(12)The Hunter

The Sunday after Barney came back, Sarah and Albert planned a long ride. For Vermont, it was being an unusually mild winter, but this might be their last chance to get out before the ground was covered with snow. Jill couldn’t go, and Sarah was guilty of feeling a little relieved. They could go much farther if they didn’t have to wait for short-legged Ginger.

Once he was sure he was going to see his friends, Barney strode briskly along the road. His ears shifted interestedly, noting every noise and movement. Sarah pulled him well off the road whenever a car passed, and still he danced.

There were a lot of cars, because today was the last day of hunting season. Mom had warned her to be careful, and made her wear a red shirt of Dad’s over her jacket. Now, seeing the cars bristling with guns, and the way the men looked out the windows, she was glad she had it. Stories flew around school of the dogs, cows, and people that hunters had mistaken for deer; they’d been careful to keep Star close to the house since the season started.

Mr. Jones was just leaving the barn when she arrived. He waved and called, “How d’you like this weather? S’posed to have gotten three feet of snow last night, but I’m not complaining.”

“Me either.”

Albert came around the corner leading Herky. Mr. Jones paused on his way to the house. “Where you kids headed?”

“Up the Woodfield Mountain Road. We won’t go all the way, though. Too cold.”

Mr. Jones frowned for a moment, considering. Then he shrugged. “I guess it’s all right, if you stick to the trail. Just be careful. Last day of the season, woods’re full of trigger-happy fools ready to shoot at anything to get their deer. And mind the horses don’t spook, too.” He slapped Herky on the rump. “Go on, then, and watch out.”

The road over Woodfield Mountain, once well traveled, had dwindled to a treeless strip through the woods. A carpet of brown leaves rustled under the horses’ hooves. Albert took the lead, because he knew where the rocky places were. Not that Herky cared much about the footing; he rolled over all kinds of terrain like an agile tank. Barney had to scramble to keep up, and as usual, this kept him out of mischief so Sarah could think of something else. Ah, what had Missy said: “You have to know when you can, and when it would be dangerous.”

Other than the noises of their passing, the woods were oddly silent today. Only the jays were out, their voices unusually raucous as they flitted through the treetops, like bits of fallen sky. Occasionally a shot sounded, far away, and Sarah would say, in the most irritatingly righteous voice she could manage, “I hope that deer got away.”

Albert had created a small rift in their friendship by getting a deer the first week of the season. While Sarah knew, deep down, that the Joneses could use the meat, and that their brand of hunting was different from the sports hunters’, she wouldn’t let herself forgive him.

Twisting and drifting to find the easiest slope, the road wound gradually up the mountain. It had been built for a slower, horse-drawn age, so there were places to rest, and a watering trough halfway up. Albert was very enthusiastic about it, and scornful of the modern roads that took the direct, dull route.

Sarah, in an argumentative mood, said, “I thought you’d be all for progress, with all your science fiction. Isn’t that what it’s all about, making things easy and dull?” Albert made no answer; probably because he couldn’t think of one, Sarah smugly surmised.

A lone squirrel scuffled in the leaves beside the road, and Barney lunged forward, crashing into Herky’s rump. Herk shifted his hips, threatening to kick, and Sarah and Albert found unity in scolding their mounts. After that, an unspoken truce prevailed.

They were a little more than halfway to the top, with cold hands and noses, each wondering how to suggest turning back without seeming cowardly, when they saw the deer. A young buck, it was feeding in an abandoned orchard beside the trail. Every few seconds it flung its head up, ears twitching, to stare off toward the stone wall that bordered the orchard. Its tail stayed at half-mast, ready to snap up into the white danger signal.

Sarah and Albert pulled up to watch. For a minute or two the deer eyed them suspiciously, but despite its jumpiness, it didn’t seem alarmed. It turned its attention again to the woods beyond the wall. Its nervous glances became longer in duration. Once it trotted off a few steps, head and tail high, but circled back to the tidbit it had left. It only looked their way if one of the horses stirred.

With a shriek, a jay rocketed out of a tree beyond the wall. The deer froze; only one ear twitched, like an independent thing. Then it took a small, jerky step, lifting its knees high. Another—the still air exploded with the gunshot.

Barney leaped almost out from under her. Sarah’s mind caught at tags of sensation; his odd little grunt, hauling on the reins, dancing white deer tail bounding away—branches slashed her face—ouch, one in the eye—tears—“Whoa, Barney! Whoa!”

Barney stopped on his own, circling around to crash against Herky. Albert never even noticed the squashing of his leg. He was screaming after a red-clad, running figure beyond the stonewall. “Goddam you, come back here, you goddamed idiot! You come back here!” Sarah was astonished to see tears on his face.

As Barney pressed closer to Herk, she said, “The deer got away, and we’re OK. Don’t get hysterical, Albert.” She made her voice as scornful as possible, hoping to get his attention. He turned, his mouth squared like that of a child crying.

“You don’t understand—it’s Barney! He hit Barney!”

“No,” said Sarah faintly, her mind refusing to grasp it.

“Yes, he did. I saw blood fly!” Albert was already wrenching his leg from between the horses and dismounting. Sarah sat shaking her head, too dazed to follow. Then Albert groaned. The sound released Sarah from her frozen sickness, and she tumbled out of the saddle.

Albert, his face old and weary, was staring at Barney’s chest. Cringing, Sarah looked. Her eyes flinched away, carrying only an impression of red wetness. She gazed desperately at the ground, at the blood dripping on the brown leaves.

“How bad is it?”

“I don’t know. Darn it … we’ve got to stop the bleeding.” He threw his jacket on the ground, tore off his flannel shirt and undershirt, and packed them against the wound, covering it. Sarah could look again. “There. Maybe it’s not so bad. I don’t think the bullet went in, but I don’t know. If we can just get the bleeding stopped—But I don’t see how we’ll move him, even then.”

“Bert, one of us has to go get your father.”

“Oh, right. You go, you shouldn’t stay here alone.”

“No.” She could barely speak past her chattering teeth. “Please … Barney, I can’t leave Barney. He … just go! You know the road.” She pressed her hand beside his on the shirts. “Hurry!”

“Right.” Albert thumped her shoulder reassuringly, and struggled back into his jacket. He vaulted onto Herky. “Half an hour,” he shouted, reined around, and thundered out of sight.

That half hour seemed to last days. Barney was frightened. He twisted his head, crying for Herky, and each time he did, Sarah felt the tightening of muscles around the wound and imagined a rush of blood. He shifted nervously on his hocks—his front feet were rooted, as though he didn’t dare move them—and was startled by the rustle of his own hooves in the leaves. Sarah’s one hand pressed Albert’s shirts to his chest, and the other clutched his bridle. She couldn’t pat him, or scratch him, or do anything soothing.

Well, I could talk, she realized hazily. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and when she got it going it felt thick. “OK, Barney, it’s OK. They’ll be back. Herky’ll be back, poor Bear, and Albert will bring Mr. Jones, and he’ll get you all better. Steady—I don’t think you’re bleeding as much, but if you don’t hold still you’ll start again.” On and on, chatter that she didn’t think could possibly be calming; she sounded nervous even to herself. At first, head high and ears pinned back, Barney paid no attention. Then one ear came questingly forward, flicked back, swiveled forward again to listen. He lowered his head till his muzzle rested on her shoulder; she could feel teeth. It was a position he sometimes took when she was doing something he didn’t like, a reminder that he could be dangerous if pushed too far. Now, it only meant that he needed comfort.

A dozen false alarms disappointed her: the wind, a squirrel, a blue jay, or something unknown, far away. At last, though, she heard the steady, grinding whine of a truck approaching.

As it came closer, Barney became worried, tossing his head fretfully. But the truck stopped out of sight, before it could get close enough to really scare him. A pounding, rustling noise of feet heralded Albert’s arrival. He was red-faced, and too out of breath to say anything. Mr. Jones followed more slowly.

“Whoa, Barney.” He held out a leathery hand for Barney to sniff, and bent down to look. Cautiously, he peeled the shirts away. A thin line of blood started to trickle, but the main flow had stopped. “Looks like you were right, Bert. A glancing tear—the bullet didn’t lodge. But he’ll need stitching. Mother’s calling the vet, going to have him meet us at your place.” For the first time he looked at Sarah, with sharp, kind eyes. “All right, young ’un?”

Sarah nodded, patting Barney’s neck with her free hand. There was a small stain of blood on the palm that she didn’t want to look at.

The walk down to the truck was the longest of Sarah’s life. When they finally got Barney going, he moved in short, stumbling steps, shaking and snorting. Going downhill must have been torture for him, with all his weight thrust on the chest muscles. At one point, when they’d rested him for five minutes and he was still blowing and rolling his eyes, Sarah thought they’d never get him down. But at last the truck came into view.

Herky was inside, looking huge and cozy in a red plaid blanket. He let out a great, bellowing neigh when he caught sight of his friend, and Barney’s nostrils fluttered in reply. “We brought him to keep Barney calm,” said Albert, looking anxiously at the big chestnut. “Hope he doesn’t get chilled—he was pretty hot.…” Sarah felt a stab of worry. Herky couldn’t be hurt, too.…

Barney paused a long time at the end of the ramp, pawing loosely in the air with his right leg. He seemed afraid to step up the necessary two inches. Only desire to get to Herky finally conquered his reluctance. Albert and Mr. Jones linked hands behind him and helped him up the slope.

When he was wedged in securely, they blanketed him, and rigged a bulky, makeshift bandage. “We’ll see,” said Mr. Jones, looking sceptical. They got into the cab and began the rough ride down the mountain. At each bump, the sound of scrambling hooves tore at Sarah’s heart. She kept seeing Barney down, bleeding, trampled. Mr. Jones drove grimly on, trying to get the ordeal over as quickly as possible. On the other side of her, Albert sniffled, and she heard his teeth chatter. He’d ridden off with his jacket unzipped and nothing underneath.

“Oh, Bert, I hope you don’t get a cold,” Sarah wailed, breaking a long silence. Albert looked startled and said nothing, but in a moment his shoulder shoved comfortingly against hers.

When they reached the main road they stopped to check. Barney was still on his feet, but the bandage had slipped and the wound was bleeding again. Mr. Jones packed it, and drove swiftly to Sarah’s house.

Mom and Dad were waiting in the yard, grim and worried, and together they persuaded Barney to come out of the truck. He would move only after Herky had been unloaded. Then they eased him, step by step, into the barn and his stall, bedded deep in sawdust. Turned loose, he looked to see if Herky was near. Then his head dropped, and he stood by the door, motionless.

“Heard from the vet?” asked Mr. Jones.

“Your wife said he was out when she called, but they’ll send him to us right away.”

Mr. Jones peeked under the bandage, and pressed it back quickly. “It better be right away.”