The Young One
by Jerome Bixby
Old Buster was suddenly crouched on stiff legs, right up out of a sound sleep, and his ears were laid back flat against his head, and he was letting out the deep, wet-sounding growl he always used on rattlers.
Young Johnny Stevens looked up in surprise.
The new kid was standing out in the middle of the road, about ten feet away. He’d come up so silently Johnny hadn’t even known he was there—until old Buster let out that growl.
Johnny stopped whittling. He sat there on the damp, tree-shaded grass in front of the Stevens farmhouse, his big silver-mounted hunting knife in one hand, the shaved stick in the other, and stared at old Buster.
The dog’s head was down, his eyes were up and slitted on the new kid. His lips were curled back tight against his teeth.
. . .
