The Yearling

Chapter XXXII

Jody wandered west with Flag beside him. He carried Penny’s shotgun over his shoulder. His heart beat and stopped and beat again.

He said under his breath, “I’ll not do it. I’ll jest not.”

He stopped in the road.

He said out loud, “They cain’t make me do it.”

Flag looked at him with big eyes, then bent his head to a wisp of grass by the roadside. Jody walked on again slowly.

“I’ll not. I’ll not. I’ll jest not. They kin beat me. They kin kill me. I’ll not.”

He held imaginary conversations with his mother and father. He told them both that he hated them. His mother stormed and Penny was quiet. His mother whipped him with a hickory switch until he felt the blood run down his legs. He bit her hand and she whipped him again. He kicked her in the ankles and she whipped him once more and threw him in a corner.

He lifted his head from the floor and said, “You cain’t make me. I’ll not do it.”

He fought them in his mind until he was exhausted. He stopped at the abandoned clearing. A short length of fence was left that he had not yet torn down. He threw himself in the grass under an old chinaberry tree and sobbed until he could sob no more. Flag nuzzled him and he clutched him. He lay panting.

He said, “I’ll not. I’ll jest not.”

He was dizzy when he stood up. He leaned against the rough trunk of the chinaberry. It was in bloom. The bees buzzed in it and the fragrance was sweet across the spring air. He was ashamed of himself for having taken time to cry. It was no time to cry. He would have to think. He would have to study his way out of it, as Penny did out of things that threatened him. At first he conjectured wildly. He would build a pen for Flag. A pen ten feet tall. He would gather acorns and grass and berries and feed him there. But it would take all his time to gather feed for a penned animal — Penny was on his back in the bed — The crops would have to be worked — There was no one but himself to do it.

He thought of Oliver Hutto. Oliver would have come and helped him work the crops until Penny was better. But Oliver had gone to Boston and the China Sea, away from the treachery that had swooped down on him. He thought of the Forresters. He regretted bitterly that they were now the Baxters’ enemies. Buck would have helped him. Even now — But what could Buck do? A thought struck him sharply. It seemed to him that he could endure to be parted from Flag if he knew that somewhere in the world the yearling was alive. He could think of him, alive and mischievous, carrying his flag-like tail high and merry. He would go to Buck and throw himself on his mercy. He would remind Buck of Fodder-wing, talk of Fodder-wing until Buck’s throat choked. Then he would ask him to take Flag in the wagon, as he had taken the bear cubs, to Jacksonville. Flag would be taken to a broad park where people came to look at the animals. He would bound about and be given plenty of food, and a doe, and every one would admire him. He, Jody, would raise money crops of his own, and once a year he would go and visit Flag. He would save his money and he would get a place of his own, and he would buy Flag back, and they would live together.

He was flooded with excitement. He turned from the clearing up the road to the Forresters’, trotting. His throat was dry and his eyes were swollen and smarting. His hope refreshed him and in a little while, when he swung up the Forresters’ trail under the live oaks, he felt all right again.

He ran to the house and up the steps. He rapped at the open door and stepped inside. There was no one in the room but Pa and Ma Forrester. They sat immobile in their chairs.

He said breathlessly, “Howdy. Where’s Buck?”

Pa Forrester turned his head slowly on his withered neck, like a turtle.

“Been a long time since you was here,” he said.

“Where’s Buck, please, sir?’

“Buck? Why, Buck and the hull passel of ‘em has rode off to Kentucky, hoss-tradin’.”

“In plantin’ time?”

“Plantin’ time be tradin’ time. They’d ruther trade than plow. They figgered they’d make enough, tradin’, to buy our rations.” The old man spat. “And likely, they will.”

“They’re all gone?”

“Ever’ one of ‘em. Pack and Gabby’ll be back in April.”

Ma Forrester said, “Heap o’ good it do a woman to birth a mess o’ young uns and raise ‘em and then have ‘em all go off to oncet. I will say, they left rations and stacked wood. We won’t need nothin’ ‘til some of ‘em’s back in April.”

“April—”

He turned dully from the door.

“Come set with us, boy. I’d be proud to cook dinner for you. Raisin puddin’, eh? You and Fodder-wing allus loved my raisin puddin’.”

“I got to go,” he said. “I thank you.”

He turned back.

He burst out desperately, “What would you do, did you have a yearlin’ et up the corn and you couldn’t keep it out no-way and your Pa told you to go shoot it?”

They blinked at him. Ma Forrester cackled.

Pa Forrester said, “Why, I’d go shoot it.”

He realized that he had not made the matter clear.

He said, “Supposin’ it was a yearlin’ you loved like you-all loved Fodder-wing?”

Pa Forrester said, “Why, love’s got nothin’ to do with corn. You cain’t have a thing eatin’ the crops. Lessen you got boys like mine, has got other ways o’ makin’ a livin’.”

Ma Forrester asked, “Hit that fawn you carried here last summer for Fodder-wing to put a name to?”

“That’s him. Flag,” he said. “Cain’t you-all take him? Fodder-wing would of takened him.”

“Why, we got no better way’n you o’ keepin’ him. He’d not stay here, no-how. What’s four mile to a yearlin’ deer?”

They too were a stone wall.

He said, “Well, good-by,” and went away.

The Forrester clearing was desolate without the big men and their horses. They had taken most of the dogs with them. Only a mangy pair remained, chained at the side of the house, scratching themselves mournfully. He was glad to get away again.

He would walk to Jacksonville with Flag himself. He looked about for something to make a halter by which to lead him, so that he would not turn and run home, as he had done on the Christmas hunt. He hacked laboriously at a grapevine with his pocket knife. He looped a length of it around Flag’s neck and set off to the northeast. The trail came out somewhere near Hopkins Prairie, he knew, on the Fort Gates road on which he and Penny had intercepted the Forresters. Flag was docile for a time under the leash, then grew impatient of the restraint and tugged against it.

Jody said, “How come you to grow up so unlawful?”

It wore him out, trying to coax the yearling into going willingly. At last he gave it up and took off the grapevine halter. Flag was then perversely content to keep in sight. In the afternoon, Jody found himself tired with a fatigue born of hunger. He had left the house without breakfast. He had wanted only to get away. He looked along the road for berries to eat, but it was too early and there were none. The blackberries had not yet finished blooming. He chewed some leaves, as Flag was doing, but they made him feel emptier than before. His feet dragged. He lay down by the road in the sun for a rest and induced Flag to lie beside him. He was drugged with hunger and misery and the strong March sun on his head. He fell asleep. When he awakened, Flag had gone. He followed his tracks. They led in and out of the scrub, then turned back to the road and continued evenly toward home.

There was nothing to do but follow. He was too weary to think further. He reached Baxter’s Island after dark. A candle burned in the kitchen. The dogs came to him. He patted them to quiet them. He crept close silently and peered in. Supper was over. His mother sat in the candle-light, sewing her endless patchwork pieces. He was trying to make up his mind whether to go in or not, when Flag galloped across the yard. He saw his mother lift her head and listen.

He slipped hurriedly beyond the smoke-house and called Flag in a low voice. The yearling came to him. He crouched at the corner. His mother came to the kitchen door and threw it open. A bar of light lay across the sand. The door closed. He waited a long time until the light went out in the kitchen. He allowed time for her to go to bed and to sleep. He prowled inside the smoke-house and found the remainder of the smoked bear-meat. He hacked off a strip. It was hard and dry, but he chewed on it. He supposed Flag had fed on buds in the woods, but he could not bear to think of him hungry. He went to the corn-crib and took two ears of corn and shelled them and fed the kernels to him. He chewed some kernels himself. He thought longingly of the cold cooked food that must be in the kitchen safe but he dared not go in after it. He felt like a stranger and a thief. This was the way the wolves felt, he thought, and the wild-cats and the panthers and all the varmints, looking in at the clearing with big eyes and empty bellies. He made a bed in a stall at the lot with an armful of the scant remaining marsh-grass hay. He slept there with Flag beside him, not quite warm enough through the chill March night.

He awakened after sunrise, stiff and miserable. Flag was gone. He went reluctantly but compelled to the house. At the gate he heard his mother’s voice raised in a storm of anger. She had discovered the shotgun where he had leaned it against the smoke-house wall. She had discovered Flag. She had discovered, too, that the yearling had made the most of the early hours and had fed, not only across the sprouting corn, but across a wide section of the cow-peas. He went helplessly to her to meet her wrath. He stood with his head down while she flailed him with her tongue.

She said finally, “Git to your Pa. For oncet, he’s with me.”

He went into the bedroom. His father’s face was drawn.

Penny said gently, “How come you not to do what I told you?”

“Pa, I jest couldn’t. I cain’t do it.”

Penny leaned his head back against the pillow.

“Come here clost to me, boy. Jody, you know I’ve done all I could to keep your leetle deer for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know we depend on our crops to live.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know they ain’t a way in the world to keep that wild yearlin’ from destroyin’ ‘em.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why don’t you do what’s got to be done?”

“I cain’t.”

Penny lay silent.

“Tell you Ma to come here. Go to your room and shut the door.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a relief in following simple orders.

“Pa says to go to him.”

He went to his room and closed the door. He sat on the side of the bed, twisting his hands. He heard low voices. He heard steps. He heard a shot. He ran from the room to the open kitchen door. His mother stood on the stoop with the shotgun smoking in her hands. Flag lay floundering beside the fence.

She said, “I didn’t want to hurt the creetur. I cain’t shoot straight. You know I cain’t.”

Jody ran to Flag. The yearling heaved to his three good legs and stumbled away, as though the boy himself were his enemy. He was bleeding from a torn left forequarter. Penny dragged himself from his bed. He sank on one knee in the doorway, clutching it for support.

He called, “I’d do it if I could. I jest cain’t stand up — Go finish him, Jody. You got to put him outen his torment.”

Jody ran back and snatched the gun from his mother.

He screamed, “You done it o’ purpose. You allus hated him.”

He turned on his father.

“You went back on me. You told her to do it.”

He screeched so that his throat felt torn.

“I hate you. I hope you die. I hope I never see you agin.”

He ran after Flag, whimpering as he ran.

Penny called. “He’p me, Ory. I cain’t git up—”

Flag ran on three legs in pain and terror. Twice he fell and Jody caught up to him.

He shrieked, “Hit’s me! Hit’s me! Flag!”

Flag thrashed to his feet and was off again. Blood flowed in a steady stream. The yearling made the edge of the sinkhole. He wavered an instant and toppled. He rolled down the side. Jody ran after him. Flag lay beside the pool. He opened great liquid eyes and turned them on the boy with a glazed look of wonder. Jody pressed the muzzle of the gun barrel at the back of the smooth neck and pulled the trigger. Flag quivered a moment and then lay still.

Jody threw the gun aside and dropped flat on his stomach. He retched and vomited and retched again. He clawed into the earth with his finger-nails. He beat it with his fists. The sink-hole rocked around him. A far roaring became a thin humming. He sank into blackness as into a dark pool.