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Where the Red Fern Grows

Day Eight

Papa laughed. "Sure you're not in a hurry to get

home to show off the gold cup?" he asked.

    A smile was my only answer.

    Two hundred yards this side of our home, the

road made a turn around a low foothill shutting our

house off from view.

    Papa said, "You're going to see a scramble as soon

as we round that bend."

    It was more of a stampede than a scramble. The

little one came out first, and all but tore the screen

door from its hinges. The older girls passed her just

beyond the gate. In her hurry, she slipped and fell

face down in the snow. She started crying.

    The older girls ran up asking for the cup.

    Holding it high over my head, I said, "Now wait a

minute. I've got another one for you two." I held the

small silver cup out to them.

    While they were fighting over it, I ran to the lit-

tie one. Picking her up, I brushed the snow from her

long, braided hair and her tear-stained face. I told her

there was no use to cry. I had brought the gold cup

to her, and no one else was going to get it.

    Reaching for the cup, she wrapped her small

arms around it. Squeezing it up tight, she ran for the

house to show it to Mama.

    Mama came out on the porch. She was just as ex-

cited as the girls were. She held out her arms. I ran to

her. She hugged me and kissed me.          

   "It's good to have you home again," she said.

   "Look what I have, Mama," the little one cried,

"and it's all mine."                           

    She held the golden cup out in her two small

hands.                                         

    As Mama took the beautiful cup, she looked at

me. She started to say something but was interrupted

by the cries from the other girls.

    "We have one, too, Mama," they cried, "and it's

just as pretty as that one."

    "It's not either," the little one piped in a defiant

voice. "It's not even as big as mine."

  "Two cups!" Mama exclaimed. "Did you win

two?"

  "Yes, Mama," I said. "Little Ann won that one all

by herself."

  The awed expression on my mother's face was

wonderful to see. Holding a cup in each hand, she

held them out in front of her.

  "Two," she said. "A gold one and a silver one.

Who would have thought anything so wonderful

could have happened to us. I'm so proud; so very

proud."

  Handing the cups back to the girls, she walked

over to Papa. After kissing him, she said, "I just can't

believe everything that has happened. I'm so glad

you went along. Did you enjoy yourself?"

  With a smile on his face, Papa almost shouted,

"Enjoy myself? Why, I never had such a time in my

life."

  His voice trailed off to a low calm, "That is, ex-

cept for one thing. Grandpa had a bad accident.

  "Yes, I know," Mama said. "One of Tom Logan's

boys was at the store when they arrived. He came by

and told us all about it.  The doctor said it wasn't as

bad as it looked, and he was pretty sure Grandpa

would be home in a few days."

  I was happy to hear this news, and could tell by

the pleased look on my father's face, he was glad to

hear it, too.

  On entering the house, Papa said, "Oh, I almost

forgot."  He handed the box of money to Mama.

  "What's this?" she asked.

  "Oh, it's just a little gift from Old Dan and Lit-

tle Ann," Papa said.

  Mama opened the box. I saw the color drain

from her face. Her hands started trembling. Turning

her back to us, she walked over and set it on the

mantel. A peaceful silence settled over the room. I

could hear the clock ticking away. The fire in the fire-

place crackled and popped.

    Turning from the mantel, Mama looked straight

at us. Her lips were tightly pressed together to keep

them from quivering. Walking slowly to Papa, she

buried her face in his chest. I heard her say, "Thank

God, my prayers have been answered."

    There was a celebration in our home that night.

To me it was like a second Christmas.

    Mama opened a jar of huckleberries and made a

large cobbler. Papa went to the smokehouse and

came back with a hickory-cured ham. We sat down to

a feast of the ham, huge plates of fried potatoes, ham

gravy, hot corn bread, fresh butter, and wild bee

honey.

    During the course of the meal, the entire story of

the championship hunt was told, some by Papa but

mostly by me.

    Just when everything was so perfect and peace-

ful, an argument sprang up between the two oldest

girls. It seemed that each wanted to claim the silver

cup. Just when they were on the verge of sawing it in

two, so each would have her allotted share, Papa set-

tled the squabble by giving the oldest one a silver

dollar. Once again peace and harmony was restored.

    That night as I was preparing for bed, a light

flashed by my window. Puzzled, I tiptoed over and

peeked through the pane. It was Mama. Carrying my

lantern and two large plates heaped high with food

she was heading for the doghouse. Setting the light

down on the ground in front of it, she called to my

dogs. While they were eating, Mama did something I

couldn't understand. She knelt down on her knees in

prayer.

    After they had eaten their food, Mama started

petting them. I could hear her voice but couldn't

make out her words. Whatever she was saying must

have pleased them. Little Ann wiggled and twisted.

Even Old Dan wagged his long red tail, which was

very unusual.

   Papa came out. I saw him put his arm around

Mama. Side by side they stood for several minutes

looking at my dogs. When they turned to enter the

house, I saw Mama dab at her eyes with her apron.

    Lying in bed, staring into the darkness, I tried

hard to figure out the strange actions of my parents.

Why had Mama knelt in prayer in front of my dogs?

Why had she wept?

    I was running all the why's around in my mind

when I heard them talking.

    I know," Papa said, "but I think there's a way.

I'm going to have a talk with Grandpa. I don't think

that old foot of his is ever going to be the same again.

He's going to need some help around the store.

    I knew they were talking about me, but I

couldn't understand what they meant.  Then I

thought, "Why, that's it. They want me to help

Grandpa." That would be all right with me. I could

still hunt every night.

    Feeling smart for figuring out their conversation,

I turned over and fell asleep.

Chapter 19.

    ALTHOUGH THE WINNING OF THE CUPS AND THE MONEY

was a big event in my life, it didn't change my hunt-

ing any. I was out after the ringtails every night.

    I had been hunting the river bottoms hard for

about three weeks. On that night, I decided to go

back to the Cyclone Timber country. I had barely

reached the hunting ground when my dogs struck a

trail. Old Dan opened up first.

    They struck the trail on a ridge and then dropped

down into a deep canyon, up the other side, and

broke out into some flats. I could tell that the scent

was hot from their steady bawling. Three times they

treed the animal.

    Every time I came close to the tree, the animal

would jump, and the race would be on. After a while,

I knew it wasn't a coon. I decided it was a bobcat.

    I didn't like to have my dogs tree the big cats,

for their fur wasn't any good, and all I could expect

was two cut-up hounds.

    They could kill the largest bobcat in the hills,

and had on several occasions, but to me it was use-

less. The only good I could see in killing one was get-

ting rid of a vicious predatory animal.

    The fourth time they treed, they were on top of

a mountain. After the long chase, I figured the animal

was winded and would stay in the tree. In a trot, I

started to them.

    As I neared the tree, Little Ann came to me,

reared up, and whined. By her actions, I knew some-

thing was wrong. I stopped. In the moonlight, I could

see Old Dan sitting on his haunches, staring up at the

tree and bawling.

    The tree had lots of dead leaves on it. I knew it

was a large white oak because it is one of the last

trees in the mountains to lose its leaves.

    Old Dan kept bawling. Then he did something

he had never done before. For seconds his deep voice

was still, and silence settled over the mountains. My

eyes wandered from the tree to him. His lips were

curled back and he snarled as he stared into the dark

foliage of the tree. His teeth gleamed white in the

moonlight. The hair on his neck  and along his back

stood on end. A low, deep, rumbling growl rolled

from his throat.

    I was scared and I called to him. I wanted to get

away from there. Again I called, but it was no use. He

wouldn't leave the tree, for in his veins flowed the

breeded blood of a hunting hound. In his fighting

heart, there was no fear.

    I set the lantern down and tightened my grip on

the handle of the ax. Slowly I started walking toward

him. I thought, "If I can get close enough to him, I

can grab his collar." I kept my eyes on the tree as I

edged forward. Little Ann stayed by my side. She,

too, was watching the tree.

    Then I saw them-two burning, yellow eyes-

staring at me from the shadowy foliage of the tree. I

stopped, petrified with fear.

    The deep baying of Old Dan stopped and again

the silence closed in.

    I stared back at the unblinking eyes.

    I could make out the bulk of a large animal,

crouched on a huge branch, close to the trunk of the

big tree. Then it moved. I heard the scratch of razor

sharp claws on the bark. It stood up and moved out

of the shadows on to the limb. I saw it clearly as it

passed between the moon and me. I knew what it

was. It was the devil cat of the Ozarks, the mountain

lion.

    The silence was shattered by one long, loud bawl

from Old Dan. I'd never heard my dog bawl like that.

It was different.  His voice rang out over the moun-

tains, loud and clear. The vibration of the deep tones

rolled in the silence of the frosty night on and on, out

over the flats, down in the canyons, and died away in

the rimrocks, like the cry of a lost soul. Old Dan had

voiced his challenge to the devil cat.

    There was a low cough and a deep growl from

the lion. I saw him crouch. I knew what was coming.

My hands felt hot and sweaty on the smooth ash han-

dle of the ax. With a bloodcurdling scream he sprang

from the tree with claws outspread and long, yellow

fangs bared.

    Old Dan didn't wait. Flaring up on his hind legs,

he met the lion in the air. The heavy weight bowled

him over and over. He wound up in a fallen treetop.

    The impact of the two bodies threw the lion off

balance. Little Ann darted in. Her aim was true. I

heard the snap of her steel trap claws as they closed

on his throat.

    With a squall of pain and rage, the big cat rolled

over on his side, dragging Little Ann with him. His

right paw reached out and curved over her shoulder.

Sinews tightened and razor-sharp claws dug inward.

With a cry of pain, she loosened her hold. I saw the

blood squirting from the deep wound in her shoulder.

She ignored it and bored back into the fight.

    Old Dan, stunned for an instant from the impact

of the lion's body, fought his way from the treetop.

Bawling the cry of the damned, he charged back in.

    I went berserk, and charged into the fight.

    There in the flinty hills of the Ozarks, I fought

for the lives of my dogs. I fought with the only

weapon I had, the sharp cutting blade of a double-

bitted ax.

    Screaming like a madman, with tears running

down my face, I hacked and chopped at the big snarl-

ing mountain cat.

    Once, feeling the bite of the sharp blade, the

devil cat turned on me. His yellow shifted eyes burned

with hate. The long, lithe body dipped low to the

ground. The shoulder muscles knotted and bulged. I

tried to jump back but my foot slipped and I dropped

to my knees. I knew I was trapped. With a terrifying

scream he sprang.

    I never saw my dogs when they got between the

lion and me but they were there. Side by side, they

rose up from the ground as one. They sailed straight

into those jaws of death, their small, red bodies taking

the ripping, slashing claws meant for me.

    I screamed and charged back into the fight,

swinging my ax, but I was careful not to hit one of

my dogs.

    The battle raged on and on, down the side of the

mountain, over huckleberry bushes, fallen logs, and

rocks. It was a rolling, tumbling mass of fighting fury.

I was in the middle of it all, falling, screaming, crying

and hacking away at every opportunity.

    I had cut the big cat several times. Blood showed

red on the bit of the ax, but as yet I had not gotten in

the fatal lick. I knew it had to be soon for my dogs

were no match against the razor-sharp claws and the

long, yellow fangs.

    The screams of the big cat and the deep bellow-

ing voices of my dogs echoed through the mountains

as if the demons of hell had been turned loose. Down  

the side of the mountain, the terrible fight went on,

down to the very bottom of the canyon,

    The big cat had Old Dan by the throat. I knew

he was seeking to cut the all-important vein, the jugu-

lar. At the pitiful bawl of Old Dan, Little Ann,

throwing caution to the wind, ran in and sank her         

teeth in the lion's tough neck.                                

   With her claws digging into the mountain soil,

she braced herself, and started pulling. The muscles

in her small legs knotted and quivered. She was

trying hard to pull the devil cat's fangs from the

throat of Old Dan.

   In the rays of a bright Ozark moon, I could see

clearly. For an instant I saw the broad back of the big

cat. I saw the knotty bulge of steel-bound muscle, the

piston-like jerk of the deadly hind claws, trying for

the downward stroke that could disembowel a dog.

   Raising the ax high over my head, I brought it

down with all the strength in my body. My aim was

true. Behind the shoulders, in the broad muscular

back, the heavy blade sank with a sickening sound.

The keen edge cleaved through the tough skin. It

seemed to hiss as it sliced its way through bone and

gristle.

   I left the ax where it was, sunk to the eye in the

back of the devil cat.

   He loosened his hold on the throat of Old Dan.

With a scream of pain, he reared up on his hind legs

and started pawing the air. Little Ann dangled from

his neck, still holding on. Her eyes were shut tight and

her small feet were digging and clawing at the body.

   Old Dan, spewing blood from a dozen wounds,

leaped high in the air. His long, red body sailed in be-

tween the outspread paws of the lion. I heard the

snap of his powerful jaws as they closed on the

throat.

   The big cat screamed again. Blood gurgled and

sprayed. In a bright red mist, it rained out over the

underbrush and rattled like sleet on the white oak

caves. In a boxer's stance, he stood and clawed the

air. His slitted eyes turned green with hate. He seemed

to be unaware of the two hounds hanging from his

body, and kept staring at me. I stood in a trance and

stared back at the ghastly scene.

   The breath of life was slowly leaving him. He was

dying on his feet but refusing to go down. My ax han-

dle stuck straight out from his back. Blood gushing

from the mortal wound, glistened in the moonlight. A

shudder ran through his body. He tried once again to

scream. Blood gurgled in his throat.

    It was the end of the trail for the scourge of the

mountains. No more would he scream his challenge

from the rimrocks to the valley below. The small,

harmless calves and the young colts would be safe

from his silent stalk.

    He fell toward me. It seemed that with his last ef- 

fort he was still trying to get at me.

    As his heavy body struck the ground, something

exploded in my head. I knew no more.

    When I came to, I was sitting down. It was silent 

and still. A bird, disturbed by the fight, started chirp-  

ing far up on the side of the mountain. A small win-

ter breeze rustled some dead leaves in the deep can-

yon. A cold, crawling chill crept over my body.         

    I looked over at the lion. My dogs were still

glued to his lifeless body. In his dying convulsions the

ax had become dislodged from the wound. It lay  

there in the moonlight, covered with blood.     

My numb brain started working. I thought of an-

other time the ax had been covered with blood. I

don't know why I thought of Rubin Pritchard at that

time, or why I thought of these words I had often 

heard: "There is little good in all evil."             

    I got to my feet and went over to my dogs. I

knew I had to inspect them to see how badly they

were hurt. It wasn't too hard to get Little Ann to

loosen her hold. I examined her body. She was cut in

several places, but nothing fatal. The only bad wound

she had was in her shoulder. It was nine inches long

and down to the clean, white bone. She started lick-

ing it immediately.

    It was different with Old Dan. Try as I might, he

wouldn't turn loose. Maybe he could remember the

night in the cave when he was a pup. How the big cat

had screamed and how he had bawled back at him.

   I took hold of his hind legs and tried to pull him

loose. It was no use.  He knew that the hold he had

was a deadly one and he wasn't going to let go. I

tried to tell him it was all over, that the lion was

dead, to turn loose as I wanted to see how badly he

was hurt. He couldn't understand and wouldn't even

open his eyes. He was determined to hold on until the

body turned cold and stiff.

    With my ax handle, I pried apart his locked jaws.

Holding on to his collar,  I led him off to one side. I

couldn't turn him loose as I knew if I did, he would

go back to the lion.

    With one hand I started examining him. I ran my

fingers through the short, red hair. I could feel the

quivering muscles and the hot, sweaty skin. He was a

bloody mess. His long, velvety ears were shredded. His

entire body was a mass of deep, raw, red wounds. On

both sides of his rib carriage, the sharp claws had laid

the flesh open to the bone.

    His friendly old face was pitiful to see. A razor-

sharp claw had ripped down on an angle across his

right eye. It was swollen shut. I wondered if he

would ever see from that eye again.

    Blood dripped from his wounds and fell on the

white oak leaves. I saw he was bleeding to death.

"With tears running down my cheeks, I did the only

thing a hunter could do. I raked the leaves away and

let his blood drip on the black mountain soil. Mixing

it into a mud, I worked it into his wounds to stop the

flow of blood.

    With my ax in one hand and holding onto his col-

lar with the other, we climbed out of the canyon. I

knew if I could get him far enough away from the

lion he wouldn't go back.

    On reaching the top, I saw the yellow glow of

my lantern. I turned Old Dan loose and walked over

and picked it up.

    Not knowing exactly where I was, I looked down-

out of the mountains to get my bearings. Beyond the

foothills and fields I could see the long, white,

crooked line of steam, marking the river's course. Fol-

lowing the snakelike pattern with my eyes, in no time

I knew exactly where I was, for I knew every bend in

the river.

    Anxious to get home so I could take care of my

dogs, I turned to call to them. Little Ann was close

by. She was sitting down, licking at the wound in her

shoulder. I saw the shadowy form of Old Dan sniffing

around the tree where the lion had been treed.

    As I stood and watched him in the moonlight,

my heart swelled with pride. Wounded though he

was, he wanted to make sure there were no more

lions around.

    I called to him. In a stiff-legged trot he came to  

me. I caught hold of his collar and gave him another

inspection. In the lantern light I could see the mud-   

caked wounds clearly. The bleeding had almost

stopped. I felt much better.

    Little Ann came over. I knelt down and put my

arms around them. I knew that if it hadn't been for

their loyalty and unselfish courage I would have prob-

ably been killed by the slashing claws of the devil cat.

    I don't know how I'll ever pay you back for

what you've done," I said, "but I'll never forget it."

    Getting up, I said, "Come on, let's go home so I

can take care of those wounds."

    I hadn't gone far when I heard a cry. At first I

thought it was a bird, or a night hawk. I stood still

and listened. I glanced at Little Ann. She was looking

behind me. I turned around and looked for Old Dan.

He was nowhere in sight.

    The cry came again, low and pitiful.  Instantly

Little Ann started back the way we had come.  I fl-

lowed as fast as I could run.

    I found Old Dan lying on his side, pleading for

help. What I saw was almost more than I could stand

There, tangled in the low branches of a huckleberry

bush, were the entrails of my dog. With a gasping cry

I knelt down by his side.

    I knew what had happened. Far back in

soft belly, the slashing, razor-sharp claws of the lion

had cut into the hollow. In my inspections I had over-

looked the wound. His entrails had worked out and

had become entangled in the bush. The forward mo-

tion of his body had done the rest.

    He whimpered as I laid my hand on his head. A

warm, red tongue flicked out at it. With tears in my

eyes, I started talking to him. "Hang on, boy," I said

"Everything will be all right I'll take care of you."

    With trembling hands, I unwound the entrails

from the bush. With my handkerchief I wiped away

the gravel, leaves, and pine needles. With fingers that

shook, I worked the entrails back into the wound.

    Knowing that I couldn't carry him and the ax

and lantern, I stuck the ax deep in the side of a white

oak tree. I blew out the lantern and hung the handle

over the other blade. I wrapped my dog in my old

sheepskin coat and hurried for home.

    Arriving home, I awakened my mother and fa-

ther. Together we doctored my dogs. Old Dan was

taken care of first.  Very gently Mama worked the en-

trails out and in a pan of warm soapy water, washed

them clean of the pine needles, leaves, and grit.

    "If I only knew what I was doing," Mama said, as

she worked, "I'd feel better."

    With gentle hands, she worked the entrails back

through the opening. The wound was sewn up and

bandaged with a clean white cloth.

    Little Ann wasn't hard to doctor. I held her head

while Mama cleaned her wounds with peroxide. Feel-

ing the bite of the strong liquid, she whined and

licked at my hands.

    "It's all right, little girl," I said. "You'll be 

well in no time."

    I opened the door and watched her as she limped

off to the doghouse.

    Hearing a whimper, I turned around. There in

the doorway to the room stood my sisters. I could tell

by the looks on their faces that they had been

watching for some time. They looked pitiful standing

there in their long white gowns. I felt sorry for them.

    "Will Little Ann be all right," my oldest sister

asked.

    "Yes," I said, "she'll be all right. She only had one

bad wound and we've taken care of that."

    "Old Dan's hurt bad, isn't he?" she said.

    I nodded my head.

    "How bad is he?" she asked.

    "It's bad," I said. "He was cut wide open."

    They all started crying.

    "Now here," Mama said, going over, you girls

get back in bed. You'll take a death of cold being up

like this in your bare feet."

    "Mommie," the little one said. "God won't let Old

Dan die, will He?"                                  

    "I don't think so, honey," Mama said. "Now off to

bed."

    They turned and walked slowly back to their

room.                                            

   "The way your dogs are cut up," Papa said, "it

must have been a terrible fight."

    "It was, Papa," I said. "I never saw anything like

it. Little Ann wouldn't have fought the lion if it 

hadn't been for Old Dan. All she was doing was help-

ing him. He wouldn't quit. He just stayed right in

there till the end. I even had to pry his jaws loose 

from the lion's throat after the lion was dead."     

    Glancing at Old Dan, Papa said, "It's in his

blood, Billy. He's a hunting hound, and the best one I

ever saw. He only has two loves-you and hunting.

That's all he knows." 

    "If it hadn't been for them, Papa," I said, "I prob-

ably wouldn't be here now."

    "What do you mean," Mama said, "you wouldn't

be here now?"

    I told them how the lion had leaped at me and

how my dogs had gotten between him and me.

    "They were so close together," I said, "when they

came up off the ground they looked just like one."

   There was a moaning sigh from Mama. She cov-

ered her face with her hands and started crying.

    "I don't know," she sobbed, "I just don't know. To

think how close you came to being killed. I don't

think I can stand any more."

   "Now, now," Papa said, as he walked over and

put his arms around her. "Don't go all to pieces. It's

all over. Let's be thankful and do our best for Old

Dan."

    "Do you think he'll die, Papa?" I asked.

    "I don't know, Billy," Papa said, shaking his head.

"He's lost an awful lot of blood and he's a mighty sick

dog. All we can do now is wait and see."

    Our wait wasn't long. My dog's breathing grew

faster and faster, and there was a terrible rattling in

his throat. I knelt down and laid his head in my lap.

    Old Dan must have known he was dying. Just

before he drew one last sigh, and a feeble thump of

his tail, his friendly gray eyes closed forever.

    At first I couldn't believe my dog was dead. I

started talking to him. "Please don't die, Dan," I said.

"Don't leave me now."

    I looked to Mama for help. Her face was as white

as the bark on a sycamore tree and the hurt in her

eyes tore at my heart. She opened her mouth to say

something but words wouldn't come out.

    Feeling as cold as an Arctic wind, I got up and

stumbled to a chair. Mama came over and said some-

thing. Her words were only a murmur in my ears.

    Very gently Papa picked Old Dan up in his arms

and carried him out on the porch. When he came

back in the house, he said, "Well, we did all we could

do, but I guess it wasn't enough."

    I had never seen my father and mother look so

tired and weary as they did on that night. I knew they

wanted to comfort me, but didn't know what to say.

    Papa tried. "Billy," he said, "I wouldn't think too

much about this if I were you. It's not good to hurt

like that. I believe I'd just try to forget it. Besides,

you still have Little Ann."

   I wasn't even thinking about Little Ann at that

moment. I knew she was all right.

    "I'm thankful that I still have her," I said, "but

how can I forget Old Dan? He gave his life for me.

That's what he did-just laid down his life for me.

How can I ever forget something like that?"

    Mama said, "It's been a terrible night for all of

us. Let's go to bed and try to get some rest. Maybe

we'll all feel better tomorrow."

    "No, Mama," I said. "You and Papa go on to bed.

I think I'll stay up for a while. I couldn't sleep any-

way."    

    Mama started to protest, but Papa shook his

head. Arm in arm they walked from the room.

    Long after my mother and father had retired, I

sat by the fire trying to think and couldn't. I felt

numb all over. I knew my dog was dead, but I

couldn't believe it. I didn't want to. One day they

were both alive and happy. Then that night, just like

that, one of them was dead.                        

    I didn't know how long I had been sitting there

when I heard a noise out on the porch. I got up,  

walked over to the door, and listened. It came again,

a low whimper and a scratchy sound.

    I could think of only one thing that could have  

made the noise. It had to be my dog. He wasn't dead.

He had come back to life. With a pounding heart, I

opened the door and stepped out on the porch.

    What I saw was more than I could stand. The 

noise I had heard had been made by Little Ann. All

her life she had slept by Old Dan's side. And al-

though he was dead, she had left the doghouse, had

come back to the porch, and snuggled up close to his

side.

    She looked up at me and whimpered. I couldn't

stand it. I didn't know I was running until I tripped

and fell. I got to my feet and ran on and on, down

through our fields of shocked corn, until I fell face

down on the river's bank. There in the gray shadows'

of a breaking dawn, I cried until I could cry no more.

   The churring of gray squirrels in the bright morn-

ing sun told me it was daylight. I got to my feet and

walked back to the house.

    Coming up through our barn lot, I saw my father

feeding our stock. He came over and said, "Breakfast

is about ready."

    "I don't want any breakfast, Papa," I said. "I'm

not hungry and I have a job to do. I'll have to bury

my dog."

    "I tell you what," he said, "I'm not going to be

very busy today, so let's have a good breakfast and

then I'll help you."

    "No, Papa," I said. "I'll take care of it. You go and

eat breakfast. Tell Mama I'm not hungry."

    I saw a hurt look in my father's eyes. Shaking his

head, he turned and walked away.

    From rough pine slabs, I made a box for my dog.

It was a crude box but it was the best I could do.

With strips of burlap and corn shucks, I padded the

inside.

    Up on the hillside, at the foot of a beautiful red

oak free, I dug his grave. There where the wild

mountain flowers would grow in the spring, I laid him

away.

    I had a purpose in burying my dog up there on

the hillside. It was a beautiful spot. From there one

could see the country for miles, the long white

crooked line of the river, the tall thick timber of the

bottoms, the sycamore, birch, and box elder. I thought

perhaps that on moonlight nights Old Dan would be

able to hear the deep voices of the hounds as they

rolled out of the river bottoms on the frosty air.

    After the last shovel of dirt was patted in place, I

sat down and let my mind drift back through the

years. I thought of the old K. C. Baking Powder can,

and the first time I saw my pups in the box at the de-

pot. I thought of the fifty dollars, the nickels and

dimes, and the fishermen and blackberry patches.

    I looked at his grave and, with tears in my eyes,

I voiced these words: "You were worth it, old friend,

and a thousand times over."

    In my heart I knew that there in the grave lay a

man's best friend.

    Two days later, when I came in from the bottoms

where my father and I were clearing land, my mother

said, "Billy, you had better look after your dog. She

won't eat."

    I started looking for her. I went to the barn, the

corncrib, and looked under the porch. I called her

name. It was no use.

    I rounded up my sisters and asked if they had

seen Little Ann. The youngest one said she had seen

her go down into the garden. I went there, calling her

name. She wouldn't answer my call.

    I was about to give up, and then I saw her. She

had wiggled her way far back under the thorny limbs

of a blackberry bush in the corner of the garden. I

talked to her and tried to coax her out.  She wouldn't

budge. I got down on my knees and crawled back to

her. As I did, she raised her head and looked at me.

    Her eyes told the story. They weren't the soft

gray eyes I had looked into so many times. They were

dull and cloudy. There was no fire, no life. I couldn't

understand.                                     

    I carried her back to the house. I offered her

food and water. She wouldn't touch it. I noticed how

lifeless she was. I thought perhaps she had a wound I

had overlooked. I felt and probed with my fingers. I

could find nothing.                             

    My father came and looked at her. He shook his

head and said, "Billy, it's no use. The life has gone

out of her. She has no will to live."

    He turned and walked away.

    I couldn't believe it. I couldn't.           

    With eggs and rich cream, I made a liquid. I

pried her mouth open and poured it down. She re-

sponded to nothing I did. I carried her to the porch,

and laid her in the same place I had laid the body

Old Dan. I covered her with gunny sacks.

   All through the night I would get up and check

on her. Next morning I took warm fresh milk and

again I opened her mouth and fed her. It was a mis-

erable day for me. At noon it was the same. My dog

had just given up. There was no will to live.

    That evening when I came in from the fields, she

was gone. I hurried to my mother. Mama told me she

had seen her go up the hollow from the house, so

weak she could hardly stand. Mama had watched her

until she had disappeared in the timber.

    I hurried up the hollow, calling her name. I called

and called. I went up to the head of it, still calling

her name and praying she would come to me. I

climbed out onto the flats; looking, searching, and

calling. It was no use. My dog was gone.

    I had a thought, a ray of hope. I just knew I'd

find her at the grave of Old Dan. I hurried there.

    I found her lying on her stomach, her hind legs

stretched out straight, and her front feet folded back

under her chest. She had laid her head on his grave. I

saw the trail where she had dragged herself through

the leaves. The way she lay there, I thought she was

alive. I called her name. She made no movement.

With the last ounce of strength in her body, she had

dragged herself to the grave of Old Dan.

    Kneeling down by her side, I reached out and

touched her. There was no response, no whimpering

cry or friendly wag of her tail. My little dog was

dead.

    I laid her head in my lap and with tear-filled

eyes gazed up into the heavens. In a choking voice, I

asked, "Why did they have to die? Why must I hurt

so? What have I done wrong?"

    I heard a noise behind me. It was my mother.

She sat down and put her arm around me.

    "You've done no wrong, Billy," she said. "I know

this seems terrible and I know how it hurts, but at

one time or another, everyone suffers. Even the Good

Lord suffered while He was here on earth."

    "I know, Mama" I said, "but I can't understand.

It was bad enough when Old Dan died. Now Little

Ann is gone. Both of them gone, just like that."

    "Billy, you haven't lost your dogs altogether,"

Mama said. "You'll always have their memory. Be-

sides, you can have some more dogs."

    I rebelled at this. "I don't want any more dogs," I

said. "I won't ever want another dog. They wouldn't

be like Old Dan and Little Ann."

    "We all feel that way, Billy," she said. "I do espe-

cially. They've fulfilled a prayer that I thought would

never be answered."

    "I don't believe in prayers any more," I said. "I

prayed for my dogs, and now look, both of them are

dead."

    Mama was silent for a moment; then, in a gentle

voice, she said, "Billy, sometimes it's hard to believe

that things like this can happen, but there's always an

answer. When you're older, you'll understand better."

    "No, I won't," I said. "I don't care if I'm a hun-

dred years old, I'll never understand why my dogs

had to die."

    As if she were talking to someone far away, I

heard her say in a low voice, "I don't know what to

say. I can't seem to find the right words."

    Looking up to her face, I saw that her eyes were

flooded with tears.

    "Mama, please don't cry," I said. "I didn't mean

what I said."

    "I know you didn't," she said, as she squeezed me

up tight. "It's just your way of fighting back."

    I heard the voice of my father calling to us from

the house.

    "Come now," Mama said. "I have supper ready

and your father wants to talk to you. I think when

you've beard what he has to say, you'll feel better."

    "I can't leave Little Ann like this, Mama," I said.

"It'll be cold tonight. I think I'll carry her back to the

house."

    "No, I don't think you should do that," Mama

said. "Your sisters would go all to pieces. Let's make

her comfortable here."

    Raking some dead leaves into a pile, she picked

Little Ann up and laid her in them. Taking off my

coat, I spread it over her body. I dreaded to think of

what I had to do on the morrow.

    My father and sisters were waiting for us on the

porch. Mama told them the sad story. My sisters

broke down and started crying. They ran to Mama

and buried their faces in her long cotton dress.

    Papa came over and laid his hand on my shoul-

der. "Billy," he said, "there are times in a boy's life

when he has to stand up like a man. This is one of

those times. I know what you're going through and

how it hurts, but there's always an answer. The Good

Lord has a reason for everything He does."

    "There couldn't be any reason for my dogs to die,

Papa," I said. "There just couldn't. They hadn't done

anything wrong."

    Papa glanced at Mama. Getting no help from

her, he said, "It's getting cold out here. Let's go in the

house. I have something to show you."

    "Guess what we're having for supper," Mama

said, as we turned to enter the house. "Your favorite,

Billy, sweet potato pie. You'll like that, won't you?"

    I nodded my head, but my heart wasn't in it.

    Papa didn't follow us into the kitchen. He turned

and entered his bedroom.

    When he came into the room, he had a small

shoe box in his hand. I recognized the box by the

bright blue ribbon tied around it. Mama kept her

valuables in it.

    A silence settled over the room. Walking to the

head of the table, Papa set the box down and started

untying the ribbon. His hands were trembling as he

fumbled with the knot. With the lid off, he reached in

and started lifting out bundles of money.

    After stacking them in a neat pile, he raised his

head and looked straight at me. "Billy," he said, "you

know how your mother has prayed that some day

we'd have enough money to move out of these hills

and into town so that you children could get an edu-

cation."

    I nodded my head.

    "Well", he said, in a low voice, "because of your

dogs, her prayers have been answered. This is the  

money earned by Old Dan and Little Ann. I've man-

aged to make the farm feed us and clothe us and I've  

saved every cent your furs brought in. We now have  

enough."

    "Isn't it wonderful," Mama said. "It's just like a

miracle."                                         

    "I think it is a miracle," Papa said. "Remember

Billy said a prayer when he asked for his pups and

then there were your prayers. Billy got his pups. 

Through those dogs your prayers were answered. Yes,  

I'm sure it is a miracle."

    "If he gave them to me, then why did he take

them away?" I asked.

    "I think there's an answer for that, too," Papa

said. "You see, Billy, your mother and I had decided

not to separate you from your dogs. We knew how

much you loved them. We decided that when we

moved to town we'd leave you here with your

grandpa for a while. He needs help anyway. But I

guess the Good Lord didn't want that to happen. He

doesn't like to see families split up. That's why they 

were taken away."

    I knew my father was a firm believer in fate. To

him everything that happened was the will of God,

and in his Bible he could always find the answers.

    Papa could see that his talk had had very little

effect on me. With a sorrowful look on his face, he sat

down and said, "Now let us give thanks for our food

and for all the wonderful things God has done for us.

I'll say a special prayer and ask Him to help Billy."

    I barely heard what Papa had to say.

    During the meal, I could tell that no one was en-

joying the food. As soon as it was over, I went to my

room and lay down on the bed.

    Mama came in. "Why don't you go to bed," she

said, "and get a good night's sleep. You'll feel better

tomorrow."

    "No, I won't, Mama" I said." I'll have to bury

Little Ann tomorrow."

    "I know," she said, as she turned my covers

down. "I'll help if you want me to."

    "No, Mama," I said, I don't want anyone to help.

I'd rather do it all by myself."

   "Billy, you're always doing things by yourself."

Mama said. "That's not right. Everyone needs help

some time in his life."

    "I know, Mama," I said, "but, please, not this

time. Ever since my dogs were puppies, we've always

been together-just us three. We hunted together and

played together. We even went swimming together.

    "Did you know, Mama, that Little Ann used to

come every night and peek in my window just to see

if I was all right? I guess that's why I want to be by

myself when I bury her."

    "Now say your prayers and go to sleep. I'm sure

you'll feel better in the morning."

    I didn't feel like saying any prayers that night. I

was hurting too much. Long after the rest of the

family had gone to bed, I lay staring into the

darkness, trying to think and not able to.

    Some time in the night I got up, tiptoed to my

window, and looked out at my doghouse. It looked so

lonely and empty sitting there in the moonlight. I

could see that the door was slightly ajar. I thought of

the many times I had lain in my bed and listened to

the squeaking of the door as my dogs went in and

out. I didn't know I was crying until I felt the tears

roll down my cheeks.

    Mama must have heard me get up. She came in

and put her arms around me. "Billy," she said, in a

quavering voice, "you'll just have to stop this. You're

going to make yourself sick and I don't think I can

stand any more of it."

   "I can't, Mama," I said. "It hurts so much, I just

can't. I don't want you to feel bad just because I do."

    "I can't help it, Billy," she said. "Come now and

get back in bed. I'm afraid you'll catch cold."

    After she had tucked me in, she sat on the bed

for a while. As if she were talking to the darkness, I

heard her say, "If only there were some way I could

help-something I could do."

    "No one can help, Mama," I said. "No one can

bring my dogs back."

    "I know," she said, as she got up to leave the

room, "but there must be something-there just has to

be."

    After Mama had left the room, I buried my face

in my pillow and cried myself to sleep.

    The next morning I made another box. It was

smaller than the first one. Each nail I drove in the

rough pine boards caused the knot in my throat to get

bigger and bigger.                                    

    My sisters came to help. They stood it for a

while, then with tears streaming, they ran for the

house.

    I buried Little Ann by the side of Old Dan. I

knew that was where she wanted to be. I also buried

a part of my life along with my dog.                     

    Remembering a sandstone ledge I had seen

while prowling the woods, I went there. I picked out

a nice stone and carried it back to the graves. Then,

with painstaking care, I carved their names deep in

its red surface.

    As I stood looking at the two graves, I tried hard

to understand some of the things my father had told

me, but I couldn't-I was still hurting and still had 

that empty feeling.

    I went to Mama and had a talk with her.

    "Mama," I asked, "do you think God made a

heaven for all good dogs?"

     "Yes," she said, "I'm sure He did."

     "Do you think He made a place for dogs to hunt?

You know-just like we have here on our place-with   

mountains and sycamore trees, rivers and cornfields,

and old rail fences? Do you think He did?"

    "From what I've read in the Good Book, Billy,"

she said, "He put far more things up there than we

have here. Yes, I'm sure He did."

    I was thinking this over when Mama a came up to

me and started tucking my shirt in. "Do you feel bet-

ter now?" she asked.

    "It still hurts, Mama," I said, as I buried my face

in her dress, "but I do feel a little better."

    "I'm glad," she said, as she patted my head. "I

don't like to see my little boy hurt like this."

Chapter 20.

    THE FOLLOWING SPRING WE LEFT THE OZARKS, THE DAY

we moved I thought everyone would be sad, but it

was just the opposite. Mama seemed to be the ha-

piest one of all. I could hear her laughing and joking

with my sisters as they packed things. She had a glow

in her eyes I had never seen before and it made me

feel good.

    I even noticed a change in Papa. He didn't have

that whipped look on his face any more. He was in

high spirits as we carried the furniture out to our

wagon.

    After the last item was stored in the wagon, Papa

helped Mama to the spring seat and we were ready

to go.

    "Papa, would you mind waiting a few minutes?" I

asked. "I'd like to say good-bye to my dogs."

    "Sure," he said, smiling. "We have plenty of time.

Go right ahead."

    Nearing the graves, I saw something different. It

looked like a wild bush had grown up and practically

covered the two little mounds. It made me angry to

think that an old bush would dare grow so close to

the graves. I took out my knife, intending to cut it

down.

    Then I walked up close enough to see what it

was. I sucked in a mouthful of air and stopped. I

couldn't believe what I was seeing. There between

the graves, a beautiful red fern had sprung up from

the rich mountain soil. It was fully two feet tall and

its long red leaves had reached out in rainbow arches

curved over the graves of my dogs.

    I had heard the old Indian legend about the red

fern. How a little Indian boy and girl were lost in a

blizzard and had frozen to death. In the spring, when

they were found, a beautiful red fern had grown up

between their two bodies. The story went on to say

that only an angel could plant the seeds of a red fern,

and that they never died; where one grew, that spot

was sacred.

    Remembering the meaning of the legend, I turned

and started hollering for Mama.

    "Mama! Mama!" I shouted. "Come here! And

hurry! You won't believe it."

    In a frightened voice, she shouted back, "what is

it, Billy? Are you all right?"

      I'm all right, Mama," I shouted, "but hurry. You

just won't believe it."

    Holding her long skirt in her hand and with a

frightened look on her face, Mama came puffing up

the hillside. Close behind her came Papa and my sis-

ters.

    "What is it, Billy?" Mama asked, in a scared

voice. "Are you all right?"

    "Look!" I said, pointing at the red fern.

    Staring wide-eyed, Mama gasped and covered

her mouth with her hand. I heard her say, almost in a

whisper, "Oh, oh, it's a red fern a sacred red fern."

    She walked over and very tenderly started fin-

gering the long red leaves. In an awed voice, she said,

"All my life I've wanted to see one. Now I have. It's

almost unbelievable."

   "Don't touch it, Mama," my oldest sister whis-

pered. "It was planted by an angel."

    Mama smiled and asked, "Have you heard the

legend?"

    "Yes, Mama," my sister said. "Grandma told me

the story, and I believe it, too."

    With a serious look on his face, Papa said, "These

hills are full of legends. Up until now I've never paid

much attention to them, but now I don't know. Per-

haps there is something to the legend of the red fern.

Maybe this is God's way of helping Billy understand

why his dogs died".

    "I'm sure it is, Papa," I said, "and I do under-

stand." I feel different now, and I don't hurt any

more."

    "Come," Mama said, "let's go back to the wagon.

Billy wants to be alone with his dogs for a while."

    Just as they turned to leave, I heard Papa mur-

mur in a low voice, "Wonderful indeed is the work of

our Lord."

    As I stood looking at the two graves, I noticed

things I hadn't seen before. Wild violets, rooster

heads, and mountain daisies had completely covered

the two little mounds. A summer breeze gushed down

from the rugged hills. I felt its warm caress as it fanned

my face. It hummed a tune in the underbrush

and rustled the leaves on the huge red oak. The red

fern wavered and danced to the music of the hills.

    Taking off my cap, I bowed my head. In a choak-

ing voice, I said, "Good-bye, Old Dan and Little Ann.

I'll never forget you; and this I know-if God made

room in heaven for all good dogs, I know He made a

special place for you."

    With a heavy heart, I turned and walked away. I

knew that as long as I lived, I'd never forget the two

little graves and the sacred red fern.

    Not far from our home, the road wound its way

up and over a hill. At the top Papa stopped the team.

We all stood up and looked back. It was a beautiful

sight, one I'll never forget.

   As I stood and looked at the home of my birth, it

looked sad and lonely. There was no spiral of lazy

blue smoke twisting from the rock chimney, no white

leghorn hen chasing a June bug, no horse or cow

standing with head down and tail switching.

    I saw I had left the door to the barn loft open. A

tuft of hay hung out. It wavered gently in the warm

summer breeze.

    Something scurried across the vacant yard and

disappeared under the barn. It was Samie, our house

cat. I heard my little sister say in a choking voice,

"Mommie, we forgot Samie."

    There was no answer.

    To the left, I could see our fields and the zigzag

lines of rail fences. Farther down, I could see the

shimmering whiteness of the tall sycamores. My

vision blurred as tears came to my eyes.

    The sorrowful silence was broken by my mother's

voice. She asked, "Billy, can you see it?"

    "See what, Mama?" I asked.

    "The red fern," she said.

    My oldest sister spoke up. "I can see it," she said.

    Rubbing my eyes, I looked to the hillside above

our home. There it stood in all its wild beauty, a wav-

ing red banner in a carpet of green. It seemed to be

saying, "Good-bye, and don't worry, for I'll be here al-

ways."

    Hearing a sniffling, I turned around. My three lit-

tle sisters had started crying. Mama said something to

Papa. I heard the jingle of the trace chains as they

tightened in the single trees.

    Our wagon moved on.

    I have never been back to the Ozarks. All I have

left are my dreams and memories, but if God is

willing, some day I'd like to go back-back to those

beautiful hills. I'd like to walk again on trails I

walked in my boyhood days.

    Once again I'd like to face a mountain breeze

and smell the wonderful scent of the redbuds, and

papaws, and the dogwoods. With my hands I'd like to

caress the cool white bark of a sycamore.

    I'd like to take a walk far back in the flinty hills

and search for a souvenir, an old double-bitted ax

stuck deep in the side of a white oak tree. I know the

handle has long since rotted away with time. Perhaps

the rusty frame of a coal-oil lantern still hangs there

on the blade.

    I'd like to see the old home place, the barn and

the rail fences. I'd like to pause under the beautiful

red oaks where my sisters and I played in our child-

hood. I'd like to walk up the hillside to the graves of

my dogs.

   I'm sure the red fern has grown and has com-

pletely covered the two little mounds. I know it is

still there, hiding its secret beneath those long, red

leaves, but it wouldn't be hidden from me for part of

my life is buried there, too.

    Yes, I know it is still there, for in my heart I be-

lieve the legend of the sacred red fern.