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Where the Red Fern Grows

Day One

Chapter 1.

  When I left my office that beautiful spring day, I

had no idea what was in store for me. To begin with,

everything was too perfect for anything unusual to

happen. It was one of those days when a man feels

good, feels like speaking to his neighbor, I'm glad to

live in a country like ours, and proud of his govern-

ment You know what I mean, one of those rare days

when everything is right and nothing is wrong.

    I was walking along whistling when I heard the

dogfight. At first I paid no attention to it. After all, it

wasn't anything to get excited about, just another

dogfight in a residential section.

    As the sound of the fight grew nearer, I could tell

there were quite a few dogs mixed up in it. They

boiled out of an alley, turned, and headed straight

toward me. Not wanting to get bitten or run over, I

moved over to the edge of the sidewalk.

    I could see that all the dogs were fighting one.

About twenty-five feet from me they caught him and

down he went. I felt sorry for the unfortunate one. I

knew if something wasn't done quickly the sanitation

department would have to pick up a dead dog.

I was trying to make up my mind to help when I

got a surprise. Up out of that snarling, growling, slash-

ing mass reared an old redhone hound. For a second I

saw him. I caught my breath I couldn't believe what

I had seen.

    Twisting and slashing, he fought his way through

the pack and backed up under the low branches of

hedge. Growling and snarling, they formed a half-

moon circle around him. A big bird dog, bolder than

the others, darted in. The hedge shook as he tangled

with the hound. He came out so fast he fell over back-

wards. I saw that his right ear was split wide open. It

was too much for him and he took off down the

street squalling like a scalded cat.

    A big ugly cur tried his luck. He didn't get off so

easy. He came out with his left shoulder laid open to

the bone. He sat down on his rear and let the world

know that he had been hurt.

   By this time my fighting blood was boiling. It's

hard for a man to stand and watch an old hound fight

against such odds, especially if that man has mem-

ories in his heart like I had in mine.  I had seen the

time when an old hound like that had given his life:

that I might live.

    Taking off my coat, I waded in. My yelling and

scolding  didn't have much effect, but the swinging

coat did. The dogs scattered and left.

    Down on my knees, I peered back under the

hedge. The hound was still mad. He growled at me

and showed his teeth. I knew it wasn't his nature to

fight a man.

    In a soft voice, I started talking to him. "Come

on, boy," I said "It's all right. I'm your friend. Come

on now."

    The fighting fire slowly left his eyes. He bowed

his head and his long, red tail started thumping the

ground. I kept coaxing. On his stomach, an inch at a

time, he came to me and laid his head in my hand.

    I almost cried at what I saw. His coat was dirty

and mud-caked.  His skin was stretched drum-tight

over his bony frame. The knotty joints of his hips and

shoulders stood out a good three inches from his

body. I could tell he was starved.

    I couldn't figure it out. He didn't belong in town.

He was far out of place with the boxers, poodles, bird

dogs, and other breeds of town dogs. He belonged in

the country. He was a hunting hound.

    I raised one of his paws. There I read the story.

The pads were worn down slick as the rind on an ap-

ple. I knew he had come a long way, and no doubt

had a long way to go. Around his neck was a crude

collar. On closer inspection, I saw it had been made

from a piece of check-line leather. Two holes had

been punched in each end and the ends were laced

together with bailing wire.

    As I turned the collar with my finger, I saw some-

thing else. There, scratched deep in the tough

leather, was the name "Buddie." I guessed that the

crude, scribbly letters had probably been written by a

little boy.

    It's strange indeed how memories can lie dor-

mant in a man's mind for so many years. Yet those

memories can be awakened and brought forth fresh

and new, just by something you've seen, or something

you've heard, or the sight of an old familiar face.

    What I saw in the warm gray eyes of the friendly

old hound brought back wonderful memories. To

show my gratitude, I took hold of his collar and said,

"Come on, boy, let's go home and get something to

eat."

    He seemed to understand that he had found a

friend. He came willingly.

    I gave him a bath and rubbed all the soreness

from his muscles. He drank quarts of warm milk and

ate all the meat I had in the house. I hurried down to

the store and bought more. He ate until he was satis-

fied.

    He slept all that night and most of the next day.

Late in the afternoon he grew restless. I told him I

understood, and as soon as it was dark, he could be

on his way. I figured he had a much better chance if

he left town at night.

    That evening, a little after sundown, I opened

the back gate. He walked out, stopped, turned

around, and looked at me. He thanked me by wagging

his tail.

    With tears in my eyes, I said, "You're more than

welcome, old fellow. In fact, you could've stayed here

as long as you wanted to."

    He whined and licked my hand.

    I was wondering which way he would go. With

one final whimper he turned and headed east. I

couldn't help smiling as I watched him trot down the

alley. I noticed the way his hind quarters shifted over

to the right, never in line with the front, yet always in

perfect rhythm. His long ears flopped up and down,

keeping time with the jogging motion of his body.

   Yes, they were all there, the unmistakable marks of a

hunting hound.

     Where the alley emptied into the street, he

stopped and looked back. I waved my band.

    As I watched him disappear in the twilight shad-

ows, I whispered these words: "Good-bye, old fellow.

Good luck, and good hunting!"

    I didn't have to let him go. I could have kept

him in my back yard, but to pen up a dog like that is

a sin.  It would have broken his heart. The will to live

would have slowly left his body.

    I had no idea where he had come from or where

he was going. Perhaps it wasn't too far, or maybe it

was a long, long way. I tried to make myself believe

that his home was in the Ozark Mountains some-

where in Missouri, or Oklahoma. It wasn't impossible

even though it was a long way from the Snake River

Valley in Idaho.

   I figured something drastic must have happened in

his life, as it is very unusual for a hound to be travel-

ing all alone. Perhaps he had been stolen, or maybe

he had been sold for some much-needed money.

   Whatever it was that had interrupted his life, he was

trying to straighten it out. He was going home to the

master he loved, and with the help of God, he would

make it.

   To him it made no difference how long the road,

or how rough or rocky. His old red feet would keep

Jogging-along, on and on, mile after mile. There

would be no crying or giving. When his feet grew

tired and weary, he would curl up in the weeds and

rest. Water from a rain puddle or a mountain stream

would quench his thirst and cool his hot dry throat

Food found along the highway, or the offerings from

a friendly hand would ease the pain of hunger.

Through the rains, the snows, or the desert heat he

would jog along, never looking back.

   Some morning he would be found curled up on

the front porch. The long journey would be over. He

would be home.  There would be a lot of tail-wagging

and a few whimpering cries. His warm, moist tongue

would caress the hand of his master. All would be for-

given. Once again the lights would shine in his dog's

world.  His heart would be happy.

   After my friend had disappeared in the darkness, I

stood and stared at the empty alley. A strange feeling

came over me. At first I thought I was lonely or sad,

but I realized that wasn't it at all.  The feeling was a

wonderful one.

   Although the old hound had no way of knowing

it, he had stirred memories, and what priceless trea-

sure they were. Memories of my boyhood days, an

old K. C. Baking Powder can, and two little red

hounds. Memories of a wonderful love, unselfish de-

votion, and death in its saddest form.

   As I turned to enter my yard I started to lock the

gate, and then I thought,  "No, I'll leave it open. He

might come back."

   I was about halfway to the house when a cool

breeze drifted down from the rugged Tetons. It had a

bite in it and goosepimples jumped out on my skin. I

stopped at the woodshed and picked up several sticks

of wood.

   I didn't turn on any lights on entering the house.

The dark, quiet atmosphere was a perfect setting for

the mood I was in. I built a fire in the fireplace and

pulled up my favorite rocker.

    As I sat there in the silence, the fire grew larger.

It crackled and popped.  Firelight shadows began to

shimmer and dance around the room. The warm,

comfortable heat felt good.

    I struck a match to light my pipe. As I did, two

beautiful cups gleamed from the mantel.  I held the

match up so I could get a better look.  There they

were, sitting side by side. One was large with long

upright handles that stood out like wings on a morning

dove. The high polished surface gleamed and

glistened with a golden sheen. The other was smaller

and made of silver. It was neat and trim, and spar-

kled like a white star in the heavens.

    I got up and took them down. There was a story

in those cups-a story that went back more than

half century.

    As I caressed the smooth surfaces, my mind

drifted back through the years, back to my boyhood

days. How wonderful the memories were. Piece by

piece the story unfolded.

Chapter 2.

   I suppose there's a time in practically every young

boy's life when he's affected by that wonderful dis-

ease of puppy love. I don't mean the kind a boy has

for the pretty little girl that lives down the road. I

mean the real kind, the kind that has four small feet

and a wiggly tail, and sharp little teeth that can gnaw

on a boy's finger; the kind a boy can romp and play

with, even eat and sleep with.

    I was ten years old when I first became infected

with this terrible disease. I'm sure no boy in the world

had it worse than I did. It's not easy for a young boy

to want a dog and not be able to have one. It starts

gnawing on his heart, and gets all mixed up in his

dreams. It gets worse and worse, until finally it be-

comes almost unbearable.

    If my dog-wanting had been that of an ordinary

boy, I'm sure my mother and father would have got-

ten me a puppy, but my wants were different. I

didn't want just one dog. I wanted two, and not just

any kind of a dog. They had to he a special kind and

a special breed.

    I had to have some dogs. I went to my father

and had a talk with him. He scratched his head and

thought it over.

     "Well, Billy," he said, "I heard that Old Man Hat-

field's collie Is going to have pups. I'm sure I can get

one of them for you.

    He may as well have poured cold water on me.

"Papa," I said, "I don't want an old collie dog. I want

hounds-coon hounds-and I want two of them."

    I could tell by the look on his face that he want-

ed to help me, but couldn't.

    He said, "Billy, those kind of dogs cost money,

and that's something we don't have right now. Maybe

some day when we can afford it, you can have them,

but not right now."

    I didn't give up. After my talk with Papa I went

to Mama. I fared no better there. Right off she said I

was too young to be hunting with hounds. Besides, a

hunter needed a gun, and that was one thing I

couldn't have, not until I was twenty-one anyway.

    I couldn't understand it. There I was, sitting right

in the middle of the finest hunting country in the

world and I didn't even have a dog.

    Our home was in a beautiful valley far back in

the rugged Ozarks. The country was new and sparse-

ly settled. The land we lived on was Cherokee land,

allotted to my mother because of the Cherokee blood

that flowed in her veins. It lay in a strip from the

foothills of the mountains to the banks of the Illinois

River in northeastern Oklahoma.

    The land was rich, black and fertile. Papa said it

would grow hair on a crosscut saw. He was the first

man to stick the cold steel point of a turning plow

into the virgin soil.

    Mama had picked the spot for our log house. It

nestled at the edge of the foothills in the mouth of a

small canyon, and was surrounded by a grove of huge

red oaks. Behind our house one could see miles and

miles of the mighty Ozarks. In the spring the aromat-

ic scent of wild flowers, redbuds, papaws, and dog-

woods, drifting on the wind currents, spread over the

valley and around our home.

    Below our fields, twisting and winding, ran the

clear blue waters of the Illinois River. The banks

were cool and shady. The rich bottom land near the

river was studded with tall sycamores, birches, and

box elders.

    To a ten-year-old country boy it was the most

beautiful place in the whole wide world and I took

advantage of it all. I roamed the hills and the river

bottoms. I knew every game trail in the thick cane-

brakes and every animal track that was pressed in

the mud along the riverbanks.

    The ones that fascinated me the most were the

baby-like tracks of a river coon. I'd lie for hours exam-

ining them. Before leaving I'd take a switch and

sweep them all away. These I called my "trail looks."

The next day I'd hurry back and sure enough, nine

times out of ten, there in the clean-swept ground I

would again find the tracks of a ringtail coon.

    I knew he had passed over the trail during the

night. I could close my eyes and almost see him,

humped up and waddling along, fishing under the

banks with his delicate little paws for crawfish, frogs,

and minnows.

    I was a hunter from the time I could walk. I

caught lizards on the rail fences, rats in the corn crib,

and frogs in the little creek that ran through the

fields. I was a young Daniel Boone.

    As the days passed the dog-wanting disease

grew worse. I began to see dogs in my sleep. I went

back to my father and mother. It was the same old

story. Good hounds cost money, and they just didn't

have it.

    My dog-wanting became so bad I began to lose

weight and my food didn't taste good any more.

Mama noticed this and she had a talk with Papa.

    "You're going to have to do something" she said.

"I never saw a boy grieve like that. It's not right, not

right at all."

   "I know," said Papa, "and I feel just as badly

you do, but what can I do? You know we don't have

that kind of money."

    "I don't care," said Mama. "You've got to do

something. I can't stand to see him cry like that. Be-

sides he's getting to be a problem. I can't get my

work done. He follows me around all day long begging

for hounds."

    "I offered to get him a dog," said Papa, "but he

doesn't want just any kind of dog. He wants hounds

and they cost money. Do you know what the Parker

boys paid for those two bounds they bought? Sev-

enty-five dollars! If I had that much money, I'd buy

another mule. I sure do need one."

    I had overheard this conversation from another

room. At first it made me feel pretty good. At least

was getting to be a problem. Then I didn't feel so

good. I knew my mother and father were poor and

didn't have any money. I began to feel sorry for them

and myself.

    After thinking it over, I figured out a way to

help. Even though it was a great sacrifice, I told Papa

I had decided I didn't want two hounds. One would

be enough. I saw the hurt in his eyes. It made me

feel like someone was squeezing water out of my

heart.

    Papa set me on his lap and we had a good talk.

He told me how hard times were, and that it looked

like a man couldn't get a fair price for anything he

raised. Some of the farmers had quit farming and

were cutting railroad ties so they could feed their

families. If things didn't get better, that's what he'd

have to do. He said he'd give anything if he could get

some good hounds for me, but there didn't seem to be

any way he could right then.

    I went off to bed with my heart all torn up in lit-

tle pieces, and cried myself to sleep.

    The next day Papa had to go to the store. Late

that evening I saw him coming back. As fast as I

could, I ran to meet him, expecting a sack of candy.

Instead he handed me three small steel traps.

    If Santa Claus himself had come down out of the

mountains, reindeer and all, I would not have been

more pleased. I jumped up and down, and cried a

whole bucketful of tears. I hugged him and told him

what a wonderful papa he was.

   He showed me how to set them by mashing the

spring down with my foot, and how to work the trig-

ger. I took them to bed with me that night.

    The next morning I started trapping around the

barn. The first thing I caught was Samie, our house

cat. If this didn't cause a commotion! I didn't intend

to catch him. I was trying to catch a rat, but somehow

he came nosing around and got in my trap.

    My sisters started bawling and yelling for Mama.

She came running, wanting to know what in the

world was going on. None of us had to tell her. Samie

told her with  his spitting and squalling.

    He was mad. He couldn't understand what that

thing was that was biting his foot, and he was making

an awful fuss about it. His tail was as big as a wet

corncob and every hair on his small body was sticking

straight up. He spit and yowled and dared anyone to

get close to him.

    My sisters yelled their fool heads off, all the time

saying, "Poor Samie! Poor Samie!"

    Mama shushed them up and told me to go get

the forked stick from under the clothes line. I ran and

got it.

    Mama was the best helper a boy ever had. She

put the forked end over Samie's neck and pinned him

to the ground.

    It was bad enough for the trap to be biting his

foot, but to have his neck pinned down that way was

too much. He threw a fit. I never heard such a racket

in all my life.

    It wasn't long until everything on the place was

all spooked up. The chickens started cackling and

flew way up on the hillside. Daisy, our milk cow, all

but tore the barn lot up and refused to give any milk

that night Sloppy Ann, our hog, started running

circles, squealing and grunting.

    Samie wiggled and twisted. He yowled and spit,

but it didn't do him any good. Mama was good and

stout. She held him down tight to the ground. I ran

in and put my foot on the trap spring, mashed it

down, and released his foot. With one loud squall, he

scooted under the barn.

    After it was all over, Mama said, "I don't think

you'll have any more trouble with that cat. I think he

has learned his lesson."

    How wrong Mama was. Samie was one of those

nosy kind of cats. He would lie up on the red oak

limbs and watch every move I made.

    I found some slick little trails out in our garden

down under some tall hollyhocks.  Thinking they were

game trails and not knowing they were Samie's favor-

ite hunting trails, I set my traps. Samie couldn't un-

derstand what I was doing out there messing around

his hunting territory. He went to investigate.

    It wasn't long until I had him  limping with all

four feet. Every time Papa saw Samie lying around in

the warm sun with his feet wrapped up in turpentine

rags, he would laugh until big tears rolled down his

cheeks.

    Mama had another talk with Papa. She said he

was going to have to say something to me, because

I caught that cat one more time, it would drive her

out of her mind.

    Papa told me to be a little more careful where I

set my traps.

    "Papa," I said, "I don't want to catch Samie, but

he's the craziest cat I ever saw. He sees everything I

do, and just has to go sniffing around."

    Papa looked over at Samie. He was lying all

sprawled out in the sunshine with all four paws band-

aged and sticking straight up. His long tail was swish-

ing this way and that.

   "You see, Papa," I said, "he's watching me right

now, trusting me to set my traps.

    Papa walked off toward the barn. I heard him

laughing fit to kill.

    It finally got too tough for Samie. He left home.

Oh, he came in once in a while, all lean

looking, but he never was the same friendly cat any

more. He was nervous and wouldn't let anyone pet

him. He would gobble down his milk and then scoot

for the timber.

    Once I decided to make friends with him be-

cause I felt bad about catching him in my traps. I

reached out my hand to rub his back. He swelled up

like a sitting hen. His eyeballs got all green, and he

growled way down deep. He spat at me, and drew

back his paw like he was going to knock my head off.

I decided I'd better leave him alone.

    In no time at all I cleaned out the rats. Then

something bad happened. I caught one of Mama's

prize hens. I got one of those "young man peach tree"

switchings over that.

    Papa told me to go down in the canebrakes back

of our fields and trap. This opened up all kinds of

new wonders. I caught opossums, skunks, rabbits, and

squirrels.

    Papa showed me how to skin my game. In neat

little rows I tacked the hides on the smokehouse wall.

I'd stand for hours and admire my magnificent tro-

phies.

    There was only one thing wrong. I didn't have a

big coonskin to add to my collection. I couldn't trap

old Mister Ringtail. He was too smart for me. He'd

steal the bait from the traps, spring the triggers, and

sometimes even turn them over.

    Once I found a small stick standing upright in

one of my traps. I showed it to Papa. He laughed and

said the stick must have fallen from a tree. It made

no difference what Papa said. I was firmly convinced

that a smart old coon had deliberately poked that

stick in my trap.

   The traps helped my dog-wanting considerably,

but like a new toy, the newness wore off and I was

right back where I started from. Only this time it was

worse, much worse. I had been exposed to the feel of

wildlife.

    I started pestering Mama again. She said, "Oh

no! Not that again. I thought you'd be satisfied with

the traps. No, Billy, I don' t want to hear any more

about hounds."

    I knew Mama meant what she said. This broke

my heart. I decided I'd leave home. I sneaked out a

quart jar of peaches, some cold corn bread, and a few

onions, and started up the hollow back of our house. I

had it all figured I out. I'd go away off to some big

town, get a hundred dogs, and bring them all back

with me.

    I made it all right until I heard a timber wolf

howl. This stopped my home-leaving.

    When the hunting season opened that fall, some-

thing happened that was almost more than I could

stand. I was lying in bed one night trying to figure

out a way I could get some dogs when I heard the

deep baying of a coon hound. I got up and opened

my window. It came again. The deep voice rang loud

and clear in the frosty night. Now and then I could

hear the hunter whooping to him.

    The hound hunted all night. He quit when the

roosters started crowing at daybreak. The hunter and

the hound weren't the only ones awake that night. I

stayed up and listened to them until the last tone of

the hound's voice died away in the daylight hours.

    That morning I was determined to have some

hounds. I went again to Mama. This time I tried

bribery. I told her if she'd get me a hunting dog, I'd

save the money I earned from my furs, and buy her a

new dress and a box full of pretty hats.

    That time I saw tears in her eyes. It made me

feel all empty inside and I cried a little, too. By the

time she was through kissing me and talking to me, I

was sure I didn't need any dogs at all. I couldn't

stand to see Mama cry.

    The next night I heard the hound again. I tried

to cover my head with a pillow to shut out the sound.

It was no use. His voice seemed to bore its way

through the pillow and ring in my ears. I had to get

up and again go to the window. I'm sure if that coon

hunter had known that he was slowly killing a ten-

year-old boy, he would have put a muzzle on his

hound.

    Sleep was out of the question. Even on nights

when I couldn't hear the hound, I couldn't sleep. I

was afraid if I did, he would come and I would miss

hearing him.

    By the time hunting season was over, I was a

nervous wreck. My eyes were red and bloodshot I

had lost weight and was as thin as a bean pole.

Mama checked me over. She looked at my tongue

and turned back one of my eyelids.

    "If I didn't know better," she said, "I'd swear you

weren't sleeping well. Are you?"

    "Why, Mama," I said, "I go to bed, don't I? What

does a boy go to bed for if it isn't to sleep?"

    By the little wrinkles that bunched up on her

forehead, I could tell that Mama wasn't satisfied.

Papa came in during one of these inspections. Mama

told him she was worried about my health.

    "Aw," be said, "there's nothing wrong with him.

It's just because he's been cooped up all winter. A

boy needs sunshine and exercise. He's almost eleven

now, and I'm going to let him help me in the fields

this summer. That will put the muscles back on him.

    I thought this was wonderful. I'd finally grown

up to be a man. I was going to help Papa with the

farm.

Chapter 3.

   The dog-wanting disease never did leave me

altogether. With the new work I was doing, helping

Papa, it just kind of burned itself down and left a big

sore on my heart. Every time I'd see a coon track

down in our fields, or along the riverbanks, the old

sore would get all festered up and start hurting again.

    Just when I had given up all hope of ever own-

ing a good hound, something  wonderful happened.

The good Lord figured I had hurt enough, and it was

time to lend a helping hand.

    It all started one day while I was hoeing corn

down in our field close to the river. Across the river, a

party of fishermen had been camped for several days.

I heard the old Maxwell car as it snorted and

chugged its way out of the bottoms. I knew they were

leaving. Throwing down my hoe, I ran down to the

river and waded across at a place called the Shannon

Ford. I hurried to the camp ground.

    It was always a pleasure to prowl where fisher-

men had camped. I usually could find things: a fish

line, or a forgotten fish pole. On one occasion, I found

a beautiful knife stuck in the bark of a sycamore tree,

forgotten by a careless fisherman. But on that day, I

found the greatest of treasures, a sportsman's maga-

zine, discarded by the campers. It was a real treasure

for a country boy. Because of that magazine, my en-

tire life was changed.

    I sat down on an old sycamore log, and started

thumbing through the leaves. On the back pages of

the magazine, I came to the "For Sale" section-

"Dogs for Sale," every kind of dog. I read on and on

They had dogs I had never heard of, names I couldn't

make out, Far down in the right-hand corner, I found

an ad that took my breath away. In small letters, it

read:  "Registered  redbone  coon  hound  pups

twenty-five dollars each."

    The advertisement was from a kennel in Ken-

tucky. I read it over and over. By the time I had

memorized the ad, I was seeing dogs, hearing dogs

and even feeling them. The magazine was forgotten. I

was lost in thought. The brain of an eleven-year-old

boy can dream some fantastic dreams.

    How wonderful it would be if I could have two of

those pups. Every boy in the country but me had a

good hound or two. But fifty dollars-how could I

ever get fifty dollars? I knew I couldn't expect help

from Mama and Papa.

    I remembered a passage from the Bible my

mother had read to us: "God helps those who help

themselves." I thought of the words. I mulled them

over in my mind. I decided I'd ask God to help me.

There on the banks of the Illinois River, in the cool

shade of the tall white sycamores, I asked God to

help me get two hound pups. It wasn't much of a

prayer, but it did come right from the heart.

    When I left the camp ground of the fishermen, it

was late. As I walked along, I could feel the hard

bulge of the magazine jammed deep in the pocket of

my overalls. The beautiful silence that follows the set-

ting sun had settled over the river bottoms. The

coolness of the rich, black soil felt good to my bare

feet.

   It was the time of day when all furry things

come to life. A big swamp rabbit hopped out on the

trail, sat on his haunches, stared at me, and then

scampered away. A mother gray squirrel ran out on

the limb of a burr oak tree. She barked a warning to

the four furry balls behind her. They melted from

sight in the thick green. A silent gray shadow drifted

down from the top of a tall sycamore. There was a

squeal and a beating of wings. I heard the tinkle of a

bell in the distance ahead. I knew it was Daisy, our

milk cow. I'd have to start her on the way home.

    I took the magazine from my pocket and again I

read the ad. Slowly a plan began to form. I'd save the

money. I could sell stuff to the fishermen: crawfish,

minnows, and fresh vegetables. In berry season, I

could sell all the berries I could pick at my grandfa-

ther's store. I could trap in the winter. The more I

planned, the more real it became. There was the way

to get those pups-save my money.      

   I could almost feel the pups in my hands.  I

planned the little doghouse, and where to put it.

Collars I could make myself. Then the thought came,

"What could I name them?" I tried name after name,

voicing them out loud. None seemed to fit. Well, there

would be plenty of time for names.

    Right now there was something more impor-

tant-fifty  dollars-a fabulous sum-a fortune-far

more money than I had ever seen. Somehow, some

way, I was determined to have it. I had twenty-three

cents-a dime I had earned running errands for my

grandpa, and thirteen cents a fisherman had given me

for a can of worms.

    The next morning I went to the trash pile behind

the barn. I was looking for a can-my bank. I picked

up several, but they didn't seem to be what I wanted.

Then I saw it, an old K. C. Baking Powder can. It

was perfect, long and slender, with a good tight lid. I

took it down to the creek and scrubbed it with sand

until it was bright and new-looking.

    I dropped the twenty-three cents in the can. The

coins looked so small lying there on the shiny bottom,

but to me it was a good start. With my finger, I tried

to measure how full it would be with fifty dollars in

it.

    Next, I went to the barn and up in the loft. Far

back over the hay and up under the eaves, I hid my

can. I had a start toward making my dreams come

true-twenty-three cents. I had a good bank, safe

from the rats and from the rain and snow.

    All through that summer I worked like a beaver.

In the small creek that wormed its way down through

our fields, I caught crawfish with my bare hands. I

trapped minnows with an old screen-wire trap I

made myself, baited with yellow corn bread from my

mother's kitchen. These were sold to the fishermen

along with fresh vegetables and roasting ears. I tore

my way through the blackberry patches until my

hands and feet were scratched raw and red from the

thorns. I tramped the hills seeking out the buckle

berry bushes. My grandfather paid me ten cents a

bucket for my berries.

    Once Grandpa asked me what I did with the

money I earned. I told him I was saving it to buy

some hunting dogs. I asked him if he would order

them for me when I had saved enough. He said he

would. I asked him not to say anything to my father

He promised me he wouldn't.  I'm sure Grandpa paid

little attention to my plans.

    That winter I trapped harder than ever with the

three little traps I owned. Grandpa sold my hides to

fur buyers who came to his store all through the fur

season. Prices were cheap: fifteen cents for a large

opossum hide, twenty-five for a good skunk hide.

    Little by little, the nickels and dimes added up

The old K. C. Baking Powder can grew heavy. I

would heft its weight in the palm of my hand. With a

straw, I'd measure from the lip of the can to the

money. As the months went by, the straws grew short-

er and shorter.

    The next summer I followed the same routine.

"Would you like to buy some crawfish or min-

nows? Maybe you'd like some fresh vegetables or

roasting ears."

    The fishermen were wonderful, as true sportsmen

are. They seemed to sense the urgency in my voice

and always bought my wares. However, man was the

time I'd find my vegetables left in the abandoned

camp.

    There never was a set price. Anything they of-

fered was good enough for me.

    A year passed. I was twelve. I was over the half-

way mark. I had twenty-seven dollars and forty-six

cents. My spirits soared. I worked harder.

    Another year crawled slowly by, and then the

great day came. The long hard grind was over. I had

it-my fifty dollars! I cried as I counted it over and

over.

    As I set the can back in the shadowy eaves of the

barn, it seemed to glow with a radiant whiteness I

had never seen before. Perhaps it was all imagination.

I don't know.

    Lying back in the soft hay, I folded my hands

behind my head, closed my eyes, and let my mind

wander back over the two long years. I thought of the

fishermen, the blackberry patches, and the huckle-

berry hills. I thought of prayer I had said when I

asked God to help me get two hound pups. I knew He

had surely helped, for He had given me the heart,

courage, and determination.

    Early the next morning, with the can jammed

deep in the pocket of my overalls, I flew to the store.

As I trotted along I whistled and sang. I felt as big as

the tallest mountain in the Ozarks.

    Arriving at my destination, I saw two wagons

were tied up at the hitching rack. I knew some farm-

ers had come to the store, so I waited until they left.

As I walked in, I saw my grandfather behind the

counter. Tugging and pulling, I worked the can out of

my pocket and dumped it out in front of him and

looked up.

   Grandpa was dumbfounded. He tried to say

something, but it wouldn't come out. He looked at me,

and he looked at the pile of coins. Finally, in a voice

much louder than he ordinarily used, he asked,

"Where did you get all this?"

    "I told you, Grandpa," I said, "I was saving my

money so I could buy two hound pups, and I did.

You said you would order them for me. I've got the

money and now I want you to order them."

    Grandpa stared at me over his glasses, and the

back at the money.

    "How long have you been saving this?" he asked 

    "A long time, Grandpa," I said.

    "How long?" he asked.

    I told him, "Two years."

    His mouth flew open and in a loud voice he said,

"Two years!"

    I nodded my head.

    The way my grandfather stared at me made me

uneasy. I was on needles and pins. Taking his eyes

from me, he glanced back at the money. He saw the

faded yellow piece of paper sticking  out from the

coins. He worked it out, asking as he did, "What's

this?"

    I told him. It was the ad, telling where to order

my dogs.

    He read it, turned it over, and glanced at the

other side.

    I saw the astonishment leave his eyes and the

friendly-old-grandfather look come back. I felt much

better.

    Dropping the paper back on the money, he

turned, picked up an old turkey-feather duster, and

started dusting where there was no dust. He kept

glancing at me out of the corner of his eye as he

walked slowly down to the other end of the store,

dusting here and there.

    He put the duster down, came from behind the

counter, and walked up to me. Laying a friendly old

work-calloused hand on my head, he changed the

conversation altogether, saying, "Son, you need a hair-

cut."

    I told him I didn't mind. I didn't like my hair

short; flies and mosquitoes bothered me.

    He glanced down at my hare feet and asked,

"How come your feet are cut and scratched like that?'

    I told him it was pretty tough picking blackber-

ries barefoot.

    He nodded his head.

    It was too much for my grandfather. He turned

and walked away. I saw the glasses come off, and the

old red handkerchief come out I heard the good ex-

cuse of blowing his nose. He stood for several seconds

with his back toward me. When he turned around, I

noticed his eyes were moist.

    In a quavering voice, he said, "Well, son, it's

your money. You worked for it, and you worked hard.

You got it honestly, and you want some dogs. We're

going to get those dogs. Be danged! Be danged!"

    That was as near as I ever came to hearing my

grandfather curse, if you can call it cursing.

    He walked over and picked up the ad again,

asking, "Is this two years old, too?"

    I nodded.

    "Well," he said, "the first thing we have to do is

write this outfit. There may not even be a place like

this in Kentucky any more. After all, a lot of things

can happen in two years."

    Seeing that I was worried, he said, "Now you go

on home. I'll write to these kennels and I'll let you

know when I get an answer. If we can't get the dogs

there, we can get them someplace else. And I don't

think, if I were you, I'd let my Pa know anything

about this right now. I happen to know he wants to

buy that red mule from Old Man Potter.

    I told him I wouldn't, and turned to leave the

store.

    As I reached the door, my grandfather said in a

loud voice, "Say, it's been a long time since you've

had any candy, hasn't it?"

    I nodded my head.

    He asked, "How long?"

    I told him, "A long time."

    "Well," he said, "we'll have to do something

about that."

    Walking over behind the counter, he reached out

and got a sack. I noticed it wasn't one of the nickel

sacks. It was one of the quarter kind.

    My eyes never left my grandfather's hand. Time

after time, it dipped in and out of the candy counter:

peppermint sticks, jawbreakers, horehound, and gum-

drops. The sack bulged. So did my eyes.

    Handing the sack to me, he said, "Here. First big

coon you catch with those dogs, you can pay me

back."

    I told him I would.

    On my way home, with a jawbreaker in one side

of my mouth and a piece of horehound in the other, I

skipped and hopped, making half an effort to try to

whistle and sing, and couldn't for the candy. I had

the finest grandpa in the world and I was the hap-

piest boy in the world.

    I wanted to share my happiness with my sisters

but decided not to say anything about ordering the

pups.

    Arriving home, I dumped the sack of candy out

on the bed. Six little hands helped themselves. I was

well repaid by the love and adoration I saw in the

wide blue eyes of my three little sisters.

Chapter 4.

    DAY AFTER DAY, I FLEW TO THE STORE. GRANDPA WOULD

shake his head. Then on a Monday, as I entered the

store, I sensed a change in him. He was in high spirits,

talking and laughing with half a dozen farmers. Every

time I caught his eye, he would smile and wink at me.

I thought the farmers would never leave, but finally

the store was empty.

    Grandpa told me the letter had come. The ken-

nels were still there, and they had dogs for sale. He

said he had made the mail buggy wait while he made

out the order. And, another thing, the dog market

had gone down. The price of dogs had dropped

five dollars He handed me a ten-dollar bill.

    "Now, there's still one stump in the way," he said.

"The mail buggy can't carry things like dogs, so they'll

come as far as the depot at Tahlequah, but you'll get

the notice here because I ordered them in your

name.

    I thanked my grandfather with all my heart and

asked him how long I'd have to wait for the notice.

    He said, "I don't know, but it shouldn't take more

than a couple of weeks."

    I asked how I was going to get my dogs out from

Tahlequah.

    "Well, there's always someone going in," he said,

"and you could ride in with them."

    That evening the silence of our supper was inter-

rupted when I asked my father this question: "Papa,

how far is it to Kentucky?"

    I may as well have exploded a bomb. For an in-

stant there was complete silence, and then my oldest

sister giggled. The two little ones stared at me.

    With a half-hearted laugh, my father said, "Well

now, I don't know, but it's a pretty good ways. What

do you want to know for? Thinking of taking a trip to

Kentucky?"

    "No," I said. "I just wondered."

    My youngest sister giggled and asked, "Can I go

with you?"

    I glared at her.

    Mama broke into the conversation, "I declare,

what kind of a question is that? How far is it to Ken-

tucky? I don't know what's gotten into that mind

yours lately. You go around like you were lost, and

you're losing weight. You're as skinny as a rail, and

look at that hair. Just last Sunday they had a haircut-

ting over at Tom Rolland's place, but you couldn't go.

You had to go prowling around the river and the

woods."

    I told Mama that I'd get a haircut next time they

had a cutting. And I just heard some fellows talking

about Kentucky up at the store, and wondered how

far away it was. Much to my relief, the conversation

was ended.

    The days dragged by. A week passed and still no

word about my dogs. Terrible thoughts ran through

my mind. Maybe my dogs were lost; the train had a

wreck; someone stole my money; or perhaps the mail-

man lost my order. Then, at the end of the second

week, the notice came.

    My grandfather told me that he had talked to

Jim Hodges that day. He was going into town in about

a week and I could ride in with him to pick up my

dogs. Again I thanked my grandfather.

    I started for home. Walking along in deep

thought, I decided it was time to tell my father the

whole story. I fully intended to tell him that evening.

I tried several times, but somehow I couldn't. I wasn't

scared of him, for he never whipped me. He was al-

ways kind and gentle, but for some reason, I don't

know why, I just couldn't tell him.

    That night, snuggled deep in the soft folds of a

feather bed, I lay thinking. I had waited so long for

my dogs, and I so desperately wanted to see them

and hold them. I didn't want to wait a whole week.

    In a flash I made up my mind. Very quietly I got

up and put on my clothes. I sneaked into the kitchen

and got one of Mama's flour sacks. In it I put

six eggs, some leftover corn bread, a little salt, and a

few matches. Next I went to the smokehouse and cut

off a piece of salt pork. I stopped at the barn and

picked up a gunny sack. I put the flour sack inside

the gunny sack. This I rolled up and crammed length-

wise in the bib of my overalls.

    I was on my way. I was going after my dogs.

    Tahlequah was a small country town with a pop-

ulation of about eight hundred. By the road it was

thirty-two miles away, but as the crow flies, it was

only twenty miles. I went as the crow flies, straight

through the hills.

    Although I had never been to town in my life, I

knew what direction to take. Tahlequah and the rail-

road lay on the other side of the river from our place.

I had the Frisco Railroad on my right, and the Illinois

River on my left. Not far from where the railroad

crossed the river lay the town of Tahlequah. I knew if

I bore to the right I would find the railroad, and if I

bore to the left I had the river to guide me.

    Some time that night, I crossed the river on a rift

somewhere in the Dripping Springs country. Coming out of the

river bottoms, I scatted up a long

hogback ridge, and broke out on top in the flats. In a

mile eating trot, I moved along. I had the wind of a

deer, the muscles of a country boy, a heart full of dog

love, and a strong determination. I wasn't scared of

the darkness, or the mountains, for I was raised in

those mountains.

    On and on, mile after mile, I moved along. I saw

faint gray streaks appear in the east. I knew daylight

was close. My bare feet were getting sore from the

flint rocks and saw briers. I stopped beside a moun-

tain stream, soaked my feet in cool water, rested

for a spell, and then started on.

    After leaving the mountain stream, my pace was

much slower. The muscles of my legs were getting

stiff. Feeling the pangs of hunger gnawing at my

stomach, I decided I would stop and eat at the next

stream I found. Then I remembered I had forgotten

to include a can in which to boil my eggs.

    I stopped and built a small fire. Cutting off a

nice thick slab of salt pork, I roasted it, and with a

piece of cold corn bread made a sandwich.

    Putting out my fire, I was on my way again. I ate as I

trotted along. I felt much better.

    I came into Tahieuah from the northeast. At the

outskirts of town, I hid my flour sack and provisions,

keeping the gunny sack. I walked into town.

    I was scared of Tahlequah and the people. I had

never seen such a big town and so many people.

There was store after store, some of them two stories

high. The wagon yard had wagons on top of wagons;

teams, buggies, and horses.

    Two young ladies about my age stopped, stared

at me, and then giggled. My blood boiled, but I could

understand. After all, I had three sisters. They

couldn't help it because they were womenfolks. I

went on.

    I saw a big man coming up the street. The bright

shiny star on his vest looked as big as a bucket. I saw

the long, black gun at his side and I froze in my

tracks. I'd heard of sheriffs and marshals, but had

never seen one. Stories repeated about them in the

mountains told how fast they were with a gun, and

how many men they had killed.

    The closer he came, the more frightened I got. I

knew it was the end for me. I could just see him aim-

ing his big, black gun and shooting me between the

eyes. It seemed like a miracle that he passed by,

hardly glancing at me. Breathing a sigh, I walked on,

seeing the wonders of the world.

    Passing a large store window, I stopped and

stared. There in the window was the most wonderful

sight I had ever seen; everything under the sun; over-

alls, jackets, bolts of beautiful cloth, new harnesses,

collars, bridles; and then my eyes did pop open.

There were several guns and one of them had two

barrels. I couldn't believe it-two barrels. I had seen

several guns, but never one with two barrels.

    Then I saw something else. The sun was just

right, and the plate glass was a perfect mirror. I saw

the full reflection of myself for the first time in my

life.

    I could see that I did look a little odd. My

straw-colored hair was long and shaggy, and was

bushed out like a corn tassel that had been hit by a

wind. I tried to smooth it down with my hands. This

helped some but not much. What it needed was a

good combing and I had no comb.

    My overalls were patched and faded but they

were clean. My shirt had pulled out. I tucked it back

in.

    I took one look at my bare feet and winced.

They were as brown as dead sycamore leaves. The

spider-web pattern of raw, red scratches looked odd

in the saddle-brown skin. I thought, "Well, I won't

have to pick any more blackberries and the scratches

will soon go away."

    I pumped up one of my arms and thought surely

the muscle was going to pop right through my thin

blue shirt. I stuck out my tongue. It was as red as

pokeberry juice and anything that color was sup-

posed to be healthy.

    After making a few faces at myself, I put my

thumbs in my ears and was making mule ears when

two old women came by. They stopped and stared at

me. I stared back. As they turned to go on their way,

I heard one of them say something to the other. The

words were hard to catch, but l did hear one word:

`Wild." As I said before, they couldn't help it, they

were womenfolks.

    As I turned to leave, my eyes again fell on the

overalls and the bolts of cloth. I thought of my

mother, father, and sisters. Here was an opportunity to

make amends for leaving home without telling any-

one.

    I entered the store. I bought a pair of overalls for

Papa. After telling the storekeeper how big my

mother and sisters were, I bought several yards of

cloth. I also bought a large sack of candy.

    Glancing down at my bare feet, the storekeeper

said, "I have some good shoes."

    I told him I didn't need any shoes.

    He asked if that would be all.

    I nodded.

    He added up the bill. I handed him my ten dol-

lars. He gave me my change.

    After wrapping up the bundles, he helped me

put them in my sack. Lifting it to my shoulder, I

turned and left the store.

    Out on the street, I picked out a friendly-looking

old man and asked him where the depot was. He told

me to go down to the last street and turn right, go as

far as I could, and I couldn't miss it. I thanked him

and started on my way.

    Leaving the main part of town, I started up a

long street through the residential section. I had

never seen so many beautiful houses, and they were

all different colors. The lawns were neat and clean

and looked like green carpets. I saw a man pushing

some kind of a mowing machine. I stopped to watch

the whirling blades. He gawked at me. I hurried on.

    I heard a lot of shouting and laughing ahead of

me. Not wanting to miss anything, I walked a little

faster. I saw what was making the noise. More kids

than I had ever seen were playing around a big red

brick building. I thought some rich man lived there

and was giving a party for his children. Walking up

to the edge of the play ground, I stopped to watch.

    The boys and girls were about my age, and were

as thick as flies around a sorghum mill. They were

milling, running, and jumping. Teeter-totters and

swings were loaded down with them. Everyone was

laughing and having a big time.

    Over against a building, a large blue pipe ran

up on an angle from the ground. A few feet from the

top there was a bend in it. The pipe seemed to go

into the building. Boys were crawling into its dark

mouth. I counted nine of them. One boy stood about

six feet from the opening with a stick in his hand.

    Staring goggle-eyed, trying to figure out what

they were doing, I got a surprise. Out of the hollow

pipe spurted a boy. He sailed through the air and lit

on his feet. The boy with the stick marked the ground

where he landed. All nine of them came shooting out,

one behind the other. As each boy landed, a new

mark was scratched.

     They ganged around looking at the lines. There

was a lot of loud talking, pointing, and arguing. Then

all lines were erased and a new score keeper was

picked out. The others crawled back into the pipe.

     I figured out how the game was played. After

climbing to the top, of the slide, the boys turned

around and sat down. One at a time, they came flying

down and out, feet first The one that shot out the

furthest was the winner. I thought how wonderful it

would be if I could slide down just one time.

      One boy, spying me standing on the corner, came

over. Looking me up and down, he asked, "Do you go

to school here?"

      I said, "School?"

      He said, "Sure. School what did you think it

was?"