Free A Clearing in the forest by Gloria Whelan

that dripped down her nose and cheeks and mingled with her tears. On winter nights when the dog lay in front of the fireplace asleep, his legs moving as though he were running, little yelping sounds coming from his throat, what had he been dreaming?
    When she reached the cabin, she sensed something behind her and turned. The dog was there, his breast a bright red, like some exotic four-footed bird. At first she thought the blood was his, that in protecting the fawn, the doe had kicked the dog, slashing his chest with her sharp hoof. Frances started to run toward him. But, no, he was padding along briskly, his feet barely touching the ground, panting from the run, mouth open into a wide smile, tongue lolling out and dripping saliva. He stood before her, his tail wagging. It was not his blood.
    She grabbed him roughly by the collar, tied him to a tree, and washed off the blood by pouring buckets of water over him. His outraged yelps pleased her. She took longer than necessary. Little puddles of reddish water lay on the ground. Just as she finished, Wilson, driving his father’s truck, rounded the curve in the trail. The truck rose and plummeted in the deep ruts like a small boat on a stormy sea.
    Wilson climbed out of the truck. From a distance it looked as if she were giving the dog a bath. Then he saw Frances’s dirt- and tear-streaked face and the pools of red-tinted water around the dog’s feet.
    â€œThe dog ran a deer. A fawn I think. We’ll have to track it down, Wilson.” Before they started off after the fawn, Frances went to the closet where Tom’s hunting and fishing equipment were kept. Lately she had been thinking of giving it all to Wilson. He was becoming a competent fly fisherman and the gun he used for hunting was not as good as Tom’s. She found the rifle, loaded it, and handed it to Wilson, avoiding his eye. They walked past the dog, who was straining at his rope in a frantic effort to go with them. Neither looked at him.
    They followed his tracks in the sandy road to the point where he had left the woods. In the forest the trail was harder to find. There was often nothing more than a leaf tinged with red or a bracken stem broken in half. Sometimes they lost the trail, turning off the wrong way, and had to double back. Then Wilson saw a streak of blood like a scarlet ribbon along the ground and knew the fawn couldn’t be far away. They found it lying on its side, blood oozing out of its torn throat. It’s fearful eyes followed their movements.
    Wilson had thought if the fawn were badly injured he would have no trouble killing it. It would not be the first deer he had shot. But in hunting he had fired in the excitement of the chase. The deer was just lying there, the whites of its eyes turned up, its belly heaving.
    Frances saw Wilson’s face and reached for the gun, but Wilson shook his head and fired. It took two shots to kill the fawn. With the first shot the deer made some little scrabbling motions with its legs as though it were trying to get up. The second bullet went into its head and the fawn twitched for a moment and then went limp. Wilson handed the gun to Frances.
    â€œNo,” she said, “you keep the gun. I’ve been meaning to give it to you.” She would be glad to get rid of it.
    Later, when Wilson returned with a spade to dig a grave for the deer, he found himself thinking of what the fawn would miss. It had died before its life had even started. Frances had told him not to be sentimental, that nature was little more than a series of predators preying on one another. She had warned him against attributing to animals the same feelings he himself had. But something about the deer’s death made him value his own life. As a child he had been close to death and he had lived.
    It took Wilson nearly an hour to bury the deer. His clothes were still damp from the sodden woods. Deep in the forest there was no sun to dry him. Even with the