Son

ALL night long Son was restless. Under the bed where Killdee slept, he twisted and stretched his lean neck and thin paws,—and clawed and scratched and bit and snapped at the hungry fleas that lived on his rough, yellow hide.

Killdee woke and listened and pitied and studied and tried to go back to sleep again.

Fleas had to be. Dogs always had them. Son ought to know that and keep quiet. He kept himself from sleeping with all this uneasy, impatient fidgeting. Son ought to learn to rule himself. To hold steady.

As long as Son lived, fleas would stay on his hide and lay and hatch and bite and sting and breed more fleas to keep doing it.

Killdee reached down a hand to find and pat the poor, tormented beast. But the hand couldn’t see and it stirred the darkness with long, sleepy fingers, until a moist nose touched it gratefully.

Then the fingers grasped the harsh, warm hair, they tenderly felt the sharp edges of narrow bones and rubbed a limp ear.

“Son,” Killdee murmured, “don’ fight dem fleas too hard. You claw’s mighty sharp. Dey gwine tear a crack een you hide. Den mange’ll git een. Mange is wusser’n fleas. Fleas is natchel. Fleas can’ do nuttin’ but mek you on-res’less. Mange’ll mek you ugly an’ mean.”

Son patted his bony string of a tail on the floor. Killdee’s interest made his breathing husky with joy. Even after Killdee’s hand was withdrawn, Son gave faint whimpers of pleasure.

But soon he was restless again. He got up and went to the door and whined and scratched to be let out.

Killdee followed him and took down the bar and Son slipped by and went down the steps into the night.

First he stood still and listened. Then he trotted away down the weedy path. He knew where he wanted to go. Knew exactly.

Killdee looked out and listened, too. The dwindling old moon cast a gray light that made the frosty night chillier. There were very few sounds at all.

An owl whooed far away in the river swamp, but Son cared nothing for owls.

Something rustled and scurried in the fence corner, but Son’s light, patting feet went steadily on—without slacking.

Cocks near by crowed and got answers faint and far away.

Little chickens hovering under a mother hen gave a few uneasy, troubled peeps and were hushed with a drawling cluck. That was all.

Son had listened at none of these. Something else had called him. He sniffed the air and then went straight to where he wanted to go. Son had keen ears. His nose was hard to fool.

Killdee smiled to himself and closed the door and put up the bar to hold it. He went back to bed and eased himself down beside Rose. But he kept smiling to think how shrewd Son was. How wise.

Son’s faithful interest in love-making made him get up and break his night’s rest and go far in the cold and dark. More than likely, he’d be late getting to the lady’s house. He’d have to fight other dogs there for a chance to get the lady to even notice him. Fight dogs that were younger and bigger and stronger.

If the lady happened to choose him, he’d soon come away and leave her. He’d forget all about her. He would never even know his own children.

It was hard luck to be a dog when you had as much sense as Son. If Son were a man—a man——

Something Maum Hannah said long ago came into Killdee’s mind and mocked him: “It’s a wise man kin tell his own chillen.”

An unpleasant saying. And yet—even a man had to take somebody else’s word—about children.—Whose they really were.

Of course, Rose’s children were his. But Mary’s—since Bully left, children had come to Mary just the same.

How did any man know if they were his or not? Did Mary herself know for certain? She always laughed and said: “My chillen daddy ain’ nobody een pa-ticular.”

After all, maybe fathers don’t matter much. Son knew that. He went about his business and did what he thought was his duty, and then he bothered himself no more about it. Maybe Son’s way was good as any.

Killdee went to sleep and forgot about Son until the next day when dinner-time came. Even then he didn’t remember until his pan of peas and rice was almost empty.

It was Son’s custom to sit patiently by and watch Killdee eat and catch bits of food that his master tossed to him.

Where was Son to-day?

Killdee got up and whistled and called him. He wondered and whistled and called again before Son came creeping out from under the house where a dark corner hid his fresh wounds from meddlesome flies.

Poor Son. One limp ear was torn. His wishful eyes were bloodshot and battered. His thin legs tottered unsteadily. His coarse, yellow hair was reddened and wet. Above open cuts on his body, flies hummed and buzzed and frolicked.

Killdee knelt and took Son’s head ruefully in his big hands. He stroked the sensitive nose and patted a cheek and whispered sorrowful words.

“Po’ ol’ Son. Po’ ol’ man. Dey got you all cripple up, enty? It hu’t me clean to my heart fo’ see you all bung up like dis.—Po’ ol’ Son. Better lef ’oman lone, Son. Better lef em lone, ef you kin.”

Rose stood in the doorway watching. She didn’t love Son, and Killdee was not deceived by her show of sympathy when she suggested kindly:

“You wan’ me fo’ git you a clot’ so you kin tie em up, enty?”

No, he didn’t want a cloth. Son’s hurts were better left uncovered. Son’s tongue could lick them and keep them clean. Son could cure them himself. No other medicine would do as much good as the medicine within Son’s own mouth.

Men have to tie up their sores and grease them. Not dogs. Dogs have learned to cure themselves. Son knew how.

Killdee went to the haystack by the barn and got a bit of fine dried grass. He crawled away back under the house and fixed Son a bed in a dark warm corner.

Son followed and laid himself down with a sigh and wagged his tail weakly.

A lump came in Killdee’s throat to see him so downhearted. Son couldn’t help wanting to go courting last night. Something inside him compelled him. Drove him. Son wasn’t to blame.

Son wasn’t to blame that he wasn’t strong enough to fight other dogs away, without getting himself beat almost to death.

Who was to blame? What? Why couldn’t things be fair to dogs?—And to men—and women?

A face came before Killdee’s eyes—black—eager—young—with a bluish bloom on the cheeks—a pointed chin where a dimple came and went—dark red lips where white teeth gleamed with laughter—lips that quivered in such a pitiful way when things went wrong—little Missie—good little Missie.

She was so little—so tender—so trustful. Could he ruin her because she was what he loved best?

Love was a disease. It was wilting all the joy in her—in himself. It was a poison that would burn and shrivel—that would change her clean freshness to shame.

Son could go and love when he liked. Where he liked. If he came home bruised and torn, he could go off and hide and lick his bloody hurts and get well.—But a man—has to lie—and seem hard and mean——

If a man could only learn to cure his hurts too—that would be good. Maybe a man has to learn to do it. Maybe so.

Killdee crawled out from under the house with a gloomy, frowning face. Rose turned away when she saw him and he walked slowly down the path.

Gray clouds hung low and drops of cold rain were falling on the damp ground. Dull, reddish puddles of water shivered in the wind, as if they were hurt.

Killdee gave a bitter laugh.

“Me and Son ain’ de onlies’ one hab trouble. Mud-puddle hab ’em too! ’E can’ be still. ’E haffer stan’ pain. De wind trouble em. De sun-hot’ll dry em up. Po’ mud puddle! Do Jedus!”

What was the use to try? To want to do anything? Something got everything. Even mud-puddles!

Heavy clouds bunched over the wide river swamp. In the distance their rough, dark edges touched the tree-tops, and the hills on the other side were hidden. Down under the trees the rivers were swollen and muddy. They swirled and lapped and rushed along disregarding their rightful channels.

Killdee stood at the edge of the steep hill and looked down. The water was rising. Everything in the swamp would be flooded. Cattle and hogs left down there would be caught soon. Traps would be washed away unless they were fastened strong to trees.

Where was Son? He’d been gone since first daylight, and his hurts were hardly well.

Thinking about him made Killdee automatically give a long, shrill whistle. He missed Son when he went away like this. Son was getting along in years. Since rations were short, Son was weak.

He wouldn’t stop scratching at the fleas. Mange had him. His eyes were dimmer than when he was young. Fighting ruined them. He wouldn’t stay home at night and rest. He’d rather go running around and getting into trouble with other dogs. Son was foolish. He’d be better off asleep.

Killdee whistled again before he turned towards home. He had no hogs in the swamp to bother him to-day. Cholera got them all last year. He didn’t have to go hunt in the swamp for them now. That was something. Those rivers down below were men to-day. Good all his traps were chained to trees.

The solitude was disturbing. Killdee drew his rough shirt together at the neck and buttoned it across his throat. He peered into the colorless, blurred distance. There was something troubling about it. Bare tree-tops hid wicked streams that tore at things to destroy them.

Where was Son? Son knew that swamp too well to risk it now. Killdee wanted to shout and shake those dull clouds. To make those quiet tree-tops rustle. He drew in a full breath and forced it out with all the power of his lungs.

The clouds hung still. The tree-tops did not move. Only the heavy silence was stirred. A deep echo came back to meet his cry and two voices seemed to meet. Something within his breast moved with hope and courage. If Son was down there in trouble, he’d hear that call and take heart and fight his way back home.

Something more than an echo answered. What? A faint yelping. A weak whining. Could Son make a puny yapping like that? It was almost like a fox bark.

Killdee strained his ears to hear. Yes, it was a dog calling for help. Somebody’s dog. Maybe it was Son!

Killdee whistled and called and encouraged, then listened again. The sound was nearer, but still uncertain—then a sharp outcry came. And silence.

Killdee plunged down the hill in the direction of the cry. Through tangled vines and low-growing bushes he went following the bank of the foamy, trashy river, but there was nothing to be seen of Son.

He climbed slowly back up the hill and went home to Rose and the children.

It was night when a scratching at the door made him get up and take down the bar. Biting, cold rain rushed in and hurried Son with it. Wet, shivering, dirty with mud and blood, Son limped toward the fire on three legs. Red drops spattered on the floor, for the fourth leg, a front one, was gone, nipped off close to his body.

“My Gawd, Son,” Killdee whispered, “who dat done you so!”

Then he knew. A trap. Nothing but cold, hard steel could cut Son’s bones and meat like that. Son had gone looking for food. For meat. The trap treated all alike. Possums. Coons. Dogs. Son’s leg was too thin to stand the pinch of it. It came off. Poor Son! Down in the swamp hunting something to eat. To eat!

Son might be wrong to scratch fleas and get mange, and to go fighting dogs for a mate, but Son couldn’t help being hungry. He wasn’t to blame because he wanted a taste of meat.

Son’s hide was no good to anybody, but the trap didn’t care. It caught anything that came in reach of it. Anything.

“You gwine tie em up wid clot’, or le’ em stay so ’e kin lick em?” Rose asked.

Killdee did not answer. He took Son in his arms and held him close to the fire. The poor stub trembled and bled.

Light, flickering flames gave out little warmth. Their yellow fluttering mocked. With an impatient kick, Killdee shoved the logs further back into the chimney. A shower of sparks crackled and flared.

“Son—Son——” It was all Killdee could say. The pain in his breast hurt him through.

What was the use of anything? Something always gets you. Son never harmed anybody. Never! He did his duty the best he knew how.

Fleas wouldn’t let him rest. They made him scratch. His own claws tore holes in his hide and let mange get in.

Son would have stayed around home at night too, but some bitch was always calling him to come breed his kind. Son had to go. Something inside him drove him. Son had sense. He knew he would meet other dogs there. But he couldn’t help taking the risk of being beat.

Son needed meat. His appetite stung him. He was too old to catch rabbits. The bait in the traps was his best chance. Son thought so. Son didn’t know traps were jealous of dogs the same as of possums or coons. Son was too suspectless.

Now his front leg was gone. Cut off. Some possum had gnawed it by now.

It wasn’t good to trust anything. No. Not anything. There was no escape. Some day, Son, he too, would lie still with a mouth full of dirt. Yes, dirt.