Old Yeller: Chapters 1-4

We called him Old Yeller. The name had a sort of double meaning. One part meant that his short hair was a dingy yellow, a color that we called “yeller” in those days. The other meant that when he opened his head, the sound he let out came closer to being a yell than a bark.

I remember his standing in front of the cabin with his horse saddled, his gun in his scabbard, and his bedroll tied on back of the cantle.

But mainly there’s the corn patch. If you don’t work it right or if you let the varmints eat up the roasting ears, we’ll be without bread corn for the winter.

They kept them as watchdogs against the depredations of loafer wolves, bears, panthers, and raiding Indians.

A big diamondback rattler struck at Papa and Papa chopped his head off with one quick lick of his scythe.

The head dropped to the ground three or four feet away from the writhing body.

As smart as Bell was, you’d have thought he’d have better sense than to go up and nuzzle that rattler’s head.

She said she named it the first day she and Papa got there, with Mama driving the ox cart loaded with our house plunder, and with Papa driving the cows and horses.

I got my knife out and cut a green mesquite sprout. I trimmed all the leaves and thorns off, then headed for him.

He came lunging up out of the pool, knocking water all over his clothes lying on the bank.

I poured the water into the ash hopper that stood beside the cabin.

That was so the water could trickle down through the wood ashes and become lye water. Later Mama would mix this lye water with hog fat and boil it in an iron pot when she wanted to make soap.

I’d taught Little Arliss and Jumper that I wasn’t to be trifled with.

It was such a surprise move, Little Arliss making fight at me that way, that I just stood there with my mouth open and let him clout me a good one before I thought to move.

It was good eating; but I’d had my appetite whetted for fried middling meat to go with it.

Then I got me a second rope and tied it tight around his middle, just back of his withers.

I rode to within a quarter of a mile of the Salt Licks, then left Jumper tied in a thicket and went on afoot.

I half circled the Licks till I had the breeze moving across them toward me and took cover under a wild grapevine that hung low out of the top of a gnarled oak.

I still didn’t think much of the idea of keeping him, but I guessed that when you are nearly a man, you have to learn to put up with a lot of aggravation from little old bitty kids.

The first rock I threw caught the big dog right between the eyes, and I was throwing hard. He went down, yelling and pitching and wallowing.

I hung the fresh cuts of venison up in the dog run, right where Old Yeller had stolen the hog meat the night he came.

Then he lifted his voice in a wild brassy blare that set echoes clamoring in the draws and canyons for miles around.

Our cabin stood on a high knoll about a hundred yards above the spring.

He was a leggy, mustard-colored bull with black freckles speckling his jaws and the underside of his belly.

He had one great horn set for hooking, while the other hung down past his jaw like a tallow candle that had drooped in the heat.

I was still astride the top rail when the struggling bulls crashed through the fence, splintering the posts and rails, and toppling me to the ground almost under them.

I was still astride the top rail when the struggling bulls crashed through the fence, splintering the posts and rails, and toppling me to the ground almost under them.

The hot, reeking scent of their blood was in my nose.

The bone-crashing weight of their hoofs was stomping all around and over me, churning up such a fog of dust that I couldn’t see a thing.

The rolling cart rattled and banged and careened its way down the slope till it was right beside the spring.