Flashing Fangs

AS HAROLD entered the barber shop he stopped short in stunned surprise. “Why, hello, Mr. Hibbard,” he stammered, staring first at the shiny metal wheel chair and then at the happy face of its invalid occupant.

“Well, I’m certainly surprised to see you downtown,” he hurriedly added. “But it’s wonderful that you can get out this way.

And your chair—when did you get it? And where does” “Here, here,” laughed George Hibbard, as he bent his head forward so that the barber could run the clippers over his strong, sunburned neck. “Not so fast, my young friend. I’ll gladly answer your questions, but first I’m going to ask a few.

Aren’t you getting to be a regular summer visitor in Burns? Let me see; isn’t this your third summer in eastern Oregon? Why, I believe that you really like our little town of Burns.” “Oh, I do,” stoutly agreed Harold.

“I like the boys and girls and the people—they’re so friendly. And I especially like you, Mr. Hibbard. You’re always so pleasant and so much fun that I never think about your being paralyzed.

Well, I mean” His voice trailed off as he stopped in confusion. “That’s quite all right, Harold. You needn’t be embarrassed because you mentioned my paralyzed condition. Soon after my accident a number of years ago I made up my mind that if I lived I would never let people feel that I was essentially any different from anyone else.

I’ve been fortunate, too, for though I am paralyzed from my neck down I still have full control of my voice, my hearing, and my eyesight. Thus there are many things that I can enjoy. “But here, if you have time for a visit now, perhaps you’d like to push my chair up the hill to my home.

I’ll show you the motto of a famous group of people who are handicapped in everything but bravery of spirit, and then we’ll talk awhile. I’ll leave word here for Gene, my nephew, as he was coming back soon to take me home.” George Hibbard served as a rental librarian for the little Oregon city. As they entered his large, book-filled library bedroom, which overlooked the vast expanse of Harney Valley, he nodded his head toward a handlettered motto that hung near his bed.

“Read it aloud if you care to, Harold,” he said quietly. “It has been a constant inspiration to me, as I am sure that it has been to countless others.” “Never Martyrdom shall I seek; Never Sarcasm shall I speak; Never Ingratitude shall I show; Never Discontented shall I grow; Never Sympathy shall I desire; Never Self-pity shall I acquire. “Never Unhappiness shall I spread; Never Tears of Remorse shall I shed; Never Sorrow shall I sing; Never to Selfishness shall I cling; Never Criticism shall I write; Never of God shall I lose sight.”

Harold’s voice stopped, and he drew a deep breath before he again spoke. “Why, that’s a wonderful poem,” he volunteered soberly.

“And you’re just like that, too, Mr. Hibbard.” “Thank you, Harold, I’m afraid I’m not like that, although I try to be,” the librarian said quietly.

“But here. Do you remember the long, rubber-tipped stick which I hold in my mouth when reading and with which I turn the pages of the book or magazine?

Yes, I see that you do. Then you’ll be interested in knowing that I’ve found a further use for that trusty stick and for my good strong teeth.

Can you guess what it is?” “Another use?” Puzzled, the youthful visitor wrinkled his forehead and shook his head. “N-n-no, I can’t imagine.”

“Well, quite soon I expect to have my new electric typewriter, and as soon as it comes I’ll invite you over to watch me use it,” stated George. “Use a typewriter!” gasped Harold, sitting suddenly forward on his chair. “But—but how, when you can’t move your arms at all, and” “Didn’t I tell you that I’d found a further use for my trusty stick?” queried George, laughing heartily at Harold’s amazement.

“You mean you type with that?” the boy blurted out. “Correct! While visiting my sisters in Portland last summer I had an opportunity to use a borrowed electric typewriter. I sat up in my new wheel chair, held this rubber-tipped stick in my mouth, lightly touched it to the keys, and wrote for six hours the first day.

When I finished I was exhausted, but happier by far than I had been for years.” “Why, that’s wonderful!” exclaimed Harold. “But how did you ever get the idea of trying to do this?

I’d never have known enough to even try.” “A friend of mine who had attended a writers’ conference told me that there she had met an extremely talented crippled girl who had the use of just one finger for typing. She said that she was sure that I could do as well, and to my surprise I found that I really could type on one of these easily operated new machines. Certainly I shall be very happy when I own one.”

“Are you going to write any stories, Mr. Hibbard?” eagerly questioned Harold. “Last summer you said that you’d like to put down on paper some of your experiences. I think that the stories you’ve told me would make exciting reading for any boy or girl.

I’ve never forgotten ‘King and Queen Go Hunting,’ or the snake story, ‘Double Death.’ I’ve told them ever so many times.” “Yes, Harold, that’s just what I hope to do,” nodded George. “I don’t know about stories, but I’m going to try some nature articles.

Whatever I write will be true, however, for I don’t care to waste my time writing fiction. There are too many wonderful wildlife stories just waiting to be told.” “I know that,” solemnly agreed the visitor. “Do you remember that when I first met you I didn’t know anything about the out-of-doors?

Then you began telling me stories about snakes and deer and coyotes and Why, that reminds me! In school last term our teacher read us a story about Louis Pasteur and his discovery of a cure for hydrophobia. Right away I thought about you, and wondered if you’d ever seen a mad dog or a mad coyote. None of us had—not even our teacher.”

“Yes, Harold, as a matter of fact, I have,” said George rather soberly. “And it is a fearful sight—one that I would not care to see again. Would you like to hear the story?” “Oh, indeed I would,” eagerly assented Harold, drawing his chair as close as possible to George’s wheel chair.

“Please tell me.” “Well, this happened a number of years ago, long before you were born.

It was late in the fall. In fact, it lacked only a few weeks of being Christmas when that dreadful disease influenza began to strike down members of almost every Burns family.

“Today we speak of it as the flu. And today the patient calls his doctor, obtains one of the new miracle drugs, and recovers rapidly. But soon after World War I, when people in the United States first experienced a real influenza epidemic, to be ill with this disease was a matter of life or death.

Many people died, for there were no miracle drugs then, and nurses were scarce. Mother became very much alarmed, and insisted that she be allowed to take all of us children out of town to our small mountain cabin. “’You’ll have to stay here so that you can see as many of your dental patients as possible,’ she told my father, ‘and Roberta had better stay to cook for you. Every few days you can bring necessary supplies up as far as the pasture gate, and in that way we’ll manage all right.

I dare not expose the children to this epidemic. Several of them have had colds all fall and the influenza might prove fatal. I’m sure that it is best for us to go to the mountains.’ “After much discussion my father reluctantly agreed to this plan, and within a few days we had moved some miles out of town, up in the foothills of the Blue Mountains.

“By now the weather had turned very cold, and the older boys were kept busy chopping down small trees near the cabin, sawing and cutting them into stovewood lengths, and piling them in neat stacks against the outer cabin walls. Mother was determined to prepare for a real siege, if need be.” “Did you cut down any of the trees?” questioned Harold. “Oh, no.

I was very small then, but I felt that I was really doing most of the work when I went out and filled the chip basket with the fragments of wood and bark, which we used for kindling. You see, this was before our present days of automatic furnace heat and electric or gas ranges.

“It was also before the time of kitchen sinks and hot and cold running water in the average home. We had the running water all right, but it was in an icy mountain creek several hundred yards away.

I usually felt it my duty to go with the girls when they took the water buckets down to the willow-bordered stream to fill them and carry them back to the kitchen. Sometimes we had to crack the ice in order to dip those buckets into the creek.” “Br-r-r! That must have been cold work,” broke in Harold.

“It makes my teeth chatter just to think about it. All that work to get water! I guess I’ve never appreciated our water faucets as much as I should.” “You probably haven’t,” nodded the librarian.

“We often don’t appreciate the many conveniences that we now have until we realize that people lived—and many still do—without them. “But I must hurry on with my story.

I neglected to tell you that we took our young dog along with us when we left Burns. I guess that I was really responsible for including him in the family group. He was a fine sheep dog, and I had claimed him for my very own. During our waking hours we were inseparable, as we were during our sleeping hours, for nothing would do but that Shep must sleep on a clean gunny sack at the foot of my bed.

“Although at that time I was the baby of the family, mother never seemed the least bit nervous about having me outside, for Shep watched me with an eagle eye. And no small wild creature or stranger ever approached me without Shep barking a warning that all could hear. “On this particular day dad had come up as far as the pasture gate and had brought food and other provisions for us, as well as local news of interest to mother. She had gone down to meet and talk with him, for he did not want to come near us children, thinking that from contact with his patients he might carry upon him the dread influenza germs.

I can remember that she looked very sober-faced as she returned to the cabin, calling to the older boys to carry up the supplies and put them in the kitchen. But it was not until evening that she told us this news.

“’Children,’ she said, as we stood around the glowing, pot-bellied stove, ‘your father told me that another terrible disease has broken out in Harney County.’” “But what could be worse?” anxiously asked the young listener. “Didn’t you say that the influenza epidemic killed a number of people?” “Yes, Harold, it did,” nodded George, “but this other disease was the dreaded and terrible one that until a few years ago doomed its hundreds of victims to a certain, horrible end.

This disease was called rabies, or hydrophobia.” “Oo-h!” exclaimed the boy. “Now I understand. And it wasn’t until Louis Pasteur found a serum for the bite of a mad animal that anyone attacked could hope to be saved.

What an awful thing that must have been—to have had no hope of a cure.” “That is the very thing my mother mentioned that evening as she told us my father’s message. She warned us to be very careful to stay near the house. She told us we must not wander outside the fence except on necessary errands, and in that case the older boys would go armed.

Dad had told her that many rabid coyotes were running rampant through the fields and mountains, biting anything unfortunate enough to cross their paths. One of dad’s friends had narrowly escaped a sudden attack by his prize bull, which had suddenly gone mad. “Well, for a few days I was afraid to go outdoors. We kept Shep cooped up inside with us, too, but at last the dog became so restless that we mustered up enough courage to go out near the back porch.

Nothing occurred to frighten any of us, and as we saw no signs of any wild animals near the ranch, we gradually became bolder and bolder. It was not long before I completely forgot about any possible danger.

“On this particular early evening I had gone to the creek with Eugenia and Hazel, but when they started back to the house with the heavy, dripping water bucket sagging between them, I stayed by the water’s edge. Shep had spied a big gray jack rabbit and had started off in fast pursuit. By the time I had called and whistled him back to my side the girls had entered the house, so I decided to wander just a few steps farther along the creek bank.

“We walked farther than I had intended, when suddenly a low growl from Shep abruptly halted me. “’What is it, boy?’ I called. ‘Come on, Shep. That rabbit’s far away over the hills by this time.

Stop your growling and come along.’ Another louder growl from Shep was my answer. I looked intently at him and felt my heart beat faster as I noticed his stiff-legged pose and saw him bare his long white teeth. His brown eyes glared fiercely toward the woods which crowded down close to our small barn, and the hairs on the back of his neck fairly bristled. “’Come on, old boy.

Come here,’ I again commanded. But Shep paid no attention to me.

“’A sound caught my ears and I stopped dead still as the crashing noise of breaking bushes and tree branches echoed and re-echoed through the hills. Nearer and nearer it came, and Shep’s growls increased in fierceness and in volume. “’What can it be?’ I thought desperately. ‘A hungry bear?

A cougar?’ Even then the true explanation did not occur to me until all at once a rough, gray-furred animal staggered out of the willows. It bumped blindly against first one tree and then another, but still plunged onward in its mad flight.

Straight toward me it came, red eyes gleaming, hanging jaws covered with froth. “’I was absolutely frozen with fear. For the moment I couldn’t have moved if my life had depended upon it. I stood there for what seemed an eternity, while larger and larger loomed the rabid animal.

And then, just as Shep leaped forward, I heard my mother scream. “’Run, George. Run for your life.’ “’Her piercing cry broke through my spellbound fright so that just as Shep sprang at the raging coyote I turned and fled, sobbing with fright. “’Though I ran faster and faster, the cabin seemed to move farther and farther away, until I despaired of ever reaching its safety.

But reach home I did, to collapse into my mother’s waiting arms. Quickly she pulled me inside and bolted the door. “’Mother and all of us children huddled together while the fight raged outside. It was dreadful to listen to the snarls and growls of the brave dog and the mad coyote, and to feel the thud of their bodies as, time after time, they crashed against the cabin walls.

“’At last it was all over. Now the only sound outside was the rippling of the swift mountain stream as it rushed downhill and the faint, faraway eerie bark of a distant coyote. “’I’m going out, Mother. I’m going out there to get Shep,’ I wailed, as I raised my swollen, tear-stained face from mother’s lap.

“’Wait, dear,’ she counseled. ‘Wait awhile until we’re sure it’s safe to go.’ “’To the loud tick-tock of the old clock the minutes dragged slowly by. At last mother rose and crossed the room to the kitchen door. She reached up to the deerhorn wall rack and took down dad’s old gun.

“’I want all of you to stay in this room,’ she said. ‘Yes, you older children as well. I’m going to step out on the porch and look for Shep, but none of you are to come unless I call for you.

Do you understand?’ “’The older children nodded solemnly and I choked out a tearful ‘Yes, Mother,’ for I was just a small boy, and Shep was my dearest treasure. “’It seemed as though a long, long time passed by, but I suppose that in reality it was but a moment or so.

And then—we heard a shot. Just one shot! I screamed and clutched Eugenia, while the boys, forgetful of mother’s orders, ran outside.” “What—-what had happened?” stammered Harold breathlessly.

“A very wonderful and heart-touching thing had occurred,” gravely answered George. “When mother stepped out onto the back porch, the gun aimed at whatever danger might be in her way, she saw a sight that brought tears to her eyes.

There, near the back steps, mangled and dead, lay the body of the mad coyote, and halfway up the stairway, where he had crawled in his frantic desire to reach us, lay poor Shep, unconscious and bleeding. “’Mother has often said that she had never performed any harder task than that which she had to do at that time. Taking careful aim, she” “Shot Shep? Your mother shot the dog that had saved your life?

Oh, how could she! That was cruel,” exclaimed Harold, with tears in his own eyes. “I know how you feel, Harold,” nodded George, “for I was heartbroken when she told me.

It was a long time before I really recovered from my grief, but now I understand that what mother did was the kindest service that she could have performed for Shep. He was so badly injured that he could not have lived, and even if he had lived, he would have developed hydrophobia, for the coyote was mad.” “But couldn’t Shep have been given the Pasteur treatment?

Couldn’t something have been done for him?” protested Harold. “You must remember that we were miles from town, without telephone service and without transportation. And then it was a long and expensive journey from Burns to a large city where such a treatment at that time might have been available.

There were a number of good reasons why mother’s brave action was the only logical one, hard though it seemed to us then. “But Shep had a funeral—what we called a military funeral—for we fired a gun salute over his grave.

Then we made a wooden tombstone and carved his name deeply upon it. The weather-beaten letters are there to this day: “SHEP A BRAVE DOG HE DIED TO SAVE OTHERS “After this event we did not remain very long at the cabin, for mother was afraid that other rabid animals might come near.

As soon as dad made his next trip up to see us, we returned to town with him. Before we left, I cried again over Shep’s grave and vowed that I would never forget him.

And I never have, for he was in truth a noble creature and one who gladly laid down his life for his friends. “But, there, Harold, I’m afraid this story has been a sad one, and I don’t want you to think that all our summer visits will bring tears to your eyes.

Come over again soon, and I’ll tell you about the nest of gold that Eugenia found in the rimrock.’” “I surely will, Mr. Hibbard. And while your other stories may be more cheerful than this one, they surely can’t be any more thrilling,” said Harold. “My school friends will certainly sit up and take notice when I tell them your story of the ‘Flashing Fangs.’”