But then it was time for all of us to get some sleep because tomorrow was another day—Wally’s last day and also his dog’s last day.
As soon as we were downstairs and outdoors, I heard a car honking and lights were turned on in the lane.
“There’s our taxi,” Big Jim said, and he and Circus and Dragonfly and Little Jim started toward it.
“Who is it?” I asked.
The horn sounded like a car horn I’d heard before a few hundred times at our house, when Dad honked a friendly little honk from the plum tree to remind Mom that he was ready to go and please hurry up and get her nose powdered and her hat straight enough or crooked enough to go wherever she and Dad were going.
Even Dad had been in on Wally’s initiation! I thought, as Wally and Alexander and Poetry and I went back to the tent to get some sleep.
Wally and Poetry walked on ahead, and Alexander and I and the tent pole followed. “Next time we take a walk,” I said to Alexander, “it will be in the daytime.”
13
I’d certainly hate to live at Poetry’s house because, even if his parents would let him, a boy wouldn’t have a chance to sleep as long as he wanted to in the morning. It seemed I hadn’t any more than wound the alarm of my polecat clock again and set it for seven in the morning than about forty-seven squawky-voiced young roosters started to crow, telling us it was daylight. At the same time all the cows and calves started to bawl, and about twenty-five guinea hens began to sing or scream or squawk or whatever it is those scrawny-necked, topknot-headed, white-speckled, black-legged barnyard fowls do when they’re happy.
I never saw a boy get up so cheerfully as Poetry did. He started to whistle the minute he was awake. When I tried to shush him, he said, “Can’t a boy be happy if he wants to?”
“Who wants to?” I groaned and turned over to try to sleep again.
“You do,” he said.
Just that minute his mother called from their back porch, “Yoo-hoo, Leslie,” which is Poetry’s real name, “you boys awake?”
And Poetry’s voice went squawking back through the slanting canvas roof of the tent, saying, “Bill and Wally don’t want any pancakes.”
For some reason that made me wake up as fast as I had ever waked up in my life. I remembered the six hundred or more buckwheat cakes I had eaten at his house during my life.
I rolled over and up to a sitting position. Wally was still asleep. I looked toward his cot in the corner and at his red hair on the pillow, and it was almost like looking at myself lying there.
I started to call, “Wake up, you sleepyhead,” but Poetry lifted his forefinger to his lips and jerked a thumb toward Wally, shaking his head at the same time.
I looked closer and noticed that Wally’s right hand was clasping something while he slept, and it was the little New Testament the gang had given him last night. All of a sudden I got a happy thought. Every time I thought of it that day and all the rest of the summer, it made me glad Wally had come to our house. The thought was mixed up with Sylvia’s dad’s sermon and Robert Louis Stevenson, and it was: The gang has given Wally a light he can carry around with him, and he can turn it on anytime he wants to.
Just then Alexander started to help the crowing roosters and the singing hens and the clacking guineas outside, letting everybody know it was time for pancakes.
And so the day was started. It was a day that was to be better and also worse than any we had had yet.
I got a new idea while I was dragging myself into my clothes. I might be making a big mistake to take Alexander over to Mr. Groenwald and confess what he had done—if he had done it. After all, Alexander was Wally’s dog, and what right had one red-haired freckle-faced boy to confess the sins of another red-haired, freckle-faced boy’s dog?
When I got outdoors into the sunshiny morning, I walked over to where Alexander was tied to the clothesline post. I noticed the utility can was lying on its side beside him. He came toward me with a friendly expression on his face, but instead of jumping up on me, he wagged his tail and smiled and crouched at my feet the way dogs do when they want you to like them and are a little bit afraid of you.
As I looked down at him, it seemed I couldn’t stand the thought of his having to be shot, which would be the same as having the light of his life blown out like a boy blowing out a lantern. Nobody could ever light Alexander’s light again, and they would bury his body under a swamp rosebush or somewhere in the woods or along the bayou, and he’d stay buried and wouldn’t come up again like a grain of corn you plant in a cornfield. Never again would there be a pretty copper-colored dog playing innocently around in the woods or anywhere.
And it’d be all my fault, I thought.
It seemed a lot worse to have a boy’s only dog die than for Mr. Groenwald to lose two lambs when he had a dozen others just like them.
So there I was, on the fence in my mind again, not knowing what to do. Yesterday I had talked to God about it, and it seemed He had told me what to do. But today it seemed that if I confessed Alexander’s sins to Mr. Groenwald, and Alexander had to be shot as some dogs in the Sugar Creek neighborhood had been, I’d be to blame for his death. The fifty dollars it might cost me seemed like nothing—I’d be willing to pay ten times that much if I had to in order to save his life.
I quickly dropped down on my knees on Alexander’s cedar-treated mattress and hugged him, letting his cold nose touch my face. While I was there like that, I said, “Dear Father, please show me for sure what to do.”
Then Wally and Poetry came storming out of the tent to start their day, and we all went into the house to eat pancakes. Wally gave Alexander his dog biscuits first, so that he would be through eating by the time we were.
While we were at the table, Poetry said, “I saw Mr. Groenwald drive past with his truck Saturday. He had a brand-new gate. I’ll bet Old Man Paddler’s orchard would be a nice safe place for our next gang meeting.”
That gave Wally an idea. And that was the reason that, when he and I loaded our luggage into my red coaster wagon and started out toward the Collins house, we had our polecat utility can with us. We were going past the orchard on the way home to get as many apples as we could carry for Uncle Amos and my red aunt to take back with them to Memory City.
“Maybe Mother will give me two dollars for them, which is what you have to pay for a bag of nice big apples at the store there.”
“Remember it’s my can. I found it,” Poetry said as we started off.
Alexander, with his long tongue hanging out, pulled Wally along on the other end of the leash. And the wagon, with its longer tongue, was being pulled by me.
In only a little while we reached the orchard, and, as Poetry had said, there was a brand-new gate. It wasn’t hung yet, but was just standing against the old one and was fastened to it by baling wire. But the bull probably didn’t know that.
It was a no-sag kind of gate, the kind Dad had at the other end of our barnyard. It had one strand of barbed wire at the bottom so pigs wouldn’t enjoy crawling under it, and two at the top so cows and horses wouldn’t put their necks over and mash it down. In between was strong wire netting.
We tied Alexander to the fence to guard the wagon for us and to keep him from running around in the pasture and stirring up the temper of the bull. The cattle were about one hundred yards away from the gate at the time.
In seconds Wally and I were over in the orchard helping ourselves to hatfuls of great big apples, which Old Man Paddler said the gang could have anytime we wanted them. We carried our hatfuls again and again to the fence and pushed them through into the wagon and the utility can.
Then all of a sudden I heard the sound of a motor. Somebody in a truck was driving through the pasture straight toward us. Alexander growled and strained at his leash and started barking. Wally yelled for him to stop. Even before I knew who it was, I felt sure it would be Mr. Groenwald. My heart started beating fiercely, and I was scared of what might happen.
A minute or so later
, the truck was there and stopping by the gate, and it was Mr. Groenwald. “Hi, there, boys,” he called cheerfully. “Saw you over here and thought now would be a good time to hang the gate. Want to help me a minute? It’ll save me hiring somebody else, and you can make a quarter apiece.”
Mr. Groenwald climbed out of the cab of his truck, and pretty soon we were all working on the gate. I had helped Dad hang quite a few gates in my life and had a few good ideas of my own, which I gave Mr. Groenwald at no extra charge.
“You boys keep on the watch for Old Red. He’s been a little nervous lately, and I don’t trust him. If he gets too close, just climb into the wagon box, and you’ll be safe enough.”
Pretty soon we had the old worn-out gate off. We were lifting the new one and trying to fit its hinges into the screw hooks on the gatepost when I heard a sound of hoofed feet running in our direction. Without even turning around, I knew that some four-footed danger was coming. When I did look and saw what it was, my heart leaped into my mouth, and I was scared stiff.
“Quick, you boys! Get into the truck!” Mr. Groenwald ordered. He whirled around, clasped Wally by the middle, and scooped him up and into the truck’s wagon box as quick as a flash. As quick as another flash, I made a leap for the top of the top sideboard, and almost right away I was inside beside Wally, both of us having landed on a little pile of firewood.
In another minute, Mr. Groenwald would be safe, too. He dived for the truck’s cab, maybe so he could start the motor and get us out of the way of Old Red’s horns. The door he tried to open was on the steering wheel side, but somehow it had locked. He would have to rush around to the other side to get in, and that was the side the bull was coming from.
It was already too late because Old Red was within a few yards of him. Mr. Groenwald dashed around the truck with the bull right after him. Round and round they went, and Wally got scared and started shouting directions to him. I yelled, too, not being able to help it.
Then things did go bad. Old Red got between Mr. Groenwald and the truck, and there wasn’t a chance in the world for him to get in. The bull was standing head down, snorting and pawing in Mr. Groenwald’s direction, and I could tell that a second later he would charge. Things were happening so fast I couldn’t think or see straight. And then they started happening even faster!
All our yelling was enough to make Alexander wild. He never could stand to see anybody get into any noisy excitement without wanting to get into it himself. Maybe he had been waiting all week for just one chance to show us what he could do with a bull in a real fight.
Anyway, Alexander started to run frantically, first one way and then the other, getting stopped every time by the end of his leash, yanking and pulling and backing up and trying to get the collar over his neck, as he had done a few other times during the week. But I knew the collar was in the tightest notch it could be in, and he wouldn’t be able to get loose.
Just then the bull charged like a streak of red lightning.
But Mr. Groenwald was a smart man. He made what is called a “reverse turn” in a basketball game and was out of the way of the bull, which went past headfirst like a ton of dynamite. If either one of his horns had caught Mr. Groenwald, it would have ripped a hole clear through him.
He didn’t even have a stick with which to protect himself—or a pitchfork, as a farmer often does have when he is out in a field where a bull is.
Then I got an idea. If we could distract the bull’s attention, we might help save Mr. Groenwald’s life. As it was now, he was safe only as long as he could dodge Old Red. So I quickly stooped down, saying to Wally at the same time, “Let’s help. Let’s wham the bull in the nose and side and everywhere with sticks of firewood!” And we started to throw them as straight as we could toward the bull without hitting Mr. Groenwald.
One of Wally’s sticks hit Old Red ker-whack on the nose, which only made him madder than ever. And since Mr. Groenwald was the only one the bull could see, he let out a wild bellow of temper and started on another headfirst dash straight for him, snorting and bellowing as he charged.
But then those sticks of firewood helped in a way I never would have dreamed they could. I don’t know what went on in Alexander’s mind, but when he saw those flying pieces of wood, he went absolutely crazy. It was his signal to go after them.
The next thing I knew, the fence post he was tied to was shaking like our corner grape-arbor post, and he was yanking and pulling backward as though he had gone mad. His breaking the leash right at the collar happened too fast for me to see it, but from what happened next, I knew he was free.
A copper-colored flash shot up toward the top of the fence and over it, as he had done with every other fence in the Sugar Creek neighborhood. The next second he was on our side, starting to do what he had wanted to do all week—show a big, fierce red bull that he wasn’t any bigger or more dangerous to him than a giant snapping turtle had been.
It would have been one of the most entertaining fights I had ever seen if it hadn’t been the most dangerous. Alexander shot like a copper arrow straight for Old Red. I never saw a dog run so fast. In seconds, his sharp teeth were nipping at the heels of the bull, and he was barking and yelping and dashing in and biting and jumping back. Then he grabbed Old Red’s tail and held on.
The bull whirled around, taking Alexander with him as he turned and hurling him almost fifteen feet when Alexander’s teeth let loose. Seeing his copper color and probably thinking it was red, Old Red started after him.
And that’s how Mr. Groenwald got his chance to get to the cab and climb in it in time to be saved—and just in time. He slammed the door and started the motor, and the truck started to move.
“Wait for Alexander!” Wally screamed. “He’ll be killed!”
But it all happened so fast that we didn’t have to wait.
Alexander was out there diving all around the bull’s lowered head, barking and getting out of the way so quick that the fierce monster didn’t have a chance to hurt him. The only way he could possibly have hurt him would be to rush him when Alexander was too close to the fence or the gate.
Just then, Wally let out a terrified scream as Alexander dashed in—not at Old Red’s heels or tail but straight toward his lowered head, where he sank his teeth into the bull’s nose and held on.
Old Red let out a fierce bellowing snort and, with the big bulging muscles of his neck, gave his head a quick toss. Alexander went up with it, getting a fierce, fast, free ride into the air. The bull shook him loose at the same time.
And when Alexander came down, he came down in the wagon box beside Wally and me—right where we wanted him—and his life was saved, too!
The bull, not seeing where Alexander had gone and not knowing what had become of him, stopped and stared and snorted at the truck, hearing the motor running and probably wondering, What on earth?
We gave Alexander a quick examination, and he didn’t seem to be hurt a bit. So he wouldn’t even have to have first aid when we got home, as he had to have after his battle with the mud turtle at the swamp. We did have to hold him in the wagon though, or he would have jumped out again. He wasn’t satisfied with his fight. It had ended too soon.
Well, we got out of the pasture as easy as anything. Mr. Groenwald drove up alongside the woven-wire fence, on the other side of which were our wagon and apples, and all we had to do was climb down the other side, which we did. The bull, not seeming to be interested in a truck, started back toward his fifteen cows, probably to brag to them about how he had licked two boys and one man and a fierce copper-colored wild animal of some kind.
“I’ll get Old Red penned up tonight when he comes into the barnyard,” Mr. Groenwald said to us before he drove away. “By the way, that’s a wonderful dog. He’d be a big help to a farmer. Want to sell him? I could train him to be a good stock dog. Maybe if I’d had him around last week, I wouldn’t have had two of my lambs killed. There goes my dinner bell. The missus has dinner ready.”
Before I c
ould have said anything to him, even if I had decided to, it was too late. He raced his motor, and his truck moved on down the pasture toward his farmhouse on the other side. But one thing I knew for sure, and that was that Harm Groenwald would never want to have Alexander shot when he finally found out he had killed his two lambs—if he had. Anyway, I would have to wait until later to tell him what I knew.
14
It was two happy, red-haired, freckle-faced boys that pulled my little red wagon full of luggage and apples back to the lane we had left and on toward our house.
One thing Wally asked me just before we got to the lane was about his initiation last night. He said, “Is that the way to become a Christian—what they did to me last night?”
“No, no,” I said. “That was just making you a member of the gang. Anybody who promises to go to Sunday school and church every Sunday and to read the Bible and pray every day can be a member.”
“How do you get to be a Christian, then?”
Wally hadn’t been to church very much in his life. I’d hardly realized that he might not even know how to become a Christian. So I told him what I had heard Sylvia’s dad say many times in church. “Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved.”
Then I had to explain it to Wally so he could understand. “It’s just like riding on this wagon. Sylvia’s dad would say, ‘You just get in and ride and trust whatever is pulling you.’ You believe in the Lord in your heart the same way.”
“Who’s Sylvia’s dad?” Wally wanted to know, and I told him.
As we rambled along, neither one of us saying anything for a while, I could tell he was thinking about what I had told him. I decided that even if he wasn’t a Christian yet, he would probably be one before long. Because if a boy read his Bible and prayed every day, the Lord Himself would turn on the light in his heart.
There was a shortcut to our house if we went through the edge of Big Jim’s woods, so we decided to take it. Just as soon as we got to maybe within an eighth of a mile from home, I spotted a little black and white animal nosing around an old stump not far from a big rail pile. It was a skunk all by itself. It wasn’t big enough to be the mother skunk that used to live under Poetry’s toolshed. It was a smaller one, probably one of her kittens.
Sugar Creek Gang Set Books 19-24 Page 19