The Haymeadow

by Gary Paulsen

  There were dead sheep everywhere. He didn’t count, didn’t even think of it, but they were scattered around and in some cases lying one on top of another.

  Everything happened at once. Not just seemed to—everything happened exactly at the same time.

  Speck smelled/saw/heard and recognized the bear just as two more leaps would have taken her right on top of it.

  She turned sideways. Didn’t pivot, but suddenly went from a horse racing one direction to a horse racing another. It was too fast for John. He had raised the rifle, holding on the center of the black mass—a darker place in the dark night—and Speck turned just as he squeezed the trigger, still at a full run. The gun was unbelievably loud—cracked the night open in a flash-sound. He shot at least a foot wide of the bear.

  Without a saddle he couldn’t stay on and as she turned and he fired he was at the same instant alone in the air, floating, floating it seemed forever.

  He was heading directly for the bear.

  He had time for thoughts. The rifle, he thought—if I could work the lever and maybe get the barrel down I could get another shot in before …

  It was too late. The thought came, hung as he hung in the air, and ended as he landed spread-eagle full on top of the bear.

  Everything ended when he landed on the bear. He had seen them before, seen them in the mountains, and knew they could take a terrible toll of sheep. But he had always thought of them as almost cute, like pets, and slow and plodding.

  He could not believe how fast this bear moved. He wasn’t a large bear—perhaps three hundred pounds—but he was a very mad bear. All he wanted was a few sheep and dogs had come from all directions, snapping at him, and then a horse came out of the night and nearly ran over him and somebody shot at him and then that same somebody flew through the air and landed on him.

  He seemed to turn inside his skin, shifted beneath John, rolled and came to his back legs just as John landed, half on his feet.

  The bear swung sideways with its right paw. One sweeping hook and it caught John on the left shoulder.

  “Ooofff!”

  He’d never been hit so hard. Even getting kicked by a horse in the stomach had not been this hard.

  He almost literally flew sideways and all still at once, almost at once. Off the horse, the rifle shot, onto the bear, knocked sideways all in less than a second.

  A ball, he thought. He’ll come after me, try to finish me. Roll in a ball and try to get through it.

  But the bear didn’t come.

  Except for Peg, who was on the ground, the dogs were still there and when he rose to hit John they came in on him. Billy got a mouthful of rump, tore hair out, and went back in. Pete and Jenny took the sides and as the bear wheeled to get one, another came in, snapping, to dance out; and in the spinning to get one dog and then another, the bear forgot John and the sheep. He lowered and backed away, cuffing at the dogs until he could detach from everything and then he moved off into the darkness and was gone.

  He left carnage. Dead sheep were everywhere, Peg was down and John was driven into the ground against a small hummock of dirt.

  Like a fence post, he thought, or tried to think. He drove me in like a fence post.

  He couldn’t believe the bear was gone, couldn’t believe he was still alive, couldn’t believe his brain still worked. It was like getting hit by a car, he thought—a car moving about sixty. Just wham, and I’m gone.

  He was on his right side, his face speared into the dirt, and he rolled onto his back. There was a numbing jolt from his left shoulder and it seemed to pop and he realized the blow had partially dislocated it and he’d moved it back into position when he rolled.

  He wanted to scream. It felt like somebody had driven a spike into his shoulder joint.

  John lay on his back for a moment, his breath coming in quick pants while the pain rose and fell and finally dropped enough so he could think straight again.

  He had been certain the bear would come at him, take him, and he was surprised when it didn’t.

  John rolled forward, grabbed his shoulder, and held it in place.

  Speck had gone off a bit and was standing. He could just see her in the darkness.

  Peg, he thought—Peg was down. It was Peg.

  He rose to his knees, stood. The gun—he needed to find the rifle. The bear might still be there, waiting to run over him.

  His legs were rubbery but they worked and he walked back to where he’d come off the horse. The rifle was there but it took some seeing and he had to lean to finally find it in the dark grass.

  He picked it up, worked the lever—there was some sand in it and it grated—and put a fresh shell in the chamber.

  Now Peg.

  He moved to where she was down. The other dogs had gone back to the herd but several sheep were around the dog on the ground, smelling it and snorting, stamping their feet.

  She’s dead, he thought. He put his hand to her throat, her chest. It seemed still. No. There. A small movement, she was breathing—just. Short breaths, little tight whuffs of air.

  The bear must have hit her, smashed her as he had smashed John. He leaned over Peg and felt her sides, her neck, and then along her back and while he was there, working his hands down the side of her back, he felt wetness.

  He couldn’t find a wound but the wetness grew and he dug deeper into the fur and then he realized that the wetness was on top of his hand and that it was dripping down.

  It was from his shoulder.

  He was dripping blood from his shoulder where the bear had hit him and with that knowledge the wound shock came and he slowly rolled onto his right side next to Peg and thought, this isn’t so bad, not bad at all, and he closed his eyes and decided to take a little nap.

  Just lie down next to Peg here, he thought, and take a small nap. It’s been such a long day and I’m so tired, so tired, so tired.…

  Chapter Twenty-two

  WHINING.

  Some whining in his ear. No. Not quite. Next to him. A small whine, tiny whimpers.

  He opened his eyes and it was still dark. He still held the rifle in his right hand, although it was twisted and jammed into the ground and he was on his back.

  How long?

  Minutes, hours. Not too long, he thought. Not so very long.

  The sound was next to him. Whimpering, soft whining. Peg. She was there and hurt. Yes, there it was, the memory. He’d been hit and was bleeding out of his shoulder and he’d leaned over her, over the dog and dropped.

  Peg.

  He rose. Again the weakness came but this time he waited, moved more slowly, and he didn’t lose consciousness.

  When he was on his knees he reached with his right hand across and felt the shoulder. There was a cut there but it didn’t feel so long or deep—not as bad as the pain felt. The cloth of his shirt was damp but the bleeding had stopped.

  Peg. Again it came, the small sounds. He had to see about her, get her back down to the wagon.

  Everything on his body worked but only with terrible slowness. He stood—like an old hinge creaking open—and looked down at Peg. He could see nothing, no marks on her, could only hear her whining.

  He’d have to drag her some way, make a skid, a travois. There was nothing to use nearby—grass and rocks and dead sheep.

  Speck was gone, had moved away from the bear smell so she wouldn’t be any use until he could catch her and quiet her down. Maybe not even tonight.

  All he had was his T-shirt.

  He took it off and arranged it on the ground next to Peg’s back. With one movement he pulled her onto the spread shirt.

  She screamed.

  “Easy now, easy …”

  His voice seemed to help and she settled.

  He leaned down and tried to pull with both hands on the shirt and skid Peg along the ground but his left shoulder would not allow him to use his left arm.

  He tucked the rifle under his left arm—it would work for that—and used his right hand on the T-shirt and p
ulled Peg along the ground.

  It was slow moving. If he moved fast, or tried to move fast the whining increased and Peg obviously had greater pain. So he had to move carefully, skidding her over the ground, and that was hard because he had to stoop over and the stooping and holding the rifle hurt his shoulder.

  They’d come close to half a mile, he and Speck, to run into the bear and it took him the better part of two hours to pull Peg on his shirt back to the wagon.

  Dawn was beginning to bring light as he reached the wagon but he brought the lantern out just the same and lighted it and hung it on the side of the wagon.

  At first he could find no mark on Peg, no blood. He brought the lantern down close to her and could still see nothing and might not have found it except that his hand brushed her chest as he moved hair to look for blood or a wound.

  She screamed again and her head jerked sideways.

  Inside, he thought. It’s inside. He lowered his fingers gently against her ribs and he felt it.

  One of the small back ribs, away from the lungs, had a break. He could actually feel the break. The bear must have swatted her, knocked Peg as it had done to John, and the blow had broken the rib.

  And there was nothing he could do.

  His father had broken a rib once, and it had been one of the small lower ones, and the doctor had told him that even taping wouldn’t help much except to keep him from moving the bone.

  “And your body will do that as well,” the doctor had said. “If you try to move too much the pain will stop you.”

  It was the same here. He could tape her but it wouldn’t help and she didn’t seem to want to move very much anyway. He couldn’t get her up into the wagon without lifting her and even if he could—he didn’t think his shoulder would let him—it would move her rib bone and the pain would be terrible.

  He used dry grass and made a thick bed back beneath the wagon and put a pan of water near the bed and another of food. Then he pulled Peg onto the bed and left her there, still on his torn T-shirt.

  In all of this he had not looked at his own wound and with Peg settled beneath the wagon he tried to see his shoulder.

  Because of the angle it was impossible to get a good look at it. There was a cut there, sideways across the muscle, and it had bled some—there was blood down his arm—but the bleeding had stopped and much of the pain from the cut was gone, though there was still a healthy ache from the joint inside where it had popped out and in.

  A mirror—he needed a mirror. And there wasn’t one—not within a two-day ride.

  It was full daylight now and he went to the stream. In a calm backwater he leaned at an angle and studied the reflection in the water. It wasn’t as good as a mirror but he could at least see the wound directly.

  It didn’t appear deep and seemed to be bruised as much as actually cut but it had to be cleaned.

  He had a first-aid kit and he opened it. There were bandages and small scissors and a small bottle of iodine.

  It had a little glass dipper to administer drops to a tiny cut. John shook his head. It would take half the bottle.

  He set the lid aside on the steps to the wagon, raised his arm to try to flatten the wound, closed his eyes and took a breath and poured iodine from the bottle directly into the cut.

  “Eeeeaaaagh!”

  He couldn’t help it. It was like pouring molten lead into a wound. The beller came out through his teeth and he forced himself to hold the arm up until all the iodine was in the cut and then he put one of the large bandages on it, taping it carefully. He dug in his bag in the wagon and found a shirt and put it on gently, easing his bad arm into the sleeve. The arm hurt when it hung down straight so he used a strip cut from the edge of the tarp to make a loose sling to hold it when he didn’t actually need it.

  “So,” he said when he was finally done. “So now what?”

  The sheep, he thought. He had to see to the sheep. The bear had done damage there, torn at them, and he should have taken care of them first. No, the horse. Speck was still up there around—but he hadn’t saddled her or bridled her so she could just graze. The gun. First the rifle. If the bear came back he needed that and it was jammed with sand and dirt.

  He spread the piece of tarp and again disassembled and cleaned the .30-.30 until it worked like new. He used the corner of his shirt to wipe each cartridge before reloading it in the tube magazine and when he was finished with the rifle he carried it in his right hand and went to Speck.

  She was still spooky—although it had been five or six hours now since the bear—and she moved away from him when she saw the rifle.

  He hid it in back of his leg until he had her halter and she couldn’t run.

  “It’s all right, all right now.…” He talked to her while he petted her neck and examined her. He had worried that the bear had perhaps hit her as well but she was fine and in moments had settled enough to nuzzle him against the stomach.

  He rubbed her neck and let her go back to grazing and moved to where the bear had hit.

  “War,” he said when he got there, speaking aloud without meaning to. “War must be this way.”

  The bear had been horribly, unbelievably destructive. Several sheep were still alive but one of them was wounded so terribly that John shot it. It had been broken almost in half, struck from the top with such force that it had almost literally been snapped into two pieces.

  Dead sheep were everywhere. The bear must have run straight into them, striking left and right and they had been jammed together and hadn’t been able to get away. One sheep was ripped pretty badly down the side and he started to shoot her as well. He had the hammer back on the rifle and the rifle to the ewe’s head and he stopped.

  “No. No more.”

  The rip had opened the side for close to a foot and he could see the membrane that held the intestines in, and could see the intestines dimly through the membrane and it didn’t seem possible that the sheep could live.

  “I’ll have to get you down to the wagon,” he told her. “And sew on it.…”

  While he was wondering how to move the sheep—it seemed sure to kill her if he moved her—the ewe walked off and started eating as calm as if nothing was wrong with her.

  “So we’ll go slow,” he said. He walked in back of her and let her make her own speed, moving her left and right, until he had her near the wagon. There he found some twine and tied her.

  Sewing the cut was both harder and easier than he thought it would be. It was hard because he had trouble starting. He found the curved needle and a package of sterilized thread and poured disinfectant on the cut. But making himself push the needle through the skin, actually push it through, was hard—the skin hung and the needle didn’t go through easily and he had to push harder and harder and finally it broke through.

  For one stitch. All that for one small hole. Then he had to push it through the second side and pull the two ends together and tie it in a knot and pull the two sides of the cut together.

  Puuuullll them, he thought, tightening the thread. He winced as he did, watching the skin slide back over the membrane, but the ewe stood quietly and seemed not to notice him working on her.

  It became easier on the second stitch and by the time he’d finished—twenty stitches—he was moving right along.

  The cut pulled together well and when he was done he put pine tar on top of it to keep the flies off. He thought of letting her go but he worried that she would roll on it or get hit by another sheep so he kept her tied with the twine.

  When he was done with the ewe he checked on Peg again. She’d been drinking water and he thought she’d eaten some from the pan, or at least nuzzled the food around.

  There was still much to do. He caught and saddled Spud and went back to the war zone—as he thought of it. Sixteen dead sheep he counted. The bear had gone crazy. He used his rope and Spud and dragged the sheep bodies, two at a time, three-quarters of a mile from the herd into a dry wash on the side of the valley floor.

&nbs
p; Buzzards would come, and the coyotes would come back—he hoped they would leave the herd alone and just clean up the dead ones—and in a few days there would be nothing but bones.

  But he hated it, hated the death of it, and when he pulled the last carcass into the wash and saw the mess he thought of films he’d seen on television of mass graves in war and it looked the same to him. The bodies lay in a pile, flopped one on another and it was easy to see how it could be something else other than sheep, could be humans.

  He was relieved to turn away, back to the camp, back to sanity.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  HE WASN’T SURE when he saw the difference in himself, or when he started to see it, but a month had gone, then another week, and he wasn’t the same any longer.

  The camp seemed to be running by itself. He had a ritual. Up just before light, get a fire in the stove, make coffee—he was still drinking it weak and wished he had some tea—and sit on the steps of the trailer and watch the sun come up.

  He had never done any of this before—sit and relax and meditate—and now he did it and he would think while he was doing it. Not of work, or what had to be done that day, but just let his mind go and think. Once he thought of his mother, and missed her though he hadn’t really known her, and another day of Tink. And again of Cawley and one morning of the girl in the car when he was at the highway.

  With sunup he would saddle the horse he was going to use for the day and slide the rifle into the scabbard and move out to check the herd to see if they had weathered the night all right.

  The bear never came back. The coyotes did. They cleaned up the dead sheep and then tried the herd again one night but he shot near one—he’d been trying to hit it and shot wide—and they had all disappeared and he hadn’t seen them since.

  But sometimes the dogs would become too enthusiastic and keep them in such a tight herd that the inner ones didn’t get to good grass and John would use his horse to break them open and spread them out.