe Williams stopped at the edge of the budding beech trees.

  “There’ll be grouse anywhere from here on. Shall we make this a starting point?”

  “All right with me,” Ross said.

  “Now as I get it, the idea is to loose both dogs. The one that finds and points the most birds wins. How about a time limit of two hours?”

  “Fair enough,” Ross agreed.

  “Then unleash your dog.”

  Ross stooped to unsnap Mike’s chain, then grasped the red puppy’s collar to hold him back while the trainer loosed his charge. The young English setter, quivering in every fiber and wild to be away, nevertheless
waited for the word that released him. Then he streaked into the beeches. Five yards behind, Mike followed.

  The two dogs flashed among the trees. Retaining the order in which they had climbed the hill, the men went after them. Suddenly the young English setter stiffened in a point. Mike, still running behind, honored instantly.

  Danny felt a warm glow of pride. Instead of flushing, and chasing the flushed bird, Mike remained steady as a rock when Joe Williams walked past to flush. The trainer fired his pistol in the air and turned.

  “Jack’s bird.”

  The dogs were gone again, so fast that the men had to run in order to keep them in sight. The English setter found another partridge, and Mike steadfastly honored his point. A surprised look crept into the trainer’s face. He had expected a rough, wild puppy, and had found a trained hunter.

  Danny glanced sideways at Ross, wonder in his eyes. The wild, unruly Mike was no more; their rough diamond had become a sparkling, polished jewel. True, the young English setter was two birds up, but not by much. Had Mike been only a few feet ahead, he would have been credited with both finds.

  Then Mike gave a sudden burst of speed that carried him toward a patch of wintergreen berries. The red puppy was exercising his self-taught knowledge of birds, all the facts he had learned by painful trial and error. He thought there would be game in the wintergreen patch, and there was. The English setter honored his point. Two minutes later Mike found and pointed again. The red puppy had come into his own.

  Danny sighed his relief. An hour had gone past and the score was even. Mike was holding the champion. He glanced over at John Price, and grinned at the anxiety on his face.

  Then, for almost half an hour, there were no birds. Racing full speed, taking turns in the lead, Mike and the English setter investigated every likely looking place. The English setter was the first to strike game.

  Danny’s heart sank. This would make it three to two, time was nearly up, and birds were hard to find. The trainer went into flush.

  Just then a hawk pursued his winding way through the beeches and flew directly over the birds. Four grouse burst up one by one, each announcing its rise with the thunder of its wings. They flitted among the trees like four dodging forest sprites, and at scattered points came to rest in a huckleberry bog. Danny looked questioningly at Ross, who shook his head. Undoubtedly the point belonged to the young black and white, setter. It was no fault of his because the birds had flushed at the sight of the hawk. ,

  Danny glanced at Mike. Running side by side with his wonderful rival, he headed into the huckleberry brush. The men came to the edge of the bog and peered into it.

  Backed by the young English setter, Mike was on a steady point Joe Williams flushed, and Danny saw the bird rise to wing strongly into the woods. Three to three! Never faltering, Mike started quartering at an angle.

  Danny swallowed hard. He had read somewhere that Irish setters had been originally bred to hunt the Irish bogs, and Mike was certainly in his element here. More than that, he was putting to use all the experience which he had acquired running free in the woods. The young English setter hesitated, then fell back. He wanted to cast and hunt.

  But Mike knew exactly where to go. He found and held another of the scattered covey, then a third, and at the far end of the bog he pointed the fourth. It was beautifully precise work, and the English setter, by now, appreciated fully the prowess of his companion. Instead of hunting for himself, he followed Mike.

  The trainer flushed the last bird, and Mr. Haggin said, “Time’s up.”

  When the trainer whistled, the young English setter turned at once and came in. Mike looked questioningly around when Ross summoned him. Then, reluctantly, he too came in.

  Danny felt Red’s breath hot on the back of his hand, and turned to follow the rest as they started toward the big house. Mr. Haggin dropped back to walk beside Danny and Ross.

  “You win,” he said with a chuckle. “Do you want to take your Irishmen right up to the lodge? You’ll find everything you need there except food. Draw on us for that, and move down from Budgegummon at your convenience.” He cleared his throat. “I’d like to have you get Sean and Eileen ready for the summer shows.”

  Still in a happy daze, Danny heard his father’s voice, as though from a great distance.

  “I reckon we can,” Ross said.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jim Kjelgaard spent his boyhood in country much like that described in this book. “Those mountain farms,” he remembers, “produced more rocks to the acre than anything else. But they provided my brothers and me with plenty of ammunition for fighting the neighboring boys across the creek. One of our jobs was to shoo the cows out of the corn patch, which was more exciting than it sounds. There were always two or three yearling bulls in the dairy herd, and when we wanted to get home quickly, we’d each grab one by the tail. The bulls would light out for the barn, their feet hitting the ground about every two yards, and ours in proportion. But the really entrancing thing was the forest that surrounded us: mountains filled with game, and trout streams loaded with fish.”

  Jim’s first book was Forest Patrol, based on the wilderness experiences of himself and his brother, a forest ranger. Big Red, Irish Red, and Outlaw Red are dog stories about Irish setters. A Nose for Trouble and Trailing Trouble are adventure-mysteries centered around a young game warden and his man-hunting bloodhound. Kalak of the Ice (a polar bear) and Chip, the Dam Builder (a beaver) are wild-animal stories. Snow Dog and Wild Trek describe the adventures of a trapper and his half-wild dog. Haunt Fox and Lion Hound are stories written from the viewpoints of both the hunter and the hunted. Rebel Siege and Buckskin Brigade are tales of American frontiersmen, and Fire-Hunter is a story about prehistoric man.