Authors: Phyllis Reynolds Naylor
Shiloh
SHILOH
ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2000 by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
A
THENEUM
B
OOKS FOR
Y
OUNG
R
EADERS
is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at
www.simonspeakers.com
.
Also available in a hardcover edition.
Book design by Joyce White
The text for this book is set in Goudy.
0110 OFF
First paperback edition September 2000
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Naylor, Phyllis Reynolds.
Shiloh / by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor.â1st ed.     p.     cm.
Summary: When he finds a lost beagle in the hills behind his West Virginia home, Marty tries to hide it from his family and the dog's real owner, a mean-spirited man known to shoot deer out of season and to mistreat his dogs.
ISBN 978-0-689-31614-2 (hc)
[1. DogsâFiction. 2. AnimalsâTreatmentâFiction. 3. West VirginiaâFiction.] I. Title.     PZ7.N24Sq     1991
[Fic]âdc20Â Â Â Â Â 90-603
ISBN 978-0-689-83582-7 (pbk)
To Frank and Trudy Madden
and a dog named Clover
CHAPTER 1
T
he day Shiloh come, we're having us a big Sunday dinner. Dara Lynn's dipping bread in her glass of cold tea, the way she likes, and Becky pushes her beans up over the edge of her plate in her rush to get 'em down.
Ma gives us her scolding look. “Just once in my life,” she says, “I'd like to see a bite of food go direct from the dish into somebody's mouth without a detour of any kind.”
She's looking at me when she says it, though. It isn't that I don't like fried rabbit. Like it fine. I just don't want to bite down on buckshot, is
all, and I'm checking each piece.
“I looked that rabbit over good, Marty, and you won't find any buckshot in that thigh,” Dad says, buttering his bread. “I shot him in the neck.”
Somehow I wish he hadn't said that. I push the meat from one side of my plate to the other, through the sweet potatoes and back again.
“Did it die right off?” I ask, knowing I can't eat at all unless it had.
“Soon enough.”
“You shoot its head clean off?” Dara Lynn asks. She's like that.
Dad chews real slow before he answers. “Not quite,” he says, and goes on eating.
Which is when I leave the table.
The best thing about Sundays is we eat our big meal at noon. Once you get your belly full, you can walk all over West Virginia before you're hungry again. Any other day, you start out after dinner, you've got to come back when it's dark.
I take the .22 rifle Dad had given me in March on my eleventh birthday and set out up the road to see what I can shoot. Like to find me an apple hanging way out on a branch, see if I can bring it down. Line up a few cans on a rail fence and shoot 'em off. Never shoot at anything moving, though. Never had the slightest wish.
We live high up in the hills above Friendly, but hardly anybody knows where that is. Friendly's
near Sistersville, which is halfway between Wheeling and Parkersburg. Used to be, my daddy told me, Sistersville was one of the best places you could live in the whole state. You ask
me
the best place to live, I'd say right where we are, a little four-room house with hills on three sides.
Afternoon is my second-best time to go up in the hills, though; morning's the best, especially in summer. Early,
early
morning. On one morning I saw three kinds of animals, not counting cats, dogs, frogs, cows, and horses. Saw a groundhog, saw a doe with two fawns, and saw a gray fox with a reddish head. Bet his daddy was a gray fox and his ma was a red one.
My favorite place to walk is just across this rattly bridge where the road curves by the old Shiloh schoolhouse and follows the river. River to one side, trees the otherâsometimes a house or two.
And this particular afternoon, I'm about halfway up the road along the river when I see something out of the corner of my eye. Something moves. I look, and about fifteen yards off, there's this shorthaired dogâwhite with brown and black spotsânot making any kind of noise, just slinking along with his head down, watching me, tail between his legs like he's hardly got the right to breathe. A beagle, maybe a year or two old.
I stop and the dog stops. Looks like he's been
caught doing something awful, when I can tell all he really wants is to follow along beside me.
“Here, boy,” I say, slapping my thigh.
Dog goes down on his stomach, groveling about in the grass. I laugh and start over toward him. He's got an old worn-out collar on, probably older than he is. Bet it belonged to another dog before him. “C'mon, boy,” I say, putting out my hand.
The dog gets up and backs off. He don't even whimper, like he's lost his bark.
Something really hurts inside you when you see a dog cringe like that. You know somebody's been kicking at him. Beating on him, maybe.
“It's okay, boy,” I say, coming a little closer, but still he backs off.
So I just take my gun and follow the river. Every so often I look over my shoulder and there he is, the beagle. I stop; he stops. I can see his ribsânot real badâbut he isn't plumped out or anything.
There's a broken branch hanging from a limb out over the water, and I'm wondering if I can bring it down with one shot. I raise my gun, and then I think how the sound might scare the dog off. I decide I don't want to shoot my gun much that day.
It's a slow river. You walk beside it, you figure it's not even moving. If you stop, though, you can
see leaves and things going along. Now and then a fish jumpsâbig fish. Bass, I think. Dog's still trailing me, tail tucked in. Funny how he don't make a sound.
Finally I sit on a log, put my gun at my feet, and wait. Back down the road, the dog sits, too. Sits right in the middle of it, head on his paws.
“Here, boy!” I say again, and pat my knee.
He wiggles just a little, but he don't come.
Maybe it's a she-dog.
“Here, girl!” I say. Dog still don't come.
I decide to wait the dog out, but after three or four minutes on the log, it gets boring and I start off again. So does the beagle.
Don't know where you'd end up if you followed the river all the way. Heard somebody say it curves about, comes back on itself, but if it didn't and I got home after dark, I'd get a good whopping. So I always go as far as the ford, where the river spills across the path, and then I head back.
When I turn around and the dog sees me coming, he goes off into the woods. I figure that's the last I'll see of the beagle, and I get halfway down the road again before I look back. There he is. I stop. He stops. I go. He goes.
And then, hardly thinking on it, I whistle.
It's like pressing a magic button. The beagle comes barreling toward me, legs going lickety-split,
long ears flopping, tail sticking up like a flagpole. This time, when I put out my hand, he licks all my fingers and jumps up against my leg, making little yelps in his throat. He can't get enough of me, like I'd been saying no all along and now I'd said yes, he could come. It's a he-dog, like I'd thought.
“Hey, boy! You're really somethin' now, ain't you?” I'm laughing as the beagle makes circles around me. I squat down and the dog licks my face, my neck. Where'd he learn to come if you whistled, to hang back if you didn't?
I'm so busy watching the dog I don't even notice it's started to rain. Don't bother me. Don't bother the dog, neither. I'm looking for the place I first saw him. Does he live here? I wonder. Or the house on up the road? Each place we pass I figure he'll stopâsomebody come out and whistle, maybe. But nobody comes out and the dog don't stop. Keeps coming even after we get to the old Shiloh schoolhouse. Even starts across the bridge, tail going like a propeller. He licks my hand every so often to make sure I'm still thereâmouth open like he's smiling. He
is
smiling.
Once he follows me across the bridge, though, and on past the gristmill, I start to worry. Looks like he's fixing to follow me all the way to our house. I'm in trouble enough coming home with my clothes wet. My ma's mama died of
pneumonia, and we don't ever get the chance to forget it. And now I got a dog with me, and we were never allowed to have pets.
If you can't afford to feed 'em and take 'em to the vet when they're sick, you've no right taking 'em in, Ma says, which is true enough.
I don't say a word to the beagle the rest of the way home, hoping he'll turn at some point and go back. The dog keeps coming.
I get to the front stoop and say, “Go home, boy.” And then I feel my heart squeeze up the way he stops smiling, sticks his tail between his legs again, and slinks off. He goes as far as the sycamore tree, lies down in the wet grass, head on his paws.
“Whose dog is that?” Ma asks when I come in.
I shrug. “Just followed me, is all.”
“Where'd it pick up with you?” Dad asks.
“Up in Shiloh, across the bridge,” I say.
“On the road by the river? Bet that's Judd Travers's beagle,” says Dad. “He got himself another hunting dog a few weeks back.”
“Judd got him a hunting dog, how come he don't treat him right?” I ask.
“How you know he don't?”
“Way the dog acts. Scared to pee, almost,” I say.
Ma gives me a look.
“Don't seem to me he's got any marks on him,”
Dad says, studying him from our window.
Don't have to mark a dog to hurt him, I'm thinking.
“Just don't pay him any attention and he'll go away,” Dad says.
“And get out of those wet clothes,” Ma tells me. “You want to follow your grandma Slater to the grave?”
I change clothes, then sit down and turn on the TV, which only has two channels. On Sunday afternoons, it's preaching and baseball. I watch baseball for an hour. Then I get up and sneak to the window. Ma knows what I'm about.
“That Shiloh dog still out there?” she asks.
I nod. He's looking at me. He sees me there at the window and his tail starts to thump. I name him Shiloh.
S
unday-night supper is whatever's left from noon. If nothing's left over, Ma takes cold cornmeal mush, fries up big slabs, and we eat it with Karo syrup. But this night there's still rabbit. I don't want any, but I know Shiloh does.
I wonder how long I can keep pushing that piece of rabbit around my plate. Not very long, I discover.
“You going to eat that meat, or you just playing with it?” Dad asks. “If you don't want it, I'll take it for lunch tomorrow.”
