Outlaw Red
Jim Kjelgaard
Yearling (1977)
Rating: ****
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Dogs
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Product Description
He was Sean, a champion, the biggest, handsomest son of Big Red, the famous Irish setter. Bursting with hunting instincts, he fretted under his pampered kennel life, and longed for the wilds. Then suddenly his life changed. He found himself on his own in the Wintapi wilderness, lost, his human protectors gone. An outlaw, he was hunted and shot at by the hill men. How Sean learned to survive amidst constant danger, how he challenged a coyote killer to save his mate, is a stirring tale of bravery and an exciting wilderness adventure. It is also the heartwarming story of another unwilling outlaw--the boy who loved Sean and wanted him for his own.
From the Publisher
He was Sean, a champion, the biggest, handsomest son of Big Red, the famous Irish setter. Bursting with hunting instincts, he fretted under his pampered kennel life, and longed for the wilds. Then suddenly his life changed. He found himself on his own in the Wintapi wilderness, lost, his human protectors gone. An outlaw, he was hunted and shot at by the hill men. How Sean learned to survive amidst constant danger, how he challenged a coyote killer to save his mate, is a stirring tale of bravery and an exciting wilderness adventure. It is also the heartwarming story of another unwilling outlaw--the boy who loved Sean and wanted him for his own.
Outlaw Red
Son of Big Red
This is the story of Big Red’s prize winning son, Sean, who won his greatest trophy as an outlaw in the wilderness
By Jim Kjelgaard
For Carl and Bertha Kjelgaard
Outlaw Red
Chapter 1: Show Dog
Chapter 2: Uncle Hat
Chapter 3: Wanderers
Chapter 4: Slasher
Chapter 5: Penny
Chapter 6: Hound Pack
Chapter 7: Abduction
Chapter 8: Fugitives
Chapter 9: Frozen Hunger
Chapter 10: Wolf Trap
Chapter 11: Night Journey
Chapter 12: The Feud
Chapter 13: The Battle
About the Author
1. Show Dog
SEAN, LARGEST and handsomest of Champion Big Red’s sons, was stretched full length in the wire cage that enclosed him. He seemed to be sleeping. But he was wide awake, his unblinking eyes fixed on a mouse that was creeping furtively from beneath his kennel. No muscle twitched in the Irish Setter’s superb body and, in spite of the breeze, even Sean’s hair did not blow. Almost he seemed to be dead.
The red dog’s stillness was partly a masquerade, the result of long hours spent in inventing games that he could play, and partly a marvelous hunting inheritance.
Hundreds of years ago Irish Setters had been bred by discerning huntsmen of the Irish bogs. Born in them was the instinct to use their intelligence, and to react instantly to anything that might arise. Sean had inherited all this wisdom from his father, Big Red, who knew everything there was to know about the wilderness. Though Sean himself had seldom been in the surrounding Wintapi forests, his birthright was a knowledge of how to conduct himself as a hunter.
He knew that he must lie quietly now because, if he did not, the mouse would whisk back beneath the kennel and would not come out again. Still pretending to sleep, Sean remained wide awake, his eyes on the mouse.
So well did the red dog know the various things about his run that he could tell almost exactly what the mouse was going to do next. Two feet from the mouse’s safe shelter under the kennel was a fleck of food that Sean, shaking his head after eating, had deposited there. Sean knew that the mouse wanted that tempting morsel. Unmoving, careful to do nothing that might cause alarm, he watched the tiny creature edge forward.
Stopping every inch to reconnoiter, the mouse came its own length from the bottom of the kennel. It was a very symbol of caution, a wild and much-harassed creature that had learned how to live in the midst of its enemies. Anything that moved was almost certain to mean danger.
The mouse moved six inches, constantly stopping to probe with every sense in its tiny body for an enemy that might be waiting. In the mouse’s world, a wrong move meant death.
Sean watched and correctly interpreted every motion. He saw the mouse halt abruptly and knew that it had stopped because it was studying him. Sean scarcely breathed. This was one of the games that made his caged life bearable. He must do nothing to spoil it.
The mouse stood still, its only movement a nervous wriggling of its nose. Suddenly it flitted back toward the kennel.
Mischief glinted in Sean’s deep-brown eyes, and he made a conscious effort to keep from running his pink tongue out in a happy grin. He knew what the mouse was doing. It had seen him, and, not knowing whether the big Setter was alive or not, was running to provoke Sean into betraying himself.
A moment later, having decided that Sean was harmless, the mouse went directly to the morsel of food and began to nibble. Still alert for enemies, but its wariness blunted by haste to finish the food before something else took it, the mouse ate rapidly. No longer could it wholeheartedly devote every sense to looking for enemies.
The second the mouse finished the food, Sean left the ground. Almost without effort, his graceful legs seeming to uncoil from his wonderful body, he went upward and outward. In a flurry of panic, the mouse turned to run.
The red-gold of Sean’s body flashed in the sunlight, and reflected amber tints as the sun struck his fur. His ivory-fanged jaws, strong as a wolf’s, opened and snapped shut a hair’s breadth behind the fleeing mouse.
Sean snuffled under the kennel; the mouse had escaped him but not by very much. Then he relaxed in his run, an impish grin spreading his jaws. It had been great fun.
For a few minutes he padded idly about the run, inspecting all over again corners that he had investigated twice a thousand times. So long had he lived here, and so well did he know the place, that he was familiar with every strand of wire, every post, and even every nail and knothole in the posts and the few rust spots on the wire. He knew almost every clod of dirt and every paw print.
He liked none of it. The time he must spend in the run was always a boring time. The brightest spot in his day was the hour when Billy Dash, the kennel boy, took him out for exercise.
Suddenly Sean walked eagerly to the end of his run and pushed his nose against the wire. His tongue lolled so that the pink tip protruded between his polished teeth, and his mouth formed a doggy smile. His brown eyes glinted with life, his ears were alert and his tail wagged happily back and forth. Another break had come in his monotonous day.
The meadow in which the kennels were built was part of a spacious valley. Forested mountains rose on either side, and at one end of the meadow a dirt road led down to the luxurious estate of Mr. Haggin, the wealthy man who owned the clearing, the kennels, all the dogs except Big Red, and the trim hunting lodge. Vaguely Sean recalled when there had been a rough mountaineer’s cabin in place of the lodge, and a barn instead of kennels. At that time he had lived with his brother and three sisters in a crude pen made of chicken wire. Now the dogs lived in roomy kennels, while Danny Pickett and his father, Ross, who were in charge of the kennels, lived in the lodge.
But the mighty Wintapi wilderness that stretched away on all sides had not been changed, nor would it ever be. The towering summit of Stoney Lonesome still rose majestically in the haze-shrouded distance, and beyond that there was an almost endless succession of rolling, wooded mountains. Bear, deer, elk, lynx, game of all kinds, roamed in those fastnesses. The wilderness was also the haunt of numerous fur animals which, in the old days, had provided a living for Danny Pickett and his father.
Sean’s inte
rest had been aroused by the fact that Danny Pickett was now swinging down a mountain trail into the clearing. The big red dog was unable to see Danny, but his scent was very plain. So were the odors of the two Irish Setters with him. One was Big Red, the other was Mike, Sean’s blood brother.
Sean stood perfectly still, drinking in the luscious scents and drooling a little at the mouth. Deep as the heart within him was a longing to get out into the mountains, to hunt and frolic as Mike and Red did. So intense was this desire that Sean thought of little else, and fretted because he was not permitted to go.
Born to hunt, and to be the companion of some human being who liked to hunt, he had all the fine instincts of a hunter. But it was Sean’s misfortune that he had also been born with an almost perfect body. His head seemed molded by some master artist. His spine and back and massive chest were ideally formed, and his tail was a graceful brush that drooped in precisely the right curve.
Sean was a show dog. Far too valuable to risk in the wilderness, he was fast making his mark in the world of dog shows. Though he was not yet two years old, he had won easily in every class in which he had been entered. He was certain to win his championship and equally certain, at the very least, to give the national bench champions some stiff competition.
He cared nothing about that, nothing about the imposing array of ribbons and cups he had already won for Mr. Haggin. He knew the show routine as well as the various handlers who took him into the ring. Almost Sean knew just what the judges wanted him to do next, and he never needed prompting to assume the correct stance. Still, from Sean’s viewpoint, it was a very boring routine.
Sheilah, Sean’s mother and now the mother of another litter of champions, ambled gracefully across the meadow to meet Danny, Red, and Mike. Sean whined anxiously. Woodsy smells, the enchanting scent of deep and seldom-visited places, clung to Danny and to the two dogs that had been out with him. Sean gave voice to a hopeful little bark, wanting to attract Danny’s attention. At the same time, he knew the futility of such pleading. A hundred times he had tried it, with seldom a response.
Sean, like most dogs, was fond of Danny. But within his heart was a great empty space, and with a dog’s inborn wisdom he knew that Danny would never fill that space. Danny’s first love was still Big Red. His second was Mike, Sean’s runt brother who never in his life would win first or even fourth place in any show. No true dog-lover’s heart is big enough to enfold three dogs and to give all three an equal place. Irish Setters, who give all of themselves when they select a master, expect the master to give all in return. Nothing else will do.
With all of his full heart Sean longed for companionship such as Red and Mike had found. Anything less could not possibly be enough. Not just any human being, but one certain human, was what Sean desperately wanted.
His tail stopped wagging as Danny entered the handsome hunting lodge. Red and Mike, tired after their long walk in the mountains, stretched full length on the porch and slept. Sheilah, who was never chained or penned, joined them. A little on the timid side, the dainty Sheilah never went anywhere unless she was accompanied by either Danny or Ross Pickett. She preferred Ross because, from the very first, Sheilah had formed an attachment for him as strong as the love Red had for Danny. Independent Mike divided his affections between them.
Sean wandered to the far end of his run, sniffed halfheartedly at an ant that was crawling up the wall of his kennel, and swung hopefully to look toward the house. When Danny did not reappear, he lay down and dozed for a few minutes.
He awakened suddenly, fascinated by a scent that tickled his nostrils. But he did not at once raise his head or make any motion that might betray his presence. Thus he revealed more of his inherited wisdom. Anything that moved swiftly or jerkily was easy to discover, but a creature that lay still was very hard to see. Sean remained motionless, wanting to discover just what had interested him before he revealed his presence.
The scent continued to drift into his nose: a delicious, savory, soul-satisfying smell. Sometimes, when Danny or another hunter came in with grouse or quail, Sean had noticed a very similar odor. But always it had been at a distance. This was very near.
Sean rose slowly. His head was erect, his ears pricked, his eyes alight. For a moment he stood very still, drinking in heady draughts of the entrancing scent. Then he followed his nose toward it. At the end of his run he was halted by the wire, and previous experience had taught him well that there was no way through or around that. Sean pushed his nose against the steel mesh and peered at the source of the scent.
Fifteen feet away a land terrapin—a small turtle—was chewing at a cluster of white mushrooms that had sprung up during the night. It stood there, armored shell protecting it, wrinkled legs pushed out as far as they would go, and horny head raised high to get at the best and choicest parts of the delicacy. The turtle, which knew very well that it need fear no enemy because it was protected by a coat of mail, had no thought save filling its belly. It did not have to think of anything except eating.
Sean was puzzled. The little terrapin bore not the slightest resemblance to a grouse, quail, pheasant, or other game bird. Yet the scent was much the same as a game bird’s and it was certainly the odor that had attracted Sean. It was fascinating, the most intriguing scent that had ever blown into his nostrils.
Head pressed firmly against the wire, Sean studied the terrapin intently. The odor set his brain on fire; somehow he must get nearer the source of such a delicious thing. Yet there was no way. Sean whined and stepped back to paw at the wire.
He knew very well when Billy Dash, the kennel boy, emerged from a shed at the far end of the row of kennels. He still kept all his attention riveted on the terrapin and still wished that he knew some way to make it come to him. Try as he would, there just was no way. Sean turned his head to greet Billy Dash briefly and returned his attention to the turtle.
“Dog, you found somethin’ you like, huh?”
The words were softly spoken, almost whispered, but they were remarkable because, when he was talking with another human being, Billy Dash seldom uttered three words in succession. He wouldn’t talk even to Danny Pickett, his best friend. But when no one else was around he would talk by the hour to Sean.
“I reckon,” Billy Dash said, “that I’ll just take tem’tation right out of youah way. Then you won’t have to fret you’self.”
The lean hill youngster stooped, grasped the little terrapin by its hard shell, and picked it up. Legs searching futilely for a foothold and waving in all directions because they could not find any, the terrapin seemed a weird caricature of some huge and misshapen beetle as Billy Dash bore it away into the grassy field. He left his catch there and returned to Sean’s kennel.
The watching dog saw a whip-thin youngster of about nineteen. A shock of brown hair, badly in need of cutting, tumbled down the side of Billy’s head. His nose curved like a hawk’s beak, his mouth was full and sensitive, and his eyes were as gentle and deep as a newborn fawn’s. Yet, about him was a firm look that spoke of determination and courage.
Before coming to work for Danny, Billy Dash had lived where only the strong and quick survive. The youngest of ten children, he had been born back in the Wintapi wilderness. No roads led to his birthplace, only trails and footpaths, unknown to any save native mountaineers. Two clearings away lived Billy’s Uncle Hat and his six male cousins, a quarrelsome, gun-happy tribe, not one of whom had ever done an honest day’s work. Rather, they made periodic forays to hill farms and villages and stole whatever took their fancy. Fighting, with guns, knives, fists, or feet, was their principal recreation, and almost always they had a minor feud going with some other mountain clan. Occasionally the two Dash families conducted their own private feuds.
It was from such a place that Danny had brought Billy Dash to act as his kennel boy. Billy’s present job was to clean the kennels and feed and exercise the dogs. But he would go beyond that. He was that rare person who has an inborn liking for and understanding of
dogs. He seemed to know what they would have liked to tell him.
Turning occasionally toward the place where the terrapin had been, and where its odor still lingered, Sean watched with great pleasure as Billy Dash returned. Of all the humans he had ever met he liked Billy the best. There was something about the young hill man that struck a responsive chord deep within the big Irish Setter, but he had never bridged the gap completely. Between himself and Billy Dash there remained a barrier that Sean could sense but not understand. Billy grinned at him.
“Had you’self a time, Dog?”
Sean reared against the wire and bent a blissful head on Billy’s chest. Gently, knowing exactly the right places, Billy tickled his ears with supple fingers. Sean sighed happily. This was what he wanted and liked. Gladly he would have given his whole heart to Billy Dash.
There remained the barrier, the wall that he was unable to break down. Sean could not possibly know that Billy Dash himself had built that wall, and for a good reason.
To Billy Dash this job was a Heaven-sent opportunity. He had a good bed in a clean house, as much wholesome food as he could eat, work that he loved, and seventy-five dollars a month to call his own. Few Wintapi hill men ever achieved so much. But the world of show dogs was outside Billy’s ken.
The dogs he had known all his life, some of whom had been magnificent hunters, were curs and hounds that the mountaineers had used to course game. Almost never did a hill man buy a dog. Usually there was a nursing litter that would, in time, replace those killed by some fierce beast. If a mountaineer did take a fancy to a dog that he did not already own, he bartered, fought for it, or, all else failing, stole it. Surrounded by show dogs, any one of which was worth almost as much as he earned in a year, was too much for Billy Dash. He loved the Irish Setters, and was proud of his job, but he had been very careful not to win the affections of any dog because Danny or Mr. Haggin might not like it.
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