Back to Homepage

Back to Where the Red Fern Grows

Where the Red Fern Grows

Day Three

With a pup under each arm and running as fast

as I could, I lit out for the house. Coming out of the

bottoms into a fresh-plowed field I set my pups down

so I could get a little more speed. I started yelling as

soon as I came in sight of the house.

    Mama came flying out with my sisters right be-

hind her. Papa was out by the barn harnessing his

team. Mama yelled something to him about a snake.

He dropped the harness, jumped over the rail fence,

and in a long lope started for me.

    Mama reached me first. She grabbed me and

shouted, "Where did it bite you?"

    "Bite me?" I said. "Why Mama, I'm not bit. I've

got him, Mama. I've got him."

    "Got what?" Mama asked.

    "A big coon," I said. "The biggest one in the river

bottoms. He's this big, Mama." I made a circle with

my arms as big as a twenty-gallon keg.

    Mama just groaned way down deep and covered

her face with her hands. Some big tears squeezed out

between her fingers. Almost in a whisper, I heard her

say, "Thank God; I thought you were snake-bitten."

    My sisters, seeing Mama crying, puckered up

and started bawling.

    "He needs a whipping," the oldest one said, "that's

what he needs, scaring Mama that way."

    Something busted loose inside me and I cried a

little, too.

    I didn't mean to scare Mama," I sniffed. "I just

wanted everyone to know I caught a coon."

    Up until this time Papa hadn't said a word. He

just stood looking on.

    "Here now,"  he said, "let's have none of this

crying. He didn't mean to scare anyone."

    Taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he

stepped over to Mama, put his arm around her, and

started drying her eyes.

    Mama poked her head around him and glared at

me. "Billy Colman," she shouted, "if you ever scare

me like that again, I'll take a switch and wear you to

a frazzle."

    This hurt my feelings and I really did get tuned

up. "Everyone's mad at me," I said, "and I haven't

done anything but catch the biggest coon on the

river."

    Mama came over. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't

mean to be cross, but you did scare me. I thought a

rattlesnake had bitten you."

    "Now that's all settled," Papa said, "we had

better go get that coon." Looking at Mama, he said,

"Why don't you and the girls go with us. I don't think

it'll take long."

    Mama looked at me, smiled, and turned to the

girls. "Would you like to go?" she asked.

    Their only answer was a lot of squealing and

jumping up and down.

    On the way, Mama noticed some blood on my

shirt. She stopped me and started looking me over.

    "Where did that come from?" she asked. "Did

that coon bite you?

    "No, Mama," I said. "I didn't get close enough for

him to bite me."

    With a worried look on her face, she jerked out

my shirt. "You don't seem to be scratched anywhere,"

she said.

    "Maybe this is where it came from," Papa said.

    He reached down and picked up my boy pup. His

little black nose was split wide open and was bleed-

ing.

    I saw a relieved look come ever Mama's face.

    Looking at me, she started shaking her head. "I

don't know," she said. "I just don't know."

    "Did that coon get hold of this pup?" Papa asked,

    "He sure did, Papa," I said, "but it wasn't the

coon's fault. If it hadn't been for Little Ann, he'd have

eaten him up."

    I told how my dogs had tied into the coon.

    Papa laughed as he fondled my pup. "This dog is

going to be a coon hound," he said, "and I mean a

good one."

    The coon started squalling as soon as we came in

sight.

    "My goodness," Mama said, "you wouldn't think

anything so small would be so vicious."

    Papa picked up a club. "Now everybody stand

back out of the way," he said. "This won't take long."

    My pups were wanting to get to the coon so

badly that they were hard to hold. I had to squeeze

them up tight to keep them from jumping right out of

my arms.

    My sisters, with eyes as big as blue marbles, got

behind Mama and peeked around her.

    Papa whacked the coon a good one across the

head. He let out a loud squall, growled, and showed

his teeth. He tried hard to get to Papa but the trap

held him.

    The girls buried their faces in Mama's dress and

started bawling. Mama turned her back on the fight. I

heard her say, "I wish we hadn't come. Poor thing."

    Papa whacked him again and it was all over.

    It was too much for Mama and the girls. They

left. I heard the tall cane rattling as they ran for the

house.

    After the coon was killed, I walked over. Papa

was trying to get the coon's paw from the trap. He

couldn't do it. Taking a pair of pliers from his pocket,

he said, It's a good thing I had these along or we

would have had to cut his foot off."

    After Papa had pulled the nails, he lifted the

coon's paw from the hole. There, clamped firmly in it,

was the bright piece of tin.

    In a low voice Papa said, "Well, I'll be darned.

All he had to do was open it up and he was free, but

he wouldn't do it. Your grandfather was right."

    A sorrowful look came over Papa's face as he ran

his fingers through the soft, yellow hair. "Bill," he

said, "I want you to take a hammer and pull the nails

from every one of those traps. It's summertime now

and their fur isn't any good. Besides, I don't think this

is very sports man like. The coon doesn't have a

chance. It's all right this time. You needed this one,

but from now on I want you to catch them with your

dogs. That way they have a fifty-fifty chance."

    "I will, Papa," I said. "That's what I intended to

do."

    While we were skinning the coon, Papa asked me

when I was going to start training my dogs.

    "I don't know" I said. "Do you think they're too

young?"

    No, I don't think so," he said. "I've heard that

the younger they are the better it is."

    "Well, in that case," I said, "I'll start tomorrow."

    With the help of my oldest sister, we started giv-

ing my pups their first lessons. She would hold their

collars while I made trails with the hide for them to

follow.

    I'd climb trees that leaned out over the river,

jump out into the water, swim to the other side, and

make trails up and down the bank. With a long pole

and wire, I'd drag the hide on top of rail fences,

swing it through the air, and let it touch the ground

twenty or thirty feet away. I did everything with that

hide a coon would do and probably a lot of things a

coon couldn't do.

    It was a beautiful sight to see my pups work

those trails. At first they were awkward and didn't

know what to do, but they would never quit trying.

    Old Dan would get so eager and excited, he

would overrun a trail. Where it twisted or turned, he

would run straight on, bawling up a storm. It didn't

take him long to realize that a smart old coon didn't

always run in a straight line.

    Little Ann never overran a trail. She would wig-

gle and twist, cry and whine, and pretty soon she

would figure it out.

    At first they were afraid of water. I never would

admit it even to myself. I always said that they just

didn't like to get wet. They would follow the trail to

the stream and stop. Sitting down on their rears, they

would cry and beg for help. With a pup under each

arm, I'd wade out into the stream and set them down

in the cool Water. Nine times out of ten, one pup

would swim one way and the other one would go just

the apposite way. I had a time with this part of their

training, but my persistence had no bounds.

   It wasn't long until they loved the water. Old

Dan would jump as far out as he could and practi-

cally knock the river dry. Little Ann would ease her-

self in and swim like a muskrat for the opposite shore.

   I taught my dogs every trick I knew and any

new ones I heard about. I taught them how to split

up on a riverbank to search for the hidden trail, be-

cause it was impossible to tell where a coon would

come out of the water. Sometimes he might swim

downstream and other times he might swim up-

stream. Maybe he would come back to the bank he

had just left, or he would cross over to the other side.

Perhaps he would stop in the middle of the stream on

an old drift.

   Sometimes he would come out of the water by

catching the dangling limbs of a leaning birch and

climbing up, never touching the bank. Or he could

come out on the same trail he used to go in, and

backtrack. He would sometimes crawl up under an

undermined bank or into an old muskrat den.

   One of the favorite tricks of a smart old ringtail is

the treebarking trick. This he accomplished by run-

ning far up on the side of a tree and using his stout

legs for leverage, springing twenty or thirty feet away

before touching the ground. Dumb hounds trail up to

the tree and start bawling treed. I taught my dogs to

circle for a good hundred yards to be sure he was still

in the tree before bawling.

   In order to learn more about coon hunting, I'd

hang around my grandfather's store and listen to the

stories told by the coon hunters. Some of the tales I

heard were long and tall, but I believed them all.

   I could always tell when Grandpa was kidding

me by the twinkle in his eyes. He told me how a coon

could climb right up the fog and disappear in the

stars, and how he could leap on a horse's back and

run him over your dogs. I didn't care, for I loved to

hear the tall tales. Anything that had a coon hair in it

I believed completely.

    All through that summer and into the late fall the

training went on. Although I was worn down to a

frazzle, I was a happy boy. I figured I was ready for

the ringtails.

    Late one evening, tired and exhausted, I sat

down by a big sycamore and called my dogs to me.

It's all over," I said. "There'll be no more lessons. I've

worked hard and I've done my best. From now on it's

all up to you. Hunting season is just a few days away

and I'm going to let you rest for I want you to be in

good shape the night it opens.

    It was wonderful indeed how I could have

heart-to-heart talks with my dogs and they always

seemed to understand. Each question I asked was an-

swered in their own doggish way.

   Although they couldn't talk in my terms, they

had a language of their own that was easy to under-

stand. Sometimes I would see the answer in their

eyes, and again it would be in the friendly wagging

of their tails. Other times I could hear the answer in a

low whine or feel it in the soft caress of a warm flick-

ing tongue. In some way, they would always answer.

Chapter 8.

    THE DAY HUNTING SEASON OPENED, I WAS AS NERVOUS

as Samie, our house cat. Part of that seemingly end-

less day was spent getting things ready for the coming

night.

    I cleaned my lantern and filled it full of oil. With

hog lard I greased my boots until they were as soft as

a hummingbird's nest. I was grinding my ax when

Papa came around.

    He smiled as he said, "This is the big night, isn't

it?"

    "It sure is, Papa," I said, "and I've waited a long

time for it."

    "Yes, I know," he said. "I've been thinking-

there's not too much to do around here during the

hunting season. I'm pretty sure I can take care of

things, so you just go ahead and hunt all you want

to."

    "Thanks, Papa," I said. "I guess I'll be out pretty

late at night, and I'll probably have to do a lot of

sleeping in the daytime."

    Papa started frowning. "You know," he said,

your mother doesn't like this hunting of yours very

much. She's worried about you being out all by your

self."

    "I can't see why Mama has to worry," I said.

"Haven't I been roaming the woods ever since I was

big enough to walk, and I'm almost fourteen now."

    "I know" said Papa. "It's all right with me, but

women are a little different than men. They worry

more."

    "Now just to be on the safe side, I think it would

be a good idea for you to tell us where you'll be hunt-

ing. Then if anything happens, we'll know where to

look."

    I told him I would, but I didn't think anything

was going to happen.

    After Papa had left, I started thinking, "He

doesn't even talk to me like I was a boy any more. He

talks to me like I was a man.  These wonderful

thoughts made me feel just about as big as our old

red mule.

    I had a good talk with my dogs. "I've waited al-

most three years for this night," I said, "and it hasn't

been easy. I've taught you everything I know and I

want you to do your best."

    Little Ann acted like she understood. She whined

and saved me a wash job on my face. Old Dan may

have, but he didn't act like it. He just lay there in the

sunshine, all stretched out and limber as a rag.

    During supper Mama asked me where I was

going to hunt.

    "I'm not going far," I said, "just down on the

river."

    I could tell Mama was worried and it didn't

make me feel too good.

    "Billy," she said, "I don't approve of this hunting,

but it looks like I can't say no; not after all you've

been through, getting your dogs, and all that train-

ing."

    "Aw, he'll be all right," Papa said. "Besides, he's

getting to be a good-size man now."

   "Man!" Mama exclaimed. "why, he's still just a

little boy!"

    "You can't keep him a little boy always," Papa

said. "He's got to grow up some day."

    "I know," Mama said, but I don't like it, not at

all, and I can't help worrying."

    "Mama, please don't worry about me," I said. I'll

be all right.  Why, I've been all over these hills, you

know that."

    "I know," she said, "but that was in the daytime.

I never worried too much when it was daylight, but

at night, that's different. It'll be dark and anything

could happen."

    "There won't be anything happen," I said. "I

promise I'll be careful."

    Mama got up from the table saying, "Well, it's

like I said, I can't say no and I can't help worrying.

I'll pray every night you're out."

    The way Mama had me feeling, I didn't know

whether to go hunting or not.  Papa must have sensed

how I felt. "It's dark now," he said, "and I understand

those coons start stirring pretty early. You had better

be going, hadn't you?"

    While Mama was bundling me up, Papa lit my

lantern. He handed it to me, saying, "I'd like to see a

big coonskin on the smokehouse wall in the morning."

    The whole family followed me out on the porch.

There we all got a surprise. My dogs were sitting on

the steps, waiting for me.

    I heard Papa laugh. "Why, they know you're

going hunting," he said, "know it as well as anything."

    "Well, I never," said Mama. "Do you really think

they do? It does look like they do. Why, just look at

them."

    Little Ann started wiggling and twisting. Old

Dan trotted out to the gate, stopped, turned around,

and looked at me.

    "Sure they know Billy's going hunting," piped the

little one, "and I know why."

   "How do you know so much, silly?" asked the

oldest one.

    "Because I told Little Ann, that's why," she said,

"and she told Old Dan. That's how they know."

    We all had to laugh at her.

    The last thing I heard as I left the house was the

voice of my mother. "Be careful, Billy," she said, "and

don't stay out late."

    It was a beautiful night, still and frosty. A big

grinning Ozark moon had the countryside bathed in a

soft yellow glow. The starlit heaven reminded me of a

large blue umbrella, outspread and with the handle

broken off.

    Just before I reached the timber, I called my

dogs to me. "Now the trail will be a little different

tonight," I whispered. "It won't be a hide dragged on

the ground. It'll be the real thing, so remember every-

thing I taught you and I'm depending on you. Just

put one up a tree and I'll do the rest."

    I turned them loose, saying, "Go get  them."

    They streaked for the timber.

    By the time I had reached the river, every nerve

in my body was drawn up as tight as a fiddle string.

Big-eyed and with ears open, I walked on, stopping

now and then to listen. The way I was slipping along

anyone would have thought I was trying to slip up on

a coon myself.

    I had never seen a night so peaceful and still. All

around me tall sycamores gleamed like white stream-

ers in the moonlight. A prowling skunk came wob-

bling up the riverbank. He stopped when he saw me.

I smiled at the fox-fire glow of his small, beady, red

eyes. He turned and disappeared in the underbrush. I

heard a sharp snap and a feathery rustle in some

brush close by. A small rodent started squealing in

agony. A night hawk had found his supper.

    Across the river and from far back in the rugged

mountains I heard the baying of a hound. I won-

dered if it was the same one I had heard from my

window on those nights so long ago.

    Although my eyes were seeing the wonders of

the night, my ears were ever alert, listening for the

sound of my hounds telling me they had found a trail.

    I was expecting one of them to bawl, but when it

came it startled me. The deep tones of Old Dan's

voice jarred the silence around me. I dropped my ax

and almost dropped my lantern. A strange feeling

came over me. I took a deep breath and threw back

my head to give the call of the hunter, but something

went wrong. My throat felt like it had been tied in a

knot. I swallowed a couple of times and the knot dis-

appeared.

    As loud as I could, I whooped, "Whoo.  Get

him, Dan. Get him."

    Little Ann came in. The bell-like tones of her

voice made shivers run up and down my spine. I

whooped to her. "Whoo. Tell it to him, little girl.

Tell it to him."

    This was what I had prayed for, worked and

sweated for, my own little hounds bawling on the

trail of a river coon. I don't know why I cried, but I

did. While the tears rolled, I whooped again and

again.

    They straightened the trail out and headed down

river. I took off after them as fast as I could run.

    A mile downstream the coon pulled his first trick.

I could tell by my dogs' voices that they had lost the

trail. When I came to them they were out on an old

drift, sniffing around.

    The coon had pulled a simple trick. He had run

out on the drift, leaped into the water, and crossed

the river. To an experienced coon hound, the crude

trick would have been nothing at all, but my dogs

were just big, awkward pups, trailing their first live

coon.

    I stood and watched, wondering if they would

remember the training I had given them. Now and

then I would whoop, urging them on.

    Old Dan was having a fit. He whined and he

bawled. He whimpered and cried. He came to me and

reared up, begging for help.

    "I'm not going to help you," I scolded, "and

you're not going to find him out on that drift. If you

would just remember some of the training I gave you,

you could find the trail. Now go find that coon."

    He ran back out on the drift and started search-

ing.

    Little Ann came to me. I could see the pleading

in her warm gray eyes. "I'm ashamed of you, little

girl," I said. "I thought you had more sense than this.

If you let him fool you this easily, you'll never be a

coon dog."

    She whined, turned, and trotted downstream to

search again for the lost trail.

    I couldn't understand. Had all the training I had

given them been useless? I knew if I waded the river

they would follow me. Once on the other side, it

would be easy for them to find the trail. I didn't want

it that way. I wanted them to figure it out by them-

selves. The more I thought about it, the more dis-

gusted I became. I sat down and buried my face in

my arms.

    Out on the drift, Old Dan started whining. It

made me angry and I got up to scold him again.

    I couldn't understand his actions. He was running

along the edge of the drift, whimpering and staring

downriver. I looked that way. I could see something

swimming for the opposite shore. At first I thought it

was a muskrat. In the middle of the stream, where

the moonlight was the brightest, I got a good look. It

was Little Ann.

    With a loud whoop, I told her how proud I was.

My little girl had remembered her training.

    She came out on a gravel bar, shook the water

from her body, and disappeared in the thick timber.

Minutes later, she let me know she had found the

trail. Before the tones of her voice had died away,

Old Dan plowed into the water. He was so eager to

join her I could hear him whining as he swam.

As soon as his feet touched bottom in the shal-

lows, he started bawling and lunging. White sheets of

water, knocked high in the moonlight by his churning

feet, gleamed like thousands of tiny white stars.

    He came out of the river onto a sand bar. In his

eagerness, his feet slipped in the loose sand and down

he went. He came out of his roll, running and

bawling. Ahead of him was a log jam. He sailed over

it and disappeared down the river bank. Seconds later

I heard his deep voice blend with the sharp cries of

Little Ann.

    At that moment no boy in the world could have

been more proud of his dogs than I was. Never again

would I doubt them.

    I was hurrying along, looking for a shallow riffle

so I could wade across, when the voices of my dogs

stopped. I waited and listened. They opened again on

my side of the stream. The coon had crossed back

over.

    I couldn't help smiling. I knew that never again

would a ringtail fool them by swimming the river.

    The next trick the old fellow pulled was dandy.

He climbed a large water oak standing about ten feet

from the river and simply disappeared.

    I got there in time to see my dogs swimming for

the opposite shore. For half an hour they worked that

bank. Not finding the trail, they swam back. I stood

and watched them. They practically tore the river

bank to pieces looking for the trail.

    Old Dan knew the coon had climbed the water

oak. He went back, reared up on it, and bawled a few

times.

    "There's no use in doing that, boy," I said. "I

know he climbed it, but he's not there now. Maybe

it's like Grandpa said, he just climbed right on out

through the top and disappeared in the stars.

    My dogs didn't know it, but I was pretty well

convinced that was what the coon had done.

    They wouldn't give up. Once again they crossed

over to the other shore. It was no use. The coon

hadn't touched that bank. They came back. Old Dan

went up the river and Little Ann worked down-

stream.

    An hour and a ball later they gave up and came

to me begging for help. I knelt down between their

wet bodies. While I scratched and petted them, I let

them know that I still loved them.

    "I'm not mad," I said. "I know you did your best.

If that coon can fool both of us, then we're just beat.

We'll go someplace else to hunt. He's not the only

coon in these bottoms."

    Just as I picked up my ax and lantern, Little Ann

let out a bawl and tore out down the riverbank. Old

Dan, with a bewildered look on his face, stood for a

moment looking after her. Then, raising his head high

in the air, he made my eardrums ring with his deep

voice. I could hear the underbrush popping as he ran

to join her.

    I couldn't figure out what had taken place.

Surely Little Ann had heard or seen something. I

could tell by their voices that whatever it was they

were after, they were close enough to see it and were

probably running by sight.

    The animal left the bottoms and headed for the

mountains. Whatever it was, it must have realized my

dogs were crowding it too closely. At the edge of the

foothills it turned and came back toward the river.

    I was still trying to figure out what was going on,

when I realized that on striking the river the animal

had again turned and was coming straight toward me.

I set my lantern down and tightened my grip on the

ax.

    I was standing my ground quite well when

visions of bears, lions, and all kinds of other animals

started flashing across my mind. I jumped behind a

big sycamore and was trying hard to press my body

into the tree when a big coon came tearing by.

Twenty-five yards behind him came my dogs, running

side by side. I saw them clearly when they passed

me, bawling every time their feet touched the

ground.

    After seeing that there was nothing to be scared

of, once again I was the fearless hunter, screaming

and yelling as loud as I could, "Get him, boy, get

him."     

    I tore out after them. The trails I knew so well

were forgotten. I took off straight through the brush. I

was tearing my way through some elders when the

voices of my dogs stopped.

    Holding my breath, I stood still and waited. Then

it came, the long-drawn-out bawl of the tree bark. My

little hounds had done it. They had treed their first

coon.

    When I came to them and saw what they had

done, I was speechless. I groaned and closed my eyes.

I didn't want to believe it. There were a lot of big

sycamores in the bottoms but the one in which my

dogs had treed was the giant of them all.

    While prowling the woods, I had seen the big

tree many times. I had always stopped and admired

it. Like a king in his own domain, it towered far

above the smaller trees.

    It bad taken me quite a while to find a name

suitable for the big sycamore. For a while I had called

it "the chicken tree." In some ways it had reminded

me of a mother hen hovering over her young in a

rainstorm. Its huge limbs spread out over the small

birch, ash, box elder, and water oak as if it alone

were their protector.

    Next, I named it "the giant." That name didn't

last long. Mama told us children a story about a big

giant that lived in the mountains and ate little chil-

dren that were lost. Right away I started looking for

another name.

    One day, while lying in the warm sun staring at

its magnificent beauty, I found the perfect name.

From that day on, it was called "the big tree." I

named the bottoms around it "the big tree bottoms.

    Walking around it, and using the moon as a light,

I started looking for the coon. High up in the top I

saw a hollow in the end of a broken limb. I figured

that that was the coon's den.

    I could climb almost any tree I had ever seen, but

I knew I could never climb the big sycamore and it

would take days to chop it down.

    There had been very little hope from the begin-

ning, but on seeing the hollow I gave up. "Come on

I said to my dogs. "There's nothing I can do. We'll go

someplace else and find another coon.

    I turned to walk away. My hounds made no

move to follow. They started whining. Old Dan

reared up, placed his front paws on the trunk, and

started bawling.

    "I know he's there," I said, "but there's nothing I

can do. I can't climb it. Why it's sixty feet up to the

first limb and it would take me a month to cut it

down."

    Again I turned and started on my way.

    Little Ann came to me. She reared up and start-

ed licking my hands. Swallowing the knot in my

throat, I said, "I'm sorry, little girl. I want him just as

badly as you do, but there's no way I can get him."

    She ran back to the tree and started digging in

the soft ground close to the roots.

    "Come on now," I said in a gruff voice. "You're

both acting silly. You know I'd get the coon for you if

I could, but I can't."

    With a whipped-dog look on her face and with

her tail between her legs, Little Ann came over. She

wouldn't even look at me. Old Dan walked slowly

around behind the tree and hid himself. He peeped

around the big trunk and looked at me. The message

I read in his friendly eyes tore at my heart. He

seemed to be saying, "You told us to put one in a tree

and you would do the rest."

    With tears in my eyes, I looked again at the big

sycamore. A wave of anger came over me. Gritting

my teeth, I said, "I don't care how big you are, I'm

not going to let my dogs down. I told them if they

put a coon in a tree I would do the rest and I'm going

to. I'm going to cut you down. I don't care if it takes

me a whole year."

    I walked over and sank my ax as deep as I could

in the smooth white bark. My dogs threw a fit. Little

Ann started turning in circles. I could hear her

pleased whimpering cry. Old Dan bawled and started

gnawing on the big tree's trunk.

    At first it was easy. My ax was sharp and the

chips flew. Two hours later things were different. My

arms felt like two dead grapevines, and my back felt

like someone had pulled a plug out of one end of it

and drained all the sap out.

    While taking a breather, I saw I was making

more progress than I thought I would. The cut I had

started was a foot deep, but I still had a long way to

go.

    Sitting on their rears, my dogs waited and

watched. I smiled at the look on their faces. Every

time I stopped chopping they would come over.

While Little Ann washed the sweat from  face,

Old Dan would inspect my work. He seemed to be

pleased with what he saw for he always wagged his

tail.

    Along about daylight I got my second wind and I

really did make the chips fly. This burst of energy

cost me dearly. By sunup I was so stiff I could hardly

move. My hands and arms were numb. My back

screamed with pain. I could go no further. Sitting

down, I leaned back against the big tree and fell

asleep.

    Little Ann woke me up by washing my face. I

groaned with the torture of getting to my feet. Every

muscle in my body seemed to be fled in a knot. I was

thinking of going down to the river to wash my face

in the cool water when I heard a loud whoop. I rec-

ognized my father's voice. I whooped to let him know

where I was.

    Papa was riding our red mule. After he rode up,

he just sat there and looked me over. He glanced at

my dogs and at the big sycamore. I saw the worry

leave his face. He straightened his shoulders, pursed

his lips, and blew out a little air. He reminded me of

someone who had just dropped a heavy load.

    In a slow, calm voice, he asked, "Are you all

right, Billy?"

    "Yes, Papa," I said. "Oh, I'm a little tired and

sleepy, otherwise I'm fine."

    He slid from the mule's back and came over.

"Your mother's worried," he said. "When you didn't

come in, we didn't know what had happened. You

should've come home."

    I didn't know what to say. I bowed my head and

looked at the ground. I was trying hard to choke back

the tears when I felt his hand on my shoulder.

    "I'm not scolding," he said. "We just thought

maybe you had an accident or something."

    I looked up and saw a smile on his face.

    He turned and looked again at the tree. "Say," he

said, "this is the sycamore you call "the big tree," isn't

it?"

    I nodded my head.

    "Is there a coon in it?" he asked.

    "There sure is, Papa," I said. "He's in that hollow

limb. See that one way up there. That's why I

couldn't come home. I was afraid he'd get away."

    "Maybe you just think he's there," Papa said. "I

believe I'd make sure before I'd cut down a tree that

big."

    "Oh, he's there all right," I said. "My dogs

weren't ten feet behind him when he went up it."

    "Why are you so determined to get this coon?"

Papa asked. "Couldn't you go somewhere else and

tree one? Maybe the tree would be a smaller one."

    "I thought about that, Papa," I said, "but I made

a bargain with my dogs. I told them that if they

would put one in a tree, I'd do the rest. Well, they

fulfilled their part of the bargain. Now it's up to me

to do my part, and I'm going to, Papa. I'm going to

cut it down. I don't care if it takes me a year.

   Papa laughed and said, "Oh, I don't think it will

take that long, but it will take a while. I tell you what

I'll do. You take the mule and get some breakfast.

I'll chop on it until you get back."

    "No, Papa," I said. "I don't want any help. I want

to cut it down all by myself. You see, if someone

helps me, I wouldn't feel like I kept my part of the

agreement."

    An astonished look came over my father's face.

"Why, Billy," he said, "you can't stay down here with-

out anything to eat and no sleep. Besides, it'll take at

least two days to cut that tree down and that's hard

work."

    "Please, Papa," I begged, "don't make me quit. I

just have to get that coon. If I don't, my dogs won't

ever believe in me again."

    Papa didn't know what to tell me. He scratched

his head, looked over to my dogs and back at me. He

started walking around. I waited for him to make up

his mind. He finally reached a decision.

    "Well, all right," he said. "If that's the way you

want it, I'm for it even if it is only an agreement be-

tween you and your dogs. If a man's word isn't any

good, he's no good himself.

    "Now I have to get back and tell your mother

that you're all right. It's a cinch that you can't do that

kind of work on an empty stomach, so I'll send your

oldest sister down with a lunch bucket."

    With tears in my eyes, I said, "Tell Mama I'm

sorry for not coming home last night."

    "Don't you worry about your mother," he said, as

he climbed on the mule's back. "I'll take care of her.

Another thing, I have to make a trip to the store to-

day and I'll talk this over with your grandfather. He

may be able to help some way."

    After Papa left, things were a little different. The

tree didn't look as big, and my ax wasn't as heavy. I

even managed to sing a little as I chopped away.

    When my sister came with the lunch bucket, I

could have kissed her, but I didn't. She took one look

at the big tree and her blue eyes got as big as

guinea's egg.

    "You're crazy," she gasped, "absolutely crazy.

Why, it'll take a month to cut that tree down, and a

for an old coon."

    I was so busy with the fresh side pork, fried eggs,

and hot biscuits, I didn't pay much attention to her.

After all, she was a girl, and girls don't think like boys

do.

    She raved on. "You can't possibly cut it down to-

day, and what are you going to do when it gets

dark?"

    "I'm going to keep right on chopping," I said.  "I

stayed with it last night, didn't I?  Well, I'll stay till it's

cut down. I don't care how long it takes."

    My sister got upset. She looked at me, threw

back her small head, and looked up to the top of the

big sycamore. "You're as crazy as a bedbug," She said.

"Why, I never heard of such a thing."

    She stepped over in front of me and very seri-

ously asked if she could look in my eyes.

    "Look in my eyes?" I said. "What do you want to

do that for? I'm not sick."

    "Yes, you are, Billy," she said, "very sick. Mama

said when Old Man Johnson went crazy, his eyes

turned green. I want to see if yours have."

    This was too much. "If you don't get out of here,"

I shouted, "you're going to be red instead of green

and I mean that."

    I grabbed up a stick and started toward her. Of

course, I wouldn't have hit her for anything.

    This scared her and she started for the house. I

heard her saying something about an old coon as she

disappeared in the underbrush.

    Down in the bottom of my lunch bucket I found

a neat little package of scraps for my dogs. While

they were eating I walked down to a spring and filled

the bucket with cool water.

    The food did wonders for me. My strength came

back. I spit on my hands and, whistling a coon

hunter's tune, I started making the chips fly.

    The cut grew so big I could have laid down in it.

I moved over to another side and started a new one.

Once, while I was taking a rest, Old Dan came over to

inspect my work. He hopped up in the cut and sniffed

around.

    "You had better get out of there," I said. "If that

tree takes a notion to fall, it'll mash you flatter than a

tadpole's tail."

    With a "no care" look on his friendly face, he

gave me a hurry-up signal with a wag of his tail.

    Little Ann had dug a bed in a pile of dead

leaves. She looked as if she were asleep but I knew

she wasn't. Every time I stopped swinging the ax, she

would raise her head and look at me.

                Chapter 9.

    BY LATE EVENING THE HAPPY TUNE I HAD BEEN WHIS-

tling was forgotten. My back throbbed like a stone

bruise. The muscles in my legs and arms started quiv-

ering and jerking. I couldn't gulp enough air to cool

the burning heat in my lungs. My strength was gone.

I could go no further.

    I sat down and called my dogs to me. With tears

in my eyes, I told them that I just couldn't cut the big

tree down.

    I was trying hard to make them understand

when I heard someone coming. It was Grandpa in his

buggy.

    I'm sure no one in the world can understand a

young boy like his grandfather can. He drove up with

a twinkle in his eyes and a smile on his whiskery old

face.

    "Hello! How are you getting' along," he boomed.

    "Not so good, Grandpa," I said. "I don't think I

can cut it down. It's just too big. I guess I'll have to

give up."

    Give up!" Grandpa barked. "Now I don't want

to hear you say that.  No, sir, that's the last thing I

want to hear. Don't ever start anything you can't fin-

ish."

    "I don't want to give up, Grandpa," I said, "but

it's just too big and my strength's gone. I'm give out."

    "Course you are," he said. "You've been going at

it wrong. To do work like that a fellow needs plenty

of rest and food in his stomach."

    "How am I going to get that, Grandpa?" I asked.

"I can't leave the tree. If I do, the coon will get

away."

    "No, he won't," Grandpa said. "That's what I

came down here for. I'll show you how to keep that

coon in the tree."

    He walked around the big sycamore, looking up.

He whistled and said, "Boy, this is a big one all right."

    "Yes, it is, Grandpa," I said. "It's the biggest one

in the river bottoms."

    Grandpa started chuckling. "That's all right," he

said. "The bigger they are the harder they fall."

    "How are you going to make the coon stay in the

tree, Grandpa," I asked.

    With a proud look on his face, he said, "That's

another one of my coon-hunting tricks; learned it

when I was a boy. We'll keep him there all right. Oh,

I don't mean we can keep him there for always, but

he'll stay for four or five days. That is, until he gets so

hungry he just has to come down.

    "I don't need that much time," I said. "I'm pretty

sure I can have it down by tomorrow night."

    Grandpa looked at the cut. "I don't know," he

said. "Even though it is halfway down, you must

remember you've been cutting on it half of one night

and one day. You might make it, but it's going to take

a lot of chopping."

    "If I get a good night's sleep," I said, "and a cou-

ple of meals under my belt, I can do a lot of chop-

ping."

    Grandpa laughed. "Speaking of meals," he said,

"your ma is having chicken and dumplings for supper.

Now we don't want to miss that, so let's get busy."

    "What do you want me to do, Grandpa?" I asked.

    "Well, let's see," he said. "First thing we'll need

some sticks about five feet long. Take your ax, go over

in that canebrake, and get us six of them."

    I hurried to do what Grandpa wanted, all the

time wondering what in the world he was going to

do. How could he keep the coon in the tree?

    When I came back, he was taking some old

clothes from the buggy. "Take this stocking cap," he

said. "Fill it about half-full of grass and leaves."

    While I was doing this, Grandpa walked over

and started looking up in the tree. "You're pretty sure

he's in that hollow limb, are you?" he asked.

    "He's there all right, Grandpa," I said. "There's no

other place he could be. I've looked all over it and

there's no other hollow anywhere."

    "Well, in that case," Grandpa said, "we'd better

put our man along about here."

    "What man, Grandpa?" I asked in surprise.

    "The one we're going to make," he said. "To us

it'll be a scarecrow, but to that coon it'll be a man."

    Knowing too well how smart coons were, right

away I began to lose confidence. "I don't see how

anything like that can keep a coon in a tree," I said.

    "It'll keep him there all right," Grandpa said.

"Like I told you before, they're curious little devils.

He'll poke his head out of that hole, see this man

standing here, and he won't dare come down. It'll

take him four or five days to figure out that it isn't a

real honest-to-goodness man. By that time it'll be too

late. You'll have his hide tacked on the smokehouse

wall."

    The more I thought about it, the more I believed

it, and then there was that serious look on Grandpa's

face. That was all it took. I was firmly convinced.

    I started laughing. The more I thought about it,

the funnier it got. Great big laughing tears rolled

down my cheek.

    "What's so funny?" Grandpa asked. "Don't you

believe it'll work?"

    "Sure it'll work, Grandpa," I said. "I know it will.

I was just thinking-those coons aren't half as smart

as they think they are, are they?"

    We both had a good laugh at this.

    With the sticks and some bailing wire, Grandpa

made a frame that looked almost like a gingerbread

man. On this he put an old pair of pants and a red

sweater. We stuffed the loose flabby clothes with

grass and leaves. He wired the stocking-cap head in

place and stepped back to inspect his work.

    "Well, what do you think of it?" he asked.

    "If it had a face," I said, "you couldn't tell it from

a real man."

    "We can fix that," Grandpa chuckled.

    He took a stick and dug some black grease from

one of the hub caps on the buggy. I stood and

watched while he applied his artistic touch. In the

stocking-cap head he made two mean-looking eyes, a

crooked nose, and the ugliest mouth I had ever seen.

    "Well, what do you think of that?" he asked.

"Looks pretty good, huh?"

    Laughing fit to kill, and talking all at the same

time, I told him that I wouldn't blame the coon if he

stayed in the tree until Gabriel blew his horn.

    "He won't stay that long," Grandpa chuckled, "but

he'll stay long enough for you to cut that tree down."

    "That's all I want," I said.

    "We'd better be going," Grandpa said. "It's get-

ting late and we don't want to miss that supper."

    I was so stiff and sore he had to help me to the

buggy seat.

    I called to my dogs. Little Ann came, but not

willingly. Old Dan refused to leave the tree.

    "Come on, boy," I coaxed. "Let's go home and get

something to eat. We'll come back tomorrow."

    He bowed his head and looked the other way.

    "Come on," I scolded, "we can't sit here all

night."

    This hurt his feelings. He walked around behind

the big sycamore and hid.

   "Well, I'll be darned," Grandpa said as he

jumped down from the buggy. "He knows that coon's

there and he doesn't want to leave it. You've got a

coon hound there and I mean a good one."

    He picked Old Dan up in his arms and set him in

the buggy.

    All the way home I had to hold on to his collar to

keep him from jumping out and going back to the

tree.

    As our buggy wound its way up through the bot-

toms, Grandpa started talking. "You know, Billy," he

said, "about this tree-chopping of yours, I think it's all

right. In fact, I think it would be a good thing if all

young boys had to cut down a big tree like that once

in their life. It does something for them. It gives them

determination and will power. That's a good thing for

a man to have. It goes a long way in his life. The

American people have a lot of it. They have proved

that, all down through history, but they could do with

a lot more of it."

    I couldn't see this determination and will power

that Grandpa was talking about very clearly. All I

could see was a big sycamore tree, a lot of chopping,

and the hide of a ringtail coon that I was determined

to have.

    As we reached the house, Mama came out. Right

away she started checking me over. "Are you all

right?" she asked.

    "Sure, Mama," I said. "What makes you think

something's wrong with me?"

    "Well, I didn't know," she said. "The way you

acted when you got down from the buggy, I thought

maybe you were hurt."

    "`Aw, he's just a little sore and stiff from all that

chopping," Grandpa said, "but he'll be all right.

That'll soon go away." 

   After Mama saw that there were no broken

bones, or legs chopped off, she smiled and said, "I

never know any more. I guess I'll just have to get

used to it."

    Papa hollered from the Porch, "Come on in.

We've been waiting supper on you."

    "We're having chicken and dumplings," Mama

beamed, "and I cooked them especially for you."

    During the meal I told Grandpa I didn't think

that the coon in the big tree was the same one my

dogs had been trailing at first.

    "What makes you think that?" he asked.

    I told how the coon had fooled us and how Little

Ann had seen or heard this other coon. I figured he

had just walked up on my dogs before he realized it.

    A smile spread all over Grandpa's face. Chuck-

ling, he said, "It does look that way, but it wasn't. No,

Billy, it was the same coon. They're much too smart to

ever walk up on a hound like that. He pulled a trick

and it was a good one. In fact, it'll fool nine out of ten

dogs."

    "Well, what did he do, Grandpa?" I asked. "I'm

pretty sure he didn't cross the river, so how did he

work it?"

    Grandpa pushed the dishes back and, using his

fork as a pencil, he drew an imaginary line on the ta-

blecloth. "It's called the backtracking trick," he said.

"Here's how he worked it. He climbed that water oak,

but he only went up about fifteen or twenty feet. He

then turned around and came down in his same

tracks. He backtracked on his original trail for a way,

then he heard your dogs coming he leaped far up on

the side of the nearest tree and climbed up. He was in

that tree all the time your dogs were searching for the

lost trail. After everything had quieted down, he fig-

ured that they had given up. That's when he came

down and that's when Little Ann either heard or saw

him."

    Pointing the fork at me, Grandpa said very seri-

ously, "You mark my word, Billy, in no time at all that

Little Ann will know every trick a coon can pull."

    "You know, Grandpa," I said, "she wouldn't bark

treed at the water oak like Old Dan did."

    "Course she wouldn't," he said. "She knew he

wasn't there."

    "Why, I never heard of such a thing," Mama said.

"I'd no idea coons were that smart. Why for all any-

one knows he may not be in the big tree at all.

Maybe he pulled another trick. It'd be a shame if

Billy cut it down and found there was no coon in it."

    "Oh, he's there, Mama," I hastily replied. "I know

he is. They were right on his tail when he went up.

Besides, Little Ann was bawling her head off when I

came to them."

    "Of course he's there," Grandpa said. "They were

crowding him too closely. He didn't have time to pull

another trick."

    Grandpa left soon after supper, saying to me, "I'll

be back down in a few days and I want to see that

coon hide."

    I thanked him for helping me and walked out to

the buggy with him.

    "Oh, I almost forgot," he said. "I heard there was

a fad back in the New England states. Seems like ev-

eryone is going crazy over coonskin coats. Now if this

is true, I look for the price of coon hides to take a

jump."

    I was happy to hear this and told my father what

Grandpa had said. Papa laughed and said, "Well, if

you can keep the coons out of those big sycamores,

you might make a little money."

    Before I went to bed, Mama made me take a hot

bath. Then she rubbed me all over with some lini-

ment that burned like fire and smelled like a civet

cat.

    It seemed like I had barely closed my eyes when

Mama woke me up. "Breakfast is about ready, Billy,"

she said.

    I was so stiff and sore I had trouble putting my

clothes on. Mama helped me.

    "Maybe you'd better let that coon go," she said.

"I don't think he's worth all of this."

    "I can't do that, Mama," I said. "I've gone too far

now."

    Papa came in from the barn. "What's the matter?"

he asked. "You a little stiff?"

    "A little stiff!" Mama exclaimed. "Why he could

hardly put his clothes on."

    "Aw, he'll be all right," Papa said. "If I know any-

thing about swinging an ax, it won't be long before

he's as limber as a rag.

    Mama just shook her head and started putting

our breakfast on the table.

    While we were eating, Papa said, "You know I

woke up  several times last night and each time I was

sure I heard a hound bawling. It sounded like Old

Dan.

    I quit the table on the run and headed for my

doghouse. I didn't have to go all the way. Little Ann

met me on the porch. I asked her where Old Dan

was an called his name. He was nowhere around.

    Little Ann started acting strangely. She whined

and stared toward the river bottoms. She ran out to

the gate, came back, and reared up on me.

    Mama and Papa came out on the porch.

    "He's not here," I said. "I think he has gone back

to the tree."

    "I don't think he'd do that, would he?" Mama

said. "Maybe he's around someplace. Have you looked

in the doghouse?"

    I ran and looked. He wasn't there.

    "Everybody be quiet and listen," I said.

    I walked out beyond the gate a little ways and

whooped as loud as I could. My voice rang like a bell

in the still, frosty morning. Before the echo had died

away the deep  voice of Old Dan rolled out of

the river bottoms.

    "He's there," I said. "He wanted to make sure the

coon stayed in the tree. You see, Mama, why I have

to get that coon. I can't let him down."

    "Well, I never in all my life," she said. "I had no

idea a dog loved to hunt that much. Yes, Billy, I can

see now, and I want you to get him. I don't care if

you have to cut down every tree in those bottoms. I

want you to get that coon for those dogs."

    "I'm going to get him, Mama," I said, "and I'm

going to get him today if I possibly can."

    Papa laughed and said, "Looks like there wasn't

any use in building that scarecrow. All you had to do

was tell Old Dan to stay and watch the tree."

    I left the house in a run. Now and then I would

stop and whoop. Each time I was answered by the

deep voice of Old Dan.

    Little Ann ran ahead of me. By the time I

reached the big tree, their voices were making the

bottoms ring.

    When I came tearing out of the underbrush, Old

Dan threw a fit. He tried to climb the sycamore. He

would back way off, then, bawling and running as

fast as he could, he would claw his way far up on its

side.

    Little Ann, not to be outdone, reared up and

placed her small front paws on the smooth white bark

She told the ringtail coon that she knew he was there.

    After they had quieted down, I called Old Dan

to me. "I'm proud of you, boy," I said. "It takes a good

dog to stay with a tree all night, but there wasn't any

need in you coming back. The coon wouldn't have

gotten away. That's why we built the scarecrow."

    Little Ann came over and started rolling in the

leaves. The way I was feeling toward her, I couldn't

even smile at her playful mood. "Of course you feel

good," I said in an irritated voice, "and it's no wonder,

you had a good night's sleep in a nice warm dog-

house, but Old Dan didn't.  He was down here in the

cold all by himself, watching the tree. The way you're

acting, I don't believe you care if the coon gets away

or not."

    I would have said more but just then I noticed

something. I walked over for a better look. There,

scratched deep in the soft leaves were two little beds.

One was smaller than the other. Looking at Little

Ann, I read the answer in her warm gray eyes.

    Old Dan hadn't been alone when he had gone

back to the tree. She too had gone along. There was

no doubt that in the early morning she had come

home to get me.