A Wolf in God’s Country "The third book in the Wolf series"

By A. W. Sibley

A Wolf in God’s Country is the story of Dub, a little white haired country boy, who is reaching for manhood. Fettered by a lack of boyhood friends, he must fill the void in his life with something. What better to fill that void, than the companionship of the creatures of nature? The story chronicles their exciting and sometimes dangerous adventures.

Since there were no dams on the Sabine River, the danger of repeated flooding prevented the building of permanent structures such as homes. This absence of human habitat with its peace and quiet was a sanctuary to any seeking refuge. The plentiful supply of wild game, nuts, fruits and vegetables made survival a simple thing. Good potable water was readily available in every hollow. To the soul of a kid who loved silent places, the river bottom took on the appearance of being God's country.
In time, the coming of the lumber industry, with its massive logging operations changed the landscape forever. Little river rat kids and their playmates were trampled by collective feet in a rush to riches. With little of that world now remaining, the adventures of Dub, his dog Ring and his horse Honey Gal are remembrances of a time long past—a simple time of childhood treasures and adventure.

This is a heartwarming story of a red blooded American boy and his childhood with Honey Gal & Ring by his side.
Come with me down memory lane and lets enjoy a brief return to an era long past, of simpler times and simple pleasures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Apr 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781621833574

A. W. Sibley

Dr. Sibley was born and raised in the small town of Negreet, Louisiana. After serving in the U.S. Army he attended McNeese State University in Lake Charles, Louisiana, and Loyola University in New Orleans where he obtained his Doctorate in Dentistry. Dr. Sibley spent his career working as a country dentist in rural Louisiana. When not at the dental office, he enjoyed spending his off hours in the pursuit of various activities included farming, raising horses, cattle, developing land, hunting, fishing, and raising kids. Raising four children with his wife Margaret, he retired from dentistry and resides in Merryville, Louisiana and enjoys farming and writing. His first published work “A Wolf Called Ring” was released in 2014, receiving much acclaim in the literary market, and even hailed as a modern day Mark Twain. His second work “A Filly Called Honey Gal” was released in 2015, followed by “A Wolf in God’s Country” in 2016, “Dub’s Misadventures” and “Home Again” in 2017. Hawgs, Dawgs and Freedom is a departure from The Wolf series. A heartfelt story of a man’s life. A story that shows life is what man makes of it, not what life makes of man. A story of how despair can be set aside with laughter. A story about the class of people who made the United States of America the land of the free and the home of the brave. Visit Dr. Sibley. at: https://www.docsibley.com

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A Wolf in God’s Country

The third book in the Wolf series

Dr. A.W. Sibley

Brighton Publishing LLC

435 N. Harris Drive

Mesa, AZ 85203

www.BrightonPublishing.com

ISBN13: 978-1-62183-357-4

Copyright © 2016

eBook

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover Design: Tom Rodriguez

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction based upon real life experiences. The characters in this book are fictitious and the creation of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to other characters or to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Preface

The deep forest of the Sabine River bottom in the late 1930s and early 40s was composed mostly of hardwoods such as century old white oak, red oak, cypress, and magnolia. Pin oaks were in abundance in the common flats. Nut-bearing trees such as hickory, black walnut, pignut, chinquapin and native pecan covered the ridge tops. The more open flats were home to huge beech trees whose seed rival the chinquapin for flavor. Ages old long-leaf pines were scattered randomly along the more open hillsides. Long-leaf pine seed was a main food source for the wild turkey as well as the bobwhite quail. The whole river bottom, along with creeks that ran into the river, was a giant potential source of food for the animals living there. During the years when the mast crops were plentiful, wildlife such as deer, turkey, coon, rabbits, squirrels, and fox flourished. Predatory animals such as the big cats were scarce, mainly because earlier settlers had killed them.

West central Louisiana provided rainfall in good supply to a wide variety of plant life in the bottomlands. Low places called baygalls with their stands of centuries old cypress trees were common. Water stood from knee deep to twenty feet in the baygalls year around. Scattered profusely over the bottomlands were sloughs and canebrake thickets. Any place water did not stand continuously; saw briars created another type of thicket called a tight eye. Acres and acres of these two thickets were the home of monstrous canebrake rattlesnakes and feral hogs.

Since there were no dams on the Sabine River, danger of routine flooding prevented the building of permanent structures such as homes. This absence of human habitat with its peace and quiet was a sanctuary to any seeking refuge. The plentiful supply of wild game, nuts, fruits and vegetables made survival a simple thing. Good potable water was readily available in every hollow. All else that was needed was a supply of salt stashed in waterproof spots along the creeks that flowed into the river. To the soul of a kid who loved silent places, the river bottom took on the appearance of being God's country.

In time, the coming of the lumber industry, with its massive logging operations changed the landscape forever. Little river rat kids and their playmates were trampled by collective feet in a rush to riches.

In the setting described, a little white haired country boy, is reaching for manhood. Fettered by a lack of boyhood friends with similar backgrounds, he must fill the void in his life with something, because all of nature abhors a vacuum. What better to fill that void than the companionship of creatures of Nature? What better to bridge the chasm than the wisdom of mentor and friend, old black man Alf and the natural instincts of a horse and dog?

But animals don’t come into this world mature in mind and body. Some scientists tell us that the intelligence of animals such as dogs and horses is directly dependent upon how much time that animal spends in close relationship with a reasonably intelligent master. If that is true, all I should have to do is tell my dog Ring over and over that the stove is hot, don’t touch it. If I repeat the message enough and he understands what I say, he should heed my words.

I have a little machine that I take out on my back porch and tell it to call my brother’s machine in Ohio, and within minutes; we talk. Our little machines toss our words half way across the continent in the blink of an eye. If this little artificial brain designed by man can do that, isn’t it possible that a brain designed by God could enable the exchange of thought between a little boy and his animal friends?

Come with me down memory lane and lets enjoy a brief return to times when all running water was safe to drink, the soft song of the whippoorwill was everywhere and the eerie scream of the barred owl was commonplace.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to my wonderful wife, Margaret, who continues to encourage and help me with my writing.

Thanks also to our daughter, Lisa, for her valuable technical assistance.

Charles, thanks for again coming through with much appreciated advice and research.

Dedication

To my parents, V.C. and Etta Sibley, who allowed me the freedom and time in the deep forest where I developed a determination to meet life head on and the grit to survive any consequences.

Also to my Lord Jesus Christ who I feel has put his stamp of approval on my life.

The Lord Is My Shepherd

A Psalm of David

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:

he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul:

he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness

for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the

shadow of death,

I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;

thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence

of mine enemies:

thou anointest my head with oil;

my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me

all the days of my life:

and I will dwell in the house

of the LORD forever.

Chapter One

After Ring, my wolf-dog returned home, we were separated only by necessity such as school and sleep. He had been stolen and now that we were reunited, in my mind I thought we could make up for the time he was gone. Of course, there is no such thing, but that didn’t keep us from trying. We crammed as much into each day as time and energy allowed. Just being together turned work into fun and sometimes an adventure.

By the time I was ten years old, I had read all the books I could find about the far North Country. One I read repeatedly was White Fang by Jack London because the dog in the story reminded me so much of my Ring. That dog was so helpful that if his master dropped his glove, the dog caught the glove and returned it to him. It seemed like such a good idea that I decided to see if Ring could learn to retrieve. I had no doubt of the outcome because I knew my Ring had above average intelligence.

As I walked toward the spring where the plow stock watered, I pulled an old rag out of my pocket and dropped it in the trail. It worked slicker than goose grease; he picked it up and brought it to me. I praised him and rewarded him with a piece of fried bacon. Next came lessons on retrieving using an old ball. I could throw the ball up in the air; I just couldn't throw it away. If I tried, Ring picked it up and carried it until I took it back. From then on, if he found anything that had my scent on it, he fetched it along until he found a chance to give it to me. At least I thought he did.

One day I was enjoying a little free time with Ring and Honey Gal, my horse. By free time I mean I was not doing chores or anything meaningful. That particular day, while we were out roaming, Ring bayed a lone male pig that weighted about fifteen pounds. I knew it belonged to Dad because Dad's mark was in its ear. Sometimes when Dad was ear marking a bunch, he would let a male get lose that should have been castrated. I knew Dad wanted that one changed so I had Ring catch and hold the pig's head while I changed it. It wasn't a big deal, we had had that same rodeo before.

Since it was near sundown and we were a good ways from home, I jumped on Honey Gal, whistled to Ring and hit a run for home. As we started in the lot gate, I checked my jeans pocket for my pocketknife. My heart fell to the ground - my Remington three-blade knife was gone. That won't mean much to most, but the loss of my knife was like a death knell to me. Next to Ring and Honey Gal, that knife was my most prized possession.

After I put Honey Gal through the gate, I fell to my knees crying. I just couldn't help myself. Hopefully, nobody was around to tell Dad. I thought about riding back to where I changed the shoat but Honey Gal started nudging me with her nose. She was making the special humming noise in her throat that she made when she wanted my attention. She was watching Ring trot up. For some reason he had been dawdling behind. He had a big smile on his face and something in his mouth. Even before he reached us, somehow, I knew he had my pocketknife.

He spit the filthy thing out in front of me and grinned as if he had performed some great service. Overcome with joy, I hugged my dog and rolled in the dust of the barn lot with him. Not to be left out, Honey Gal took a roll too. I think my sneaky dog carried my pocketknife all the way home just to get my goat. Normally when he picked up something I had dropped, he came immediately, reared up on my leg and gave the object to me. That even applied to tools I left behind where I worked around the farm.

One day I had the hot, tiring job of plowing some new ground, getting it ready for a first planting. I was using our trusty plow mule Jim and the Georgia stock. All I had on was a pair of blue jeans and I had my knife in my left pocket because I had my slingshot and marble ammunition in the right pocket. When we got to the field, I needed my new knife for something and it was gone. I left Jim asleep. I knew he would stand right where I left him until dark. Ring and I carefully searched the trail all the way back to the house, a little over a mile. I had already promised myself that I’d commit suicide if I failed to find my knife.

We failed to find my knife, so back to the field we went. I give Ring a pretty good scolding about being so sorry that he would bring all kinds of trash to me but couldn't find my knife. He just stood and stared at me with a miserable look on his face before dropping his head down and laying down by my water jug and dinner pail. Sometime I had to make him guard my lunch so some varmint wouldn’t get it.

I plowed all the morning and as I parked ol’ Jim to eat my meal of bacon and biscuit, I missed my knife more and more. When I got a drink of water from my water jug, I poured a lid full for Ring. He opened his mouth to drink and spit my knife out on the ground. Either that sorry wart went back and found it or he had it ever since we went looking earlier that morning. Either way, I got him down on his back and I scratched his belly until he laughed out loud, we both had a happy fit. Even ol’ Jim brayed at us as we wrestled around, thinking maybe we were fighting.

Pocketknives played an important part in the lives of the boys where I attended school at Negreet. It was customary for all the boys to bring their pocketknives to school, usually a two or three bladed one. At recess, all the boys got together outside and played mumblety-peg, which is nothing in the world but flipping a two or three bladed knife up in the air and see which blade, if any, sticks in the ground. The game is scored by that.

Several years previously, Dad and I were in town and stopped at Mr. Harvey's service station because Dad and Mr. Harvey were the best of friends. Dad told Mr. Harvey that I was going to start school in a few days and as soon as he got the money he was going to buy me a knife. While the friends visited, I stood at a display case in the office that held Remington pocketknives. Well, I drooled all over the showcase until I had the glass wet, but man, those things cost a fortune and we just didn't have the money. Dad and I looked at the knives anyway. We talked about which one would do for me to mark a hog, knowing all along that we never would be able to get any such a knife. Mr. Harvey listened to that a few minutes before he walked over and put his arm around me and asked, Little Sib, which one did you think would fill the bill?

In the case was one similar the one Dad owned. When Dad sharpened his knife, it held a razor-sharp edge for a long time. Dad's knife had a black handle, so I picked one with a pearl handle. Man! That knife looked like a million dollars to me. Mr. Harvey reached into the case and handed the knife to me. At least he tried - I froze completely and wouldn't take the knife from him. I really thought I was dreaming so I ran in the restroom and shut the door to squall in peace.

I said, Lord, I know all things have a purpose but I don't like any such dream, it hurts too much. You see, Mom had told me all dreams come from the Good Lord.

Dad came to the door and talked me into coming out. I could tell from his voice he was ashamed of me; real men don't cry, at least not in public. Mr. Harvey didn't seem to care if I had tears on my face, he just picked me up and set me on his desk and opened that knife box for me. That day I became the proud owner of the three bladed Remington pocketknife that I carried many years. The only way my knife could have meant more to me was if it had possessed intelligence. It was enough that simply owning a knife made me feel about two feet taller.

My dog and horse had plenty of intelligence as far as I was concerned. They came to my rescue many times. One reason was because they always knew what was happening around home. If anything was going on, Honey Gal was right in the middle of it if at all possible. It didn't make any difference what it was.

Animals learn by watching other animals just as humans do in their association with other humans. Ring was no exception. He was taught some of the finer points of living with humans by watching his mother, Queen, Dad’s prized stock dog. By the time Queen was two years old, if someone went to whip a kid, first they had to tie up Queen. She just could not stand to hear a young’un cry. She would latch her front legs around a person, set flat down and hang on for dear life. And if that person had on long pants, like Dad did with his overalls, Queen liked to grab a mouth full of pants. Thankfully, she never bit anybody. If any whipping was done, it was done with Queen hanging on. Dad tried whipping her instead of the kid, but he had to finally give up on that.

Ring essentially took up the same thing and for a while the only way a young’un got a whipping around the Sibley farm, it was done in the outhouse or indoors. Even then lots of the time both dogs would stand outside and howl as long as the kid was crying. All the while, Honey Gal whistled from her stall.

One time our oldest sister was going to whip me and another sister, Gene for fighting in the cotton patch. (Being the oldest, Sister was in charge when Dad was not around) Gene was a little cantankerous when made to work in the field, so it was not unusual for a squabble to break out. Sister had to give it up, she couldn't catch us with Ring hanging on her leg. Of course, we caught it when we got to the cotton house.

I could understand how Ring could learn from Queen. What I couldn’t understand was how Honey Gal learned this wonderful benevolent act. The only way she could have learned was by seeing Ring or Queen in action. Over a period of several months, Honey Gal had seen every squabble among us kids at the barn. She always came trotting around to watch but she never became upset if it was just us kids. If an adult was involved, it was a different story. Lots of the time it was just a good talking to, but a raised voice and harsh talking toward a kid got the same result. So it was inevitable that my filly got in on the action.

One day Dad intended to whip Gene out at the barn for something she had done. Gene was squalling at the top of her lungs and Dad hadn't hit her the first time. Of course, all us kids thought that the louder we bawled the less the pain would be. It worked with Mother but wasn’t worth a hoot with Dad.

Honey Gal came trotting around the barn to see what the hullabaloo was about. She saw Gene getting her correction with Ring hanging on to one leg of Dad's overalls. Honey Gal ran to the bunch as if she meant to catch Dad by the leg with her teeth. She got him by the pants leg alright, but also stepped on his foot. Dad finally had to throw the plow line down and pry Ring loose.

By that time, I came to my senses and called Honey Gal. She dropped Dad's leg and ran to me, along with Ring. I could see both had that 'uh oh' look; they realized they had bit off more than they could chew. Honey Gal looked back over her shoulder at Dad and he said she looked so apologetic he had to laugh. He said later he ought to kill my mare, but he didn't mean it, he was just mad. Dad talked pretty rough to my little mare but he didn't whip her even though he had the bluest toes I ever saw.

Ring came to my aid not only at home but when we were out in the woods. He even tried to protect me from myself. For example, the time I got myself in trouble hunting squirrels. The day before Thanksgiving, I was sent out to kill some squirrels for the family Thanksgiving dinner. Dad and Grandpa wanted squirrel instead of pork roast, so Ring and I got our orders. I never considered hunting squirrels to be work, it was fun to me. This particular hunt that started out as fun became an adventure that turned into trouble.

I decided to let Honey Gal go with us. Early that morning we headed to a ridge where the chinquapin trees were really thick and nuts were falling off the trees. It was cold and cloudy, just a sit by the fire sort of day. Squirrels were everywhere, gathering nuts for a hard winter.

We picked a stand where fox squirrels were taking chinquapins downhill to their den. Then they ran on the ground back up to the top of the ridge for another load of mast. Ring and Honey Gal saw the squirrels on the ground and they turned their heads to look at me. When I looked in the direction they had looked, I saw the quarry and killed it on the ground. We worked well as a team. Ring waited for my command and if another squirrel didn't show up right away, I let Ring retrieve the dead one and pile it at my feet.

I need to brag here a little bit. Every squirrel was shot in the head, except for the last two. Mom wanted two shot in the body so she could have the heads to eat. We had nine big fox squirrels by 8:30. It was heading home time but the last one I shot for Mom didn't die right away. He lived long enough to run up the side of a big white oak and lodge out on the end of a limb. That wasn't a problem itself, the tree had plenty of limbs and was easy to climb. I almost ran up the tree and scooted out on the limb to throw the squirrel out to Ring. The problem came when I started back down, I couldn't turn around on the limb and when I backed up I caught my foot in the fork on a limb. I had on a pair of old brogan boots and jammed one in the fork. I was stuck, I couldn't even pull my foot out of the boot, the angle was all wrong.

In an effort to get free, I leaned over too far and fell off the limb. When I swung down under the limb I felt things tear in my knee and ankle. I hit the ground on my back instead of my head, so I just had the wind knocked out of me, which was bad enough. I thought Ring and Honey Gal both would drown me with slobber before I could catch a breath and yell at them. Any time I got knocked down all they could think of was to lick my face. I felt pretty good until I tried to get up. Man, talk about hurt, my knee hurt so bad I almost passed out, I sure did get dizzy. It hurt so badly when I put weight on it that I vomited my breakfast, and I never had done that before in my life.

Well, I tried to walk, but there was just no way. I had my squirrels in the game-sack Mom made for me so I tried letting Ring carry the sack while I crawled. Of some concern was the fog that was steadily settling in plus the temperature was falling. I gave up on trying to crawl and stood on one foot trying to figure a way to get on Honey Gal. I decided to send Ring on home with the game so it could be dressed and Mom would have it in time for dinner even if I didn't get home. Now, before anybody says anything, yes, I know it was crazy, but I hurt too bad to think clearly.

The fog was so thick it was dripping like rain and I could hardly see the trees. I began to realize I had a problem. We weren't more than three miles from home, but I wondered if even Ring could find us in the fog. By that time my leg was swelled so that I slit my pants leg with my pocketknife because the tight pants made the pain much worse. I tried letting Honey Gal drag me and it liked to have killed me. I took her with me and crawled to a big clay root that made a sort of back stop and got Honey Gal to lay down horse fashion across the open end. I laid down and put my head on her flank and got some ease. We watched the fog grow thicker. I kept thinking Ring would come with help just any time, of course with the fog so thick I really didn't know if we had been there two hours or twenty minutes, I told time by the sun and there was no sun.

Finally, for want of something to do, I blew my fist. Bless goodness! Ring trotted out of the fog with the game sack still in his mouth. Apparently, my faithful dog didn't trust Honey Gal to stay with me; he never went home. I tried again. Without scolding him, I told him what a grand friend he was and all such as that. He just looked back and forth at me and Honey Gal. I thought about crying or maybe cussing but I didn't think either one would move Ring, the Rock of Gibraltar.

It felt to me like it was getting dark. It was getting colder by the minute and I knew Honey Gal needed to get up, she had been trying to for a long time, so I clucked to her and she got up to stretch like she really enjoyed it. I decided to take a chance, I stood up on one leg and turned her toward home. Then I petted her and slapped her on the rump and said, Go home! She took off at a good trot, just like she understood what I meant.

I was freezing to death, so I got Ring to stretch out right close by that old clay bank and I crawled up as close to him as I could and went sound asleep. Although I was wet, I was warm, that black wolf gave off lots of body heat. I guess it must have been later than I thought when Honey Gal headed home because it was morning when I woke up and the fog was gone.

As soon as I felt Ring stir and raise his head to growl, I knew it meant help was coming. Honey Gal had found Dad and Queen searching several ridges over where they thought we were. I guess the front had moved through, it was colder than a frog, but it was a crystal clear day. We never did really know the whole story about why Honey Gal was so late finding help. Ol’ Alf said he heard her come in some time during the night and go to her stall. He thought that she had waited the night out and when nobody came to the barn the next morning she left in search of Dad and Queen. I personally think it was nearly daylight when I turned her loose to go for help but she hit Dad's and Queen's trail and never did get home.

Dad brought Jim, pulling the ground slide and took me home in style. Alf made me a crutch out of a tree limb that I could use to hobble around. It was two months before I got back the full use of my leg. I caused the family lots of worry and trouble. If it had not been for Honey Gal and Ring, I might have frozen to death. I don't think I would have made it through the night. I never realized how much heat a big wolf generated until I was hugged up under his belly.

Nearly every time I got into trouble, whether of my own making or someone else, it seemed like Ring or Honey Gal was Johnny on the spot to pull my chestnuts out of the fire.

The intelligence of my animals did not always determine the outcome of my encounters. If an eleven year old boy is involved, some common sense is needed somewhere in the equation. That is especially true if a stallion horse is also part of the equation.

Dad had such a horse, a big old sorrel stallion named Lily. Dad forbade me to get on him because he was iron-jawed and it took a lot more man than I was to hold that devil. I knew that stallion didn't like me, he tried to bite me or