The moonlight symphony of swamp creatures hushed abruptly, and the dismal bog was as peaceful as unborn time and seemed to brood in its silence. The gaunt man glanced back at the boy and motioned for him to be quiet, but it was too late. Their presence was discovered. A jumbo frog rumbled a warning and the swamp squirmed into life as its denizens scuttled to safety.
Fox fire was glowing to the west and the bayou was slapping the cypress knees when suddenly a haunting laugh echoed through the wilderness, a strange chuckling yodel ending in a weird “gro-o-o.”
The boy’s eyes were wide and staring. “That’s it, Uncle Jess. Come on! Let’s catch it!”
“Uh, oh.” The man gripped his shotgun. “That ain’t no animal. That’s a thing.”
They hurried noiselessly in the direction of the sound that Skeeter had been hearing for several nights. Swamp born and reared, they feared nothing they could shoot or outwit, so they slipped out of the morass and to the side of a ridge. Suddenly, Jesse put out his hand and stopped the child, then pointed up the slope. The animal, clearly visible in the moonlight, was sitting on its haunches, its head cocked sideways as it chuckled. It was a merry and rather melodious little chuckle.
Skeeter grinned in spite of his surprise, then said, “Sh-h-h. It’ll smell us.”
Jesse said, “Can’t nothing smell that far. Wonder what the durn thing is?” He peered up the ridge, studying the creature. He had no intention of shooting unless attacked, for Jesse Tolliver and his nephew never killed wantonly.
The animal, however, did smell them and whipped her nose into the wind, crouched and braced. She was about 16 inches high and weighed 20 pounds. Her coat was red and silky, with a blaze of white down her chest and a circle of white around her throat. Her face was wrinkled and sad, like a wise old man’s.
Jesse shook his head. “Looks som’n like a mixture of bloodhound and terrier from here,” he whispered. “It beats me—”
“It’s a dog, all right,” Skeeter said.
“Can’t no dog laugh.”
“That dog can.” The boy began walking toward the animal, his right hand outstretched. “Heah. Heah. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
The dog, for she was a dog, cocked her head from one side to the other and watched Skeeter. She was trembling but she didn’t run. And when Skeeter knelt by her, she stopped trembling, for the ways of a boy with a dog are mysterious. He stroked her, and the trim little creature looked up at him and blinked her big hazel eyes. Then she turned over and Skeeter scratched her. She closed her eyes, stretched and chuckled, a happy mixture of chortle and yodel. Jesse ambled up and the dog leaped to her feet and sprang between the boy and the man.
Skeeter calmed her. “That’s just Uncle Jess.”
Jesse, still bewildered, shook his head again. “I still say that ain’t no dog. She don’t smell and she don’t bark. Ain’t natural. And look at her! Licking herself like a cat.”
“Well, I’ll be a catty wampus,” Skeeter said. “Never saw a dog do that before.” However, he was quick to defend any mannerism of his new friend and said, “She likes to keep herself clean. She’s a lady and I’m gonna name her that, and she’s mine ’cause I found her.”
“Lady, huh?”
“No, sir. My Lady. If I name her just plain Lady, how folks gonna know she’s mine?” He began stroking his dog again. “Gee m’netty, Uncle Jess, I ain’t never had nothing like this before.”
“It still don’t make sense to me,” Jesse said. But he didn’t care, for he was happy because the child was happy.
Like most mysteries, there was no mystery at all about My Lady. She was a lady, all right, an aristocratic Basenji, one of those strange barkless dogs of Africa. Her ancestors were pets of the pharaohs and her line was well established when the now proud races of men were wandering about Europe, begging handouts from nature. A bundle of nerves and muscles, she would fight anything, and could scent game up to 80 yards. She had the gait of an antelope and was odorless, washing herself before and after meals. However, the only noises she could make were a piercing cry that sounded almost human and that chuckling little chortle. She would chuckle only when happy and she had been happy in the woods. Now she was happy again.
As most men judge values, she was worth more than all the possessions of Jesse and his nephew. Several of the dogs had been shipped to New Orleans to avoid the dangerous upper route, thence by motor to a northern kennel. While crossing Mississippi, My Lady had escaped from the station wagon. Her keeper had advertised in several papers, but Jesse and Skeeter never saw newspapers.
Skeeter said, “Come on, M’Lady. Let’s go home.”
The dog didn’t hesitate, but walked proudly at the boy’s side to a cabin on the bank of the bayou. Skeeter crumbled cornbread, wet it with pot likker, and put it before her. She sniffed the food disdainfully at first, then ate it only when she saw the boy fix a bowl for his uncle. She licked herself clean and explored the cabin, sniffing the brush brooms, piles of wild pecans and hickory nuts, and then the cots. Satisfied at last, she jumped on Skeeter’s bed, tucked her nose under her paws and went to sleep.
“Acts like she owns the place,” Jesse said.
“Where you reckon she came from?” He looked at M’Lady quickly. “Say, maybe she’s a freak and run off from some show. Bet they’d give us two dollars for her.”
Skeeter’s face got long. “You don’t aim to get rid of her?”
The old man put his shotgun over the mantel and lit his pipe. “Skeets, if you want that thing, I wouldn’t get shed of her for a piece of bottom land a mile long. Already plowed and planted.”
“I reckoned you wouldn’t, ’cause you like me so much. And I know how you like dogs, ’cause I saw you cry when yours got killed. But you can have part of mine.”
Jesse sat down and leaned back, blowing smoke into the air to drive away mosquitoes. The boy got a brick and hammer and began cracking nuts, pounding the meat to pulp so his uncle could chew it. Skeeter’s yellow hair hadn’t been cut for months and was tangled. He had freckles, too. And his real name was Jonathan. His mother was Jesse’s only sister who had died when the child was born. No one thereabouts ever knew what happened to his father. Jesse, a leathery, toothless old man with faded blue eyes, took him to bring up and called him Skeeter because he was so little.
In the village, where Jesse seldom visited, folks wondered if he was fit’n to rear a little boy. They considered him shiftless and no-count. Jesse had lived all of his 60 years in the swamp and his way of life was a torment to folks who believed life must be lived by rules. He earned a few dollars selling jumbo frogs and pelts, but mostly he just paddled around the swamp, watching things and teaching Skeeter about life.
The villagers might have tried to send Skeeter to an orphanage but for Joe (Cash) Watson, the storekeeper. Cash was a hard man, but fair. He often hunted with Jesse, and the old man had trained Cash’s dogs. When there was talk of sending Skeeter way, Cash said, “You ain’t gonna do it. You just don’t take young’uns away from their folks.” And that’s all there was to it.
Jesse never coveted the “frills and furbelows of damn-fool folks” and yearned for only two things—a 20-gauge shotgun for Skeeter and a set of Roebuckers for himself, as he called store-bought teeth. Cash had promised him the gun and the best false teeth in the catalogue for $56. Jesse had saved $9.37.
“Someday I’m gonna get them Roebuckers,” he often told Skeeter. “Then I’m gonna eat me enough roastin’ ears to kill a goat. Maybe I can get a set with a couple of gold teeth in ’em. I seen a man once with six gold teeth.”
Once Skeeter asked him, “Why don’t you get a job with the W.P. and A. and make enough money to buy them Roebuckers?”
“I don’t want ’em that bad,” Jesse said.
So he was happy for Skeeter to have M’Lady, thinking the dog would sort of make up for the shotgun.
The boy cracked as many nuts as his uncle wanted, then put the hammer away. He was undressing when he glanced over at his dog. “Gosh, Uncle Jess. I’m scared somebody’ll come get her.”
“I ain’t heard of nobody losing no things around here. If’n they had, they’d been to me ’fo’ now, being’s I know all about dogs and the swamp.”
“That’s so,” Skeeter said. “But you don’t reckon she belonged to another fellow like me, do you? I know how I’d feel if I had a dog like her and she got lost.”
Jesse said, “She didn’t belong to another fellow like you. If’n she had, she wouldn’t be so happy here.”
Skeeter fed M’Lady biscuits and molasses for breakfast, and although the Basenji ate it, she was still hungry when she went into the swamp with the boy. He was hoping he could find a bee tree or signs of wild hogs. They were at the edge of a clearing when M’Lady’s chokebore nose suddenly tilted and she froze to a flash point, pausing only long enough to get set. Then she darted to the bayou at least 60 yards away, dived into a clump of reeds and snatched a water rat. She was eating it when Skeeter ran up.
“Don’t do that,” he scolded. “Ain’t you got no more sense than to run into water after things? A snake or a gator might snatch you.
The Basenji dropped the rat and tucked her head. She knew the boy was displeased, and when she looked up at him her eyes were filled and a woe-begone expression was on her face.
Skeeter tried to explain. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Don’t cry.” He stepped back quickly and stared at her, at the tears in her eyes. “She is crying! I’ll be John Brown!” Skeeter called her and ran toward the cabin, where Jesse was cutting splinters.
“Uncle Jess! Guess what else my dog can do!”
“Whistle?” the old man laughed.
“She can cry! I declare to goodness! Not out loud, but she can cry just the same.”
Jesse knew that most dogs will get watery-eyed on occasion, but, not wanting to ridicule M’Lady’s accomplishments, asked, “What made her cry?”
“Well, sir, we were walking along and all of a sudden she got a scent and flash-pointed and then—” Skeeter remembered something.
“Then what?”
Skeeter sat on the steps. “Uncle Jess,” he said slowly, “we must have been fifty or sixty yards from that rat when she smelled it.”
“What rat? What’s eating you?”
The child told him the story and Jesse couldn’t believe it. For a dog to pick up the scent of a water rat at 60 yards simply isn’t credible. Jesse reckoned Skeeter’s love for M’Lady had led him to exaggerate.
Skeeter knew Jesse didn’t believe the story, so he said, “Come on. I’ll show you.” He whistled for M’Lady.
The dog came up. “Hey,” Jesse said. “That thing knows what a whistle means. Shows she’s been around folks.”
He caught the dog’s eye and commanded, “Heel!”
But M’Lady cocked her head quizzically. Then she turned to the boy and chuckled softly. She’d never heard the order before. That was obvious. Her nose came up into the breeze and she wheeled.
Her curved tail suddenly was still and her head poised.
“Flash-pointing,” Jesse said. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!”
M’Lady held the strange point only for a second, though, then dashed toward a corn patch about 80 yards from the cabin.
Halfway to the patch, she broke her gait and began creeping. A whir of feathered lightning sounded in the corn and a covey of quail exploded almost under her nose. She sprang and snatched a bird.
“Partridges!” Jesse’s jaw dropped.
The child was as motionless as stone, his face white and his eyes wide in amazement. Finally he found his voice. “She was right here when she smelled them birds. A good eighty yards.”
“I know she ain’t no dog now,” Jesse said. “Can’t no dog do that.”
“She’s fast as greased lightning and ain’t scared of nothing.” Skeeter was still under the spell of the adventure. “She’s a hunting dog from way back.”
“She ain’t no dog a-tall, I’m telling you. It ain’t human,” said Jesse as he walked toward M’Lady. He told her to fetch the bird, but the dog didn’t understand. Instead, she pawed it.
“Well,” Jesse said. “One thing’s certain. She ain’t no bird hunter.”
“She can do anything,” Skeeter said. “Even hunt birds. Maybe I can make a bird dog out’n her. Wouldn’t that be som’n?”
“You’re batty. Maybe a coon dog, but not a bird dog. I know ’bout dogs.”
“Me too,” said Skeeter. And he did. He’d seen Jesse train many dogs, even pointers, and had helped him train Big Boy, Cash Watson’s prize gun dog.
Jesse eyed Skeeter and read his mind.
“It can’t be done, Skeets.”
“Maybe not, but I aim to try. Any dog can run coons and rabbits, but it takes a pure D humdinger to hunt birds. Ain’t no sin in trying, is it?”
“Naw,” Jesse said slowly. “But she’ll flush birds.”
“I’ll learn her not to.”
“She won’t hold no point. Any dog’ll flash-point. And she’ll hunt rats.”
“I’m gonna learn her just to hunt birds. And I’m starting right now,” Skeeter said. He started walking away, then turned. “I seen a man once train a razorback hawg to point birds. You know as good as me that if a dog’s got pure D hoss sense and a fellow’s got bat brains, he can train the dog to hunt birds.”
“Wanta bet?” Jesse issued the challenge in an effort to keep Skeeter’s enthusiasm and determination at the high-water mark.
“Yes, sir. If I don’t train my dog, then I’ll cut all the splinters for a year. If I do, you cut ’em.”
“It’s a go,” Jesse said.
Skeeter ran to the bayou and recovered the rat M’Lady had killed. He tied it around his dog’s neck. The Basenji was indignant and tried to claw off the hateful burden. Failing, she ran into the house and under a bed, but Skeeter made her come out. M’Lady filled up then and her face assumed that don’t-nobody-love-me look. The boy steeled himself, tapped M’Lady’s nose with the rat, and left it around her neck.
“You done whittled out a job for yourself,” Jesse said. “If’n you get her trained, you’ll lose her in the brush. She’s too fast and too little to keep up with.”
“I’ll bell her,” Skeeter said. “I’m gonna learn her ever’thing. I got us a gundog, Uncle Jess.
The old man sat on the porch and propped against the wall. “Bud, I don’t know what that thing is. But you’re a thoroughbred. John dog my hide!”
If Skeeter had loved M’Lady one bit less, his patience would have exploded during the ordeal of training the Basenji. It takes judgment and infinite patience to train a bird dog properly, but to train a Basenji, that’ll hunt anything, to concentrate only on quail took something more than discipline and patience. It never could have been done except for that strange affinity between a boy and a dog, and the blind faith of a child.
M’Lady’s devotion to Skeeter was so complete that she was anxious to do anything to earn a pat. It wasn’t difficult to teach her to heel and follow at Skeeter’s feet, regardless of the urge to dash away and chase rabbits. The boy used a clothesline as a guide rope and made M’Lady follow him. The first time the dog tried to chase an animal, Skeeter pinched the rope around her neck just a bit and commanded, “Heel!” And when she obeyed, Skeeter released the noose. It took M’Lady only a few hours to associate disobedience with disfavor.
The dog learned that when she chased and killed a rat or rabbit, the thing would be tied around her neck. The only things she could hunt without being disciplined were quail. Of course, she often mistook the scent of game chickens for quail and hunted them, but Skeeter punished her by scolding. He never switched his dog, but to M’Lady a harsh word from the boy hurt more than a hickory limb.
Jesse watched the dog’s progress and pretended not to be impressed. He never volunteered suggestions. M’Lady learned quickly, but the task of teaching her to point birds seemed hopeless. Skeets knew she’d never point as pointers do, so he worked out his own system. He taught her to stand motionless when he shouted “Hup!” One day she got a scent of birds, paused or pointed for a moment as most animals will, and was ready to spring away when Skeeter said “Hup!”
M’Lady was confused. Every instinct urged her to chase the birds, but her master had said stand still. She broke, however, and Skeeter scolded her. She pouted at first, but the boy ignored her until she obeyed the next command, then he patted her and she chuckled.
The lessons continued for days and weeks, and slowly and surely M’Lady learned her chores. She learned that the second she smelled birds she must stop and stand still until Skeeter flushed them. That she must not quiver when he shot.
Teaching her to fetch was easy, but teaching her to retrieve dead birds without damaging them was another matter. M’Lady had a hard mouth—that is, she sank her teeth into the birds. Skeeter used one of the oldest hunting tricks of the backwoods to break her.
He got a stick and wrapped it with wire and taught his dog to fetch it. Only once did M’Lady bite hard on the stick, and then the wire hurt her sensitive mouth. Soon she developed a habit of carrying the stick on her tongue and supporting it lightly with her teeth. Skeeter tied quail feathers on the stick, and soon M’Lady’s education was complete.
Skeeter led Jesse into a field one day and turned his dog loose. She flashed to a point almost immediately. It was a funny point and Jesse almost laughed. The dog’s curved tail poked up over her back, she spraddled her front legs and sort of squatted, her nose pointing the birds more than 40 yards away. She remained rigid until the birds flushed, then at the shot she leaped away, seeking and fetching dead birds.
Jesse was mighty proud. “Well, Skeets, looks like you got yourself a bird hunter.”
“Yes, sir,” Skeeter said. “And you got yourself a job.” He pointed toward the kindling pile.
The swamp was dressing for winter when Cash Watson drove down that day to give his Big Boy a workout in the wild brush. He fetched Jesse a couple cans of smoking tobacco and Skeeter a bag of peppermint jawbreakers. He locked his fine pointer in the corncrib for the night and was warming himself in the cabin when he noticed M’Lady for the first time. She was sleeping in front of the fire.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“My dog,” said Skeeter. “Ain’t she a beaut?”
“She sure is,” Cash grinned at Jesse. Skeeter went out to the well and Cash asked his old friend, “What the devil kind of mutt is that?”
“Search me,” Jesse said. “Skeets found her in the swamp. I reckon she’s got a trace of bloodhound in her and some terrier and a heap of just plain dog.”
M’Lady cocked one ear and got up and stretched; then, apparently not liking the company, turned her tail toward Cash and strutted out, looking for Skeeter.
The men laughed. “Som’n wrong with her throat,” Jesse said. “She can’t bark. When she tries she makes a funny sound, sort of a cackling, chuckling yodel. Sounds like she’s laughing.”
“Well,” Cash said, “trust a young’un to love the orner’st dog he can find.”
“Wait a minute,” Jesse said. “She ain’t no-count. She’s a bird-hunting fool.”
Just then Skeeter entered and Cash jestingly said, “Hear you got yourself a bird dog, son.”
The boy clasped his hands behind him and rocked on the balls of his feet as he had seen the men do. “Well, now, I’ll tell you, Mr. Cash, M’Lady does ever’thing except tote the gun.”
“She must be fair to middling. Why not take her out with Big Boy tomorrow? Do my dog good to hunt in a brace.”
“Me and my dog don’t want to show up Big Boy. He’s a pretty good ol’ dog.”
“Whoa!” Cash was every inch a bird-dog man, and nobody could challenge him without a showdown. Besides, Skeeter was shooting up and should be learning a few things about life. “Any old boiler can pop off steam,” Cash winked at Jesse.
“Well, now, sir, if you’re itching for a run, I’ll just double-dog dare you to run your dog against mine. And anybody who’ll take a dare will pull up young cotton and push a widow woman’s ducks in the water.”
Cash admired the boy’s confidence. “All right, son. It’s a deal. What are the stakes?”
Skeeter started to mention the 20-gauge gun he wanted, but quickly changed his mind. He reached down and patted M’Lady, then looked up. “If my dog beats yours, then you get them Roebuckers for Uncle Jess.”
Jesse’s chest suddenly was tight. Cash glanced from the boy to the man and he, too, was proud of Skeeter. “I wasn’t aiming to go that high. But all right. What do I get if I win?”
“I’ll cut you ten cords of stovewood.”
“And a stack of splinters?”
“Yes, sir.”
Cash offered his hand and Skeeter took it. “It’s a race,” Cash said. “Jesse will be the judge.”
The wind was rustling the sage and there was a nip in the early-morning air when they took the dogs to a clearing and set them down. Skeeter snapped a bell around M’Lady’s neck and, at word from Jesse, the dogs were released.
Big Boy bounded away and began circling, ranging into the brush. M’Lady tilted her nose into the wind and ripped away toward the sage, her bell tinkling.
“She sure covers ground,” Cash observed.
Skeeter made no effort to keep up with her, but waited until he couldn’t hear the bell, then ran for a clearing where he had last heard it. And there was M’Lady on point.
Cash almost laughed out loud. “That ain’t no point, son. That’s a squat.”
“She’s got birds.”
“Where?”
Jesse leaned against a tree and watched the fun.
Skeeter pointed toward a clump of sage. “She’s pointing birds in that sage.”
Cash couldn’t restrain his mirth. “Boy, now that’s what I call some pointing. Why, Skeeter, it’s sixty or seventy yards to that sage.”
Just then Big Boy flashed by M’Lady, his head high. He raced to the edge of the sage, caught the wind, then whipped around, freezing to a point. Cash called Jesse’s attention to the point.
“That’s M’Lady’s point,” Skeeter said. “She’s got the same birds Big Boy has.”
Jesse sauntered up. “The boy’s right, Cash. I aimed to keep my mouth out’n this race, but M’Lady is pointing them birds. She can catch scents up to eighty yards.”
Cash said, “Aw, go on. You’re crazy.” He walked over and flushed the birds.
Skeeter picked one off and ordered M’Lady to fetch. When she returned with the bird, the boy patted her and she began chuckling.
Cash really studied her then for the first time. “Hey!” he said suddenly, “A Basenji! That’s a Basenji!”
“A what?” Jesse asked.
“I should have known.” Cash was very excited. “That’s the dog that was lost by them rich Yankees. I saw about it in the paper. He happened to look at Skeeter then and wished he had cut out his tongue.
The boy’s lips were compressed and his face was drawn and white. Jesse had closed his eyes and was rubbing his forehead.
Cash, trying to dismiss the subject, said, “Just ’cause it was in the paper don’t make it so. I don’t believe that’s the same dog, come to think of it.”
“Do you aim to tell ’em where the dog is?” Skeeter asked.
Cash looked at Jesse, then at the ground. “It ain’t none of my business.”
“How ’bout telling nobody nothin’,” Jesse asked.
“I know she’s the same dog,” Skeeter said. “On account of I just know it. But she’s mine now.” His voice rose and trembled. “And ain’t nobody gonna take her away from me.” He ran into the swamp. M’Lady was at his heels.
Cash said, “Durn my lip. I’m sorry, Jesse. If I’d kept my big mouth shut he’d never known the difference.”
“It can’t be helped now,” Jesse said.
“Course she beat Big Boy. Them’s the best hunting dogs in the world. And she’s worth a mint of money.”
They didn’t feel up to hunting and returned to the cabin and sat on the porch. Neither had much to say, but kept glancing toward the swamp where Skeeter and M’Lady were walking along the bayou.
“Don’t you worry,” Skeeter said tenderly. “Ain’t nobody gonna bother you.” He sat on a stump and M’Lady put her head on his knee. She wasn’t worrying. Nothing could have been more contented than she was.
“I don’t care if the sheriff comes down.” Skeeter pulled her onto his lap and held her. “I don’t give a whoop if the governor comes down. Even the President of the United States! The whole shebang can come, but ain’t nobody gonna mess with you.”
His words gave him courage and he felt better, but for only a minute. Then the tug-of-war between him and his conscience started.
“Once I found a Barlow knife and kept it and it was all right,” he mumbled.
But this is different.
“Finders, keepers; losers, weepers.”
No Skeeter, he thought to himself.
“Well I don’t care. She’s mine.” Remember what your Uncle Jess said. “He said a heap of things.”
Yes, but you remember one thing more than the rest. He said, “Certain things are right and certain things are wrong. And nothing ain’t gonna ever change that. When you learn that, then you’re fit’n to be a man.” Remember, Skeeter?
A feeling of despair and loneliness almost overwhelmed him. He fought off the tears as long as he could, but finally he gave in, and his sobs caused M’Lady to peer into his face and wonder why he was acting that way when she was so happy. He put his arms around her neck and pulled her to him. “My li’l’ old puppy dog. Poor li’l’ old puppy dog. But I got to do it.”
He sniffed back his tears and got up and walked to the cabin. M’Lady curled up by the fire and the boy sat down, watching the logs splutter for several minutes. Then he said, almost in a whisper. “Uncle Jess, if you keep som’n that ain’t yours, it’s the same as stealing, ain’t it?”
Cash leaned against the mantel and stared into the fire.
Jesse puffed his pipe slowly. “Son, that’s som’n you got to settle with yourself.”
Skeeter stood and turned his back to the flames, warming his hands. “Mr. Cash,” he said slowly, “when you get back to your store, please let them folks know their dog is here.”
“If that’s how it is—”
“That’s how it is,” Skeeter said.
The firelight dancing on Jesse’s face revealed the old man’s dejection, and Skeeter, seeing it, said quickly, “It’s best for M’Lady. She’s too good for the swamp. They’ll give her a good home.”
Jesse flinched, and Cash, catching the hurt look in his friend’s eyes, said, “Your dog out-hunted mine, Skeets. You win them Roebuckers for your uncle.”
“I don’t want ’em,” Jesse said, rather childishly. “I don’t care if’n I never eat no roastin’ ears.” He got up quickly and hurried outside. Cash reckoned he better be going, and left Skeeter by the fire, rubbing his dog.
Jesse came back in directly and pulled up a chair. Skeeter started to speak, but Jesse spoke first. “I been doing a heap of thinking lately. You’re sprouting up. The swamp ain’t no place for you.”
Skeets forgot about his dog and faced his uncle, bewildered.
“I reckon you’re too good for the swamp, too,” Jesse said. “I’m aiming to send you into town for a spell. I can make enough to keep you in fit’n clothes and all.” He dared not look at the boy.
“Uncle Jess!” Skeets said reproachfully. “You don’t mean that. You’re just saying that on account of what I said about M’Lady. I said it just to keep you from feeling so bad about our dog going away. Gee m’netty, Uncle Jess, I ain’t ever gonna leave you.” He buried his face in his uncle’s shoulder. M’Lady put her head on Jesse’s knee, and he patted the boy and rubbed the dog.
“Reckon I’ll take them Roebuckers,” he said at last. “I been wanting some for a long, long time.
Several days later Cash drove down and told them the man from the kennels was at his store. Skeeter didn’t say a word, but called M’Lady and they got in Cash’s car. All the way to town, the boy was silent. He held his dog’s head in his lap.
The keeper took just one look at M’Lady and said, “That’s she, all right . . . Miss Congo III.” He turned to speak to Skeeter, but the boy was walking away. He got a glance at Skeeter’s face, however.
“Hell,” he muttered. “I wish you fellows hadn’t told me. I hate to take a dog away from a kid.”
“He wanted you to know,” Cash said.
“Mister,” Jesse closed his left eye and struck his swapping pose, “I’d like to swap you out’n that hound. Now, course she ain’t much ’count—”
The keeper smiled in spite of himself. “If she was mine, I’d give her to the kid. But she’s not for sale. The owner wants to breed her and establish her line in this country. And if she was for sale, she’d cost more money than any of us will ever see.” He called Skeets and offered his hand. Skeets shook it.
“You’re a good kid. There’s a reward for this dog.”
“I don’t want no reward.” The boy’s words tumbled out. “I don’t want nothing except to be left alone. You’ve got your dog, mister. Take her and go on. Please.” He walked away again, fearing he would cry.
Cash said, “I’ll take the reward and keep it for him. Someday he’ll want it.”
Jesse went out to the store porch to be with Skeeter. The keeper handed Cash the money. “It’s tough, but the kid’ll get over it. The dog never will.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yep. I know the breed. They never forget. That dog’ll never laugh again. They never laugh unless they’re happy.”
He walked to the post where Skeeter had tied M’Lady. He untied the leash and started toward his station wagon. M’Lady braced her front feet and looked around for the boy. Seeing him on the porch, she jerked away from the keeper and ran to her master.
She rubbed against his legs. Skeets tried to ignore her. The keeper reached for the leash again and M’Lady crouched, baring her fangs. The keeper shrugged, a helpless gesture.
“Wild elephants couldn’t pull that dog away from that boy,” he said.
“That’s all right, mister.” Skeets unsnapped the leash and tossed it to the keeper. Then he walked to the station wagon, opened the door of a cage, and called, “Heah, M’Lady!” She bounded to him. “Up!” he commanded. She didn’t hesitate, but leaped into the cage. The keeper locked the door.
M’Lady, having obeyed a command, poked her nose between the bars, expecting a pat. The boy rubbed her head. She tried to move closer to him but the bars held her. She looked quizzically at the bars, then tried to nudge them aside. Then she clawed them. A look of fear suddenly came to her eyes and she fastened them on Skeets, wistfully at first, then pleadingly. She couldn’t make a sound, for her unhappiness had sealed her throat. Slowly her eyes filled up.
“Don’t cry no more, M’Lady. Everything’s gonna be all right.” He reached out to pat her, but the station wagon moved off, leaving him standing there in the dust.
Back on the porch, Jesse lit his pipe and said to his friend, “Cash, the boy has lost his dog, and I’ve lost a boy.”
“Aw, Jesse, Skeeter wouldn’t leave you.”
“That ain’t what I mean. He’s growed up, Cash. He don’t look no older, but he is. He growed up that day in the swamp.”
Skeeter walked into the store and Cash followed him. “I’ve got that reward for you, Jonathan.”
It was the first time anyone had ever called him that and it sounded like man talk.
“And that twenty gauge is waiting for you,” Cash said. “I’m gonna give it to you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cash.” The boy bit his lower lip. “But I don’t aim to do no more hunting. I don’t never want no more dogs.”
“Know how you feel. But if you change your mind, the gun’s here for you.”
Skeets looked back toward the porch where Jesse was waiting and said, “Tell you what, though. When you get them Roebuckers, get some with a couple gold teeth in ’em. Take it out of the reward money.”
“Sure, Jonathan.”
Jesse joined them, and Skeeter said, “We better be getting back to the house.”
“I’ll drive you down,” Cash said. “But first I aim to treat you to some lemon pop and sardines.”
“That’s mighty nice of you,” Jesse said, “but we better be gettin’ on.”
“What’s the hurry?” Cash opened the pop.
“It’s my time to cut splinters,” Jesse said. “That’s what I get for betting with a good man.”
Note: “Weep No More, My Lady” originally appeared in the December 6, 1941, issue of The Saturday Evening Post.