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Where the Red Fern Grows

Day Four

There was a lump in my throat as I said, "I'm

sorry, little girl, I should've known."

    The first half-hour was torture. At each swing of

the ax my arms felt like they were being torn from

their sockets. I gritted my teeth and kept hacking

away. My body felt like it did the time my sister

rolled me down the hill in a barrel.

    As Papa had said, in a little while the warm heat

from the hard work limbered me up. I remembered

what my father did when he was swinging an ax. At

the completion of each swing, he always said, "Ha!" I

tried it. Ker-wham. "Ha!" Ker-wham. "Ha!" I don't

know if it helped or not, but I was willing to try any-

thing if it would hurry the job.

    Several times before noon I had to stop and rake

my chips out of the way. I noticed that they weren't

the big, even, solid chips like my father made when

he was chopping. They were small and seemed to

crumble up and come all to pieces. Neither were the

cuts neat and even. They were ragged and looked

more like the work of beavers. But I wasn't interested

in any beautiful tree-chopping. All I wanted was to

hear the big sycamore start popping.

    Along in the middle of the afternoon I felt a

stinging in one of my hands. When I saw it was a

blister I almost cried. At first there was only one.

Then two. One after another they rose up on my

hands like small white marbles. They filled up and

turned a pale pinkish color. When one would burst, it

was all I could do to keep from screaming. I tore my

handkerchief in half and wrapped my hands. This

helped for a while, but when the cloth began to stick

to the raw flesh I knew it was the end.

    Crying my heart out, I called my dogs to me and

showed them my hands. I can't do it," I said. "I've

tried, but I just can't cut it down. I can't hold the ax

any longer."

    Little Ann whined and started licking my sore

hands. Old Dan seemed to understand. He showed his

sympathy by nuzzling me with his head.

    Brokenhearted, I started for home. As I turned.

from the corner of my eye I saw Grandpa's scarecrow.

It seemed to be laughing at me. I looked over to the

big sycamore. It lacked so little being cut down. A

small wedge of solid wood was all that was holding it

up. I let my eyes follow the smooth white trunk up to

the huge spreading limbs.

    Sobbing, I said, "You think you have won, but

you haven't. Although I can't get the coon, neither

can you live, because I have cut off your breath of

life." And then I thought, "Why kill the big tree and

not accomplish anything?" I began to feel bad.

    Kneeling down between my dogs, I cried and

prayed. "Please God, give me the strength to finish

the job. I don't want to leave the big tree like that..

Please help me finish the job."

    I was trying to rewrap my hands so I could go

back to work when I heard a low droning sound. I

stood up and looked around. I could still hear the

noise but couldn't locate It. I looked up. High in the

top of the big sycamore a breeze had started the

limbs to swaying. A shudder ran through the huge

trunk.

    I looked over to my right at a big black gum tree.

Not one limb was moving. On its branches a few

dead leaves hung silent and still. One dropped and

floated lazily toward the ground.

    Over on my left stood a large hackberry. I looked

up to its top. It was as still as a fence post.

    Another gust of wind caught in the top of the big

tree. It started popping and snapping. I knew it was

going to fall. Grabbing my dogs by their collars, I

backed off to safety.

    I held my breath. The top of the big sycamore

rocked and swayed. There was a loud crack that

seemed to come from deep inside the heavy trunk.

Fascinated, I stood and watched the giant of the bot-

toms. It seemed to be fighting so hard to keep stand-

ing. Several times I thought it would fall, but in a

miraculous way it would pull itself back into perfect

balance.

    The wind itself seemed to be angry at the big

tree's stubborn resistance. It growled and moaned as

it pushed harder against the wavering top. With one

final grinding, creaking sigh, the big sycamore started

down. It picked up momentum as the heavy weight

of the overbalanced top dove for the ground. A small

ash was smothered by its huge bulk. There was a

lighting-like crack as its trunk snapped.

    In its downward plunge, the huge limbs stripped

the branches from the smaller trees. A log-sized one

knifed through the top of a water oak. Splintered

limbs flew skyward and rained out over the bottoms.

With a cyclone roar, the big tree crashed to the

ground, and then silence settle over the bottoms.

    Out of the broken, twisted, tangled mass streaked

a brown furry ball. I turned my dogs loose and started

screaming at the top of my voice, "Get him, Dan,

get him."

    In his eagerness, Old Dan ran head on into a bur

oak tree. He sat down and with his deep voice told

the river bottoms that he had been hurt.

    It was Little Ann who caught the coon. I heard

the ringtail squall when she grabbed him. Scared half

to death, I snatched up a club and ran to help her.

    The coon was all over her. He climbed up on her

head, growling, slashing, ripping, and tearing. Yelping

with pain, she shook him off and he streaked for the

river. I thought surely he was going to get away. At

the very edge of the river's bank, she caught him

again.

    I was trying hard to get in a lick with my club

but couldn't for fear of hitting Little Ann. Through

the tears in my eyes I saw the red blurry form of Old

Dan sail into the fight. He was a mad hound. His anger

at the bur oak tree was taken out on the coon.

    They stretched Old Ringy out between them and

pinned him to the ground. It was savage and brutal. I

could hear the dying squalls of the coon and the deep

growls of Old Dan. In a short time it was all over.

    With sorrow in my heart, I stood and watched

while my dogs worried the lifeless body. Little Ann

was satisfied first. I had to scold Old Dan to make

him stop.

    Carrying the coon by a hind leg, I walked back

to the big tree for my ax. Before leaving for home, I

stood and looked at the fallen sycamore. I should

have felt proud over the job I had done, but for some

reason I couldn't. I knew I would miss the giant of

the bottoms, for it had played a wonderful part in my

life. I thought of the hours I had whiled away staring

at its beauty and how hard it had been finding the

right name for it.

    "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't want to cut you

down, but I had to. I hope you can understand."

    I was a proud boy as I walked along in the twi-

light of the evening. I felt so good even my sore

hands had stopped hurting. What boy wouldn't have

been proud? Hadn't my little hounds treed and killed

their first coon? Along about then I decided I was a

full-fledged coon hunter.

    Nearing our house, I saw the whole family had

come out on the porch. My sisters came running, star-

ing wide-eyed at the dead coon.

    Laughing, Papa said, "Well, I see you got him."

    "I sure did, Papa," I said. "I held the coon up for

all to see. Mama took one look at the lifeless body

and winced.

    "Billy," she said, "when I heard that big tree fall,

it scared me half to death. I didn't know but what it

had fallen on you. "

   "Aw, Mama," I said, "I was safe. Why, I backed

way off to one side. It couldn't have fallen on me.

    Mama just shook her head. "I don't know," she

said. "Sometimes I wonder if all mothers have to go

through this."

    "Come on," Papa said, "I'll help you skin it."

    While we were tacking the hide on the smoke-

house wall, I asked Papa if he had noticed any wind

blowing that evening.

    He thought a bit and said, "No, I don't believe I

did. I've been out all day and I'm pretty sure I

haven't noticed any wind. Why did you ask?"

    "Oh, I don't know, Papa," I said, "but I thought

something strange happened down in the bottoms this

afternoon."

    "I'm afraid I don't understand," said Papa. "What

do you mean,  something strange happened?"

    I told him about how my hands had gotten so

sore I couldn't chop any more, and how I had asked

for strength to finish the job.

    "Well, what's so strange about that?" he asked.

    "I don't know," I said, "but I didn't chop the big

tree down. The wind blew it over."

    "Why that's nothing," Papa said. I've seen that

happen a lot of times."

    It wasn't just the wind," I said. "It was the way

it blew. It didn't touch another tree in the bottoms. I

know because I looked around. The big tree was the

only one touched by the wind. Do you think God

heard my prayer? Do you think He helped me?"

  Papa looked at the ground and scratched his

head. In a sober voice, he said, "I don't know, Billy.

I'm afraid I can't answer that. You must remember

the big sycamore was the tallest tree in the bottoms.

Maybe it was up there high enough to catch the wind

where the others couldn't. No, I'm afraid I can't help

you there. You'll have to decide for yourself."

    It wasn't hard for me to decide. I was firmly con-

vinced that I had been helped.

Chapter 10.

    MAMA MADE ME A CAP OUT OF MY FIRST COON HIDE. I

was as proud of it as Papa would've been if someone

had given him a dozen Missouri mules. Mama said af-

terwards that she wished she hadn't made it for me

because, in some way, wearing that cap must've affect-

ed my mind. I went coon crazy.

    I was out after the ringtails every night. About

the only time I didn't go hunting was when the

weather was bad, and even then Mama all but had to

hog-tie me.

    What wonderful nights they were, running like a

deer through the thick timber of the bottoms, tearing

my way through stands of wild cane, climbing over

drifts, and jumping logs, running, screaming, an yell-

ing, "who-e-e-e, get him, boy, get him," following the

voices of my little hounds.

    It wasn't too hard for a smart old coon to fool

Old Dan, but there were none that prowled the river-

banks that could fool my Little Ann.

    As Grandpa had predicted, the price of coonskins

jumped sky-high. A good-size hide was worth from

four to ten dollars, depending on the grade and qual-

ity.

     I kept the side of our smokehouse plastered with

hides. Of course I would spread them out a little to

cover more space. I always stretched them on the

side facing the road, never on the back side. I wanted

everyone in the country to see them.

    The money earned from my furs was turned over

to my father. I didn't care about it. I had what I want-

ed-my dogs. I supposed that Papa was saving it for

something because I never saw anything new turn up

around our home, but, like any young boy, I wasn't

bothered by it and I asked no questions.

    My whole life was wrapped up in my dogs. Ev-

evrywhere I went they went along. There was only

one place I didn't want them to go with me and that

was to Grandpa's store. Other dogs were always

there, and it seemed as if they all wanted to jump on

Old Dan.

    It got so about the only time I went to see my

grandfather was when I had a bundle of fur to take

to the store. This was always a problem. In every way

I could, I would try to slip away from my dogs. Some-

times I swore that they could read my mind. It made

no difference what I tried; I couldn't fool them.

    One time I was sure I had outsmarted them. The

day before I was to make one of my trips I took my

furs out to the barn and hid them. The next morning

I hung around the house for a while, and then non-

chalantly whistled my way out to the barn. I climbed

up in the loft and peeked through a crack. I could see

them lying in front of their doghouse. They weren't

even looking my way.

    Taking my furs, I sneaked out through a back

door and, walking like a tomcat. I made it to the tim-

ber. I climbed a small dogwood tree and looked back.

They were still there and didn't seem to know what

I'd done.

    Feeling just about as smart as Sherlock Holmes, I

headed for the store. I was walking along singing my

lungs out when they came tearing out of the under-

brush, wiggling and twisting, and tickled to death to

be with me. At first I was mad, but one look at danc-

ing Little Ann and all was forgiven. I sat down on

my bundle of fur and laughed till I hurt all over. I

could scold them a little, but I could no more have

whipped one of them than I could have kissed a girl.

After all, a boy just doesn't whip his dogs.

    Grandpa always counted my furs carefully and

marked something down on a piece of paper. I'd

never seen him do this with other hunters and it got

the best of my curiosity. One day while he was writ-

ing I asked him, "why do you do that, Grandpa?" He

looked at me over his glasses and said kind of sharp,

"Never mind. I have my reasons."

    When Grandpa talked to me like that I didn't

push things any farther. Besides, it didn't make any

difference to me if he marked on every piece of pa-

per in the store.

    I always managed to make my trips on Saturdays

as that was "coon hunters"' day. I didn't have to

stand around on the outside of the circle any more

and listen to the coon hunters. I'd get right up in the

middle and say my piece with the rest of them.

    I didn't have to tell any whoppers for some of

the things my dogs did were almost unbelievable

anyhow. Oh, I guess I did make things a little bigger

than they actually were, but I never did figure a coon

hunter told honest-to-goodness lies. He just kind of

stretched things a little.

    I could hold those coon hunters spellbound with

some of my hunting tales. Grandpa would never say

anything while I was telling my stories. He just put-

tered around the store with a silly little grin on his

face. Once in a while when I got too far off the

beaten path, he would come around and cram a bar

of soap in my pocket. My face would get all red, I'd

cut my story short, fly out the door, and head for

home.

    The coon hunters were always kidding me about

my dogs. Some of the remarks I heard made me fight-

ing mad. "I never saw hounds so small, but I guess

they are hounds, at least they look like it." "I don't be-

lieve Little Ann is half as smart as he says she is.

She's so little those old coons think she's a rabbit. I

bet she sneaks right up on them before they realize

she's a dog. Some of these nights a big old coon is

going to carry her off to his den and raise some little

coon puppies."

    I always took their kidding with a smile on my

face, but it made my blood boil like the water in

Mama's teakettle. I had one way of shutting them up.

"Let's all go in the store," I'd say, "and see who has

the most hides in there."

    It was true that my dogs were small, especially

Little Ann. She could walk under an ordinary hound;

in fact, she was a regular midget. If it had not been

for her long ears, no one could have told that she was

a hound. Her actions weren't those of a hunting

hound. She was constantly playing. She would play

with our chickens and young calves, with a piece of

paper or a corncob. What my little girl lacked in size,

she made up in sweetness. She could make friends

with a tomcat.

    Old Dan was just the opposite. He strutted

around with a belligerent and tough attitude. Al-

though he wasn't a tall dog, he was heavy. His body

was long and his chest broad and thick. His legs were

short, big, and solid. The muscles in his body were

hard and knotty. When he walked, they would twist

and jerk under the skin.

    He was a friendly dog. There were no strangers to

him. He loved everyone. Yet he was a strange dog. He

would not hunt with another hound, other than Little

Ann, or another hunter, not even my father. The

strangest thing about Old Dan was that he would not

hunt, even with me, unless Little Ann was with him.

I found this out the first night I tried it.

    Little Ann had cut the pad of her right foot on a

sharp jagged flint rock. It was a nasty cut. I made a

little boot of leather and put it on her wounded foot.

To keep her from following me, I locked her in the

corncrib.

    Two nights later I decided to take Old Dan hunt-

ing for a while. He followed me down to the river

bottoms and disappeared in the thick timber. I

waited and waited for him to strike a trail. Nothing

happened. After about two hours, I called to him. He

didn't come. I called and called. Disgusted, I gave up

and went home.

    Coming up through the barn lot, I saw him rolled

up in a ball on the ground in front of the corncrib. I

immediately understood. I walked over and opened

the door. He jumped up in the crib, smelled Little

Ann's foot, twisted around in the shucks, and lay

down by her side. As he looked at me, I read this

message in his friendly gray eyes, "You could've done

this a long time ago."

    I never did know if Little Ann would hunt by

herself or not I am sure she would have, for she was

a smart and understanding dog, but I never tried to

find out.

    Little Ann was my sisters pet. They rubbed and

scratched and petted her. They would take her down

to the creek and give her baths. She loved it all.

    If Mama wanted a chicken caught, she would

call Little Ann. She would run the chicken down and

hold it with her paws until Mama came. Not one

feather would be harmed. Mama tried Old Dan once.

Before she got the chicken, there wasn't much left but

the feathers.

    By some strange twist of nature, Little Ann was

destined to go through life without being a mother.

Perhaps it was because she was stunted in growth, or

maybe because she was the runt in a large litter. That

may have had something to do with it.

    During the fur season, November through Febru-

ary, I was given complete freedom from work. Many

times when I came home, the sun was high in the

sky. After each hunt, I always took care of my dogs.

The flint rocks and saw briers were hard on their feet.

With a bottle of peroxide and a can of salve I would

doctor their wounds.

    I never knew what to expect from Old Dan. I

never saw a coon hound so determined or one that

could get into so many predicaments. More than one

time, it would have been the death of him if it hadn't

been for smart Little Ann.

    One night, not long after I had entered the bot-

toms, my dogs struck the trail of an old boar coon. He

was a smart old fellow and had a sackful of tricks. He

crossed the river time after time. Finally, swimming

to the middle and staying in the swift current, he

swam down stream.

    Knowing he would have to come out somewhere,

my dogs split up. Old Dan took the right side. Little

Ann worked the other side. I came out of the bottoms

onto a gravel bar and stood and watched them in the

moonlight.

    Little Ann worked downriver, and then she came

up. I saw her when she passed me going up the bank,

sniffing and searching for the trail. She came back to

me. I patted her head, scratched her ears, and talked

to her. She kept staring across the river to where Old

Dan was searching for the trail.

    She waded in and swam across to help him. I

knew that the coon had not come out of the river on

her side. If he had, she would have found the trail. I

walked up to a riffle, pulled off my shoes, and waded

across.

    My dogs worked the riverbank, up and down.

The  circled far out into the bottoms. I could hear

the loud snuffing of Old Dan. He was bewildered and

mad. I was getting a thrill from it all, as I had never

seen them fooled like this.

    Old Dan gave up on his side, piled into the river,

and swam across to the side Little Ann had worked. I

knew that it was useless for him to do that.

    I was on the point of giving up, calling them to

me, and going elsewhere to hunt, when I heard the

bawl of Little Ann. I couldn't believe what I heard.

She wasn't bawling on a trail. She was sounding the

tree bark. I hurried down the bank.

    There was a loud splash. I saw Old Dan swim-

ming back. By this time, Little Ann was really singing

a song. In the bright moonlight, I could see Old Dan

clearly. His powerful front legs were churning the

water.

    Then I saw a sight that makes a hunter's heart

swell with pride. Still swimming, Old Dan raised his

head high out of the water and bawled. He couldn't

wait until he reached the bank to tell Little Ann he

was coming. From far out in the river he told her.

    Reaching the shallows, he plowed out of the river

onto a sand bar. Not even taking time to shake the

water from his body, again he raised his head and

bawled, and tore out down the bank.

    In a trot, I followed, whooping to let them know

I was coming. Before I reached the tree, Old Dan's

deep voice was making the timber shake.

    The tree was a large birch, standing right on the

bank of the river. The swift current had eaten away at

the footing, causing it to lean. The lower branches of

the tree dangled in the water.

    I saw how the smart old coon had pulled his

trick. Coming in toward the bank from midstream, he

had caught the dangling limbs and climbed up. Ex-

hausted from the long swim, he stayed there in the

birch thinking he had outsmarted my dogs. I couldn't

understand how Little Ann had found him.

    It was impossible to fall the tree toward the bot-

toms. It was too much off balance. I did the next best

thing. I cut a long elder switch. Unbuckling one of

my suspenders, I tied it to the end and climbed the

tree.

    The coon was sitting in a fork of a limb. Taking

my switch, I whopped him a good one and out he

came. He sailed out over the river. With a loud splash,

he hit the water and swam for the other side. My

dogs jumped off the bank after him. They were no

match against his expert swimming. On reaching the

other bank, he ran downriver.

    Climbing down out of the tree, I picked up my

ax and lantern, and trotted down to another riffle and

waded across. I could tell by the bawling of my dogs,

they were close to the coon. He would have to climb a

tree, or be caught on the ground.     

    All at once their voices stopped.  I stood still and

waited for them to bawl tree. Nothing happened.

Thinking the coon had taken to the river again, I

waited to give them time to reach the opposite bank.

I waited and waited. I could hear nothing. By then I

knew he had not crossed over. I thought perhaps they

had caught him on the ground. I hurried on.

    I came to a point where a slough of crystal-clear

water ran into the river. On the other side was a

bluff. I could hear one of my dogs over there. As I

watched and waited, I heard a dog jump in the

water. It was Little Ann. She swam across and came

up to me. Staying with me for just a second, she

jumped in the slough and swam back to the other

side.

    I could hear her sniffing and whining. I couldn't

figure out where Old Dan was. By squatting down

and holding the lantern high over my head, I could

dimly see the opposite bank. Little Ann was running

up and down. I noticed she always stayed in one

place of about twenty-five yards, never leaving that

small area.

    She ran down to the water's edge and stared out

into the slough. The horrible thought came that Old

Dan had drowned. I knew a big coon was capable of

drowning a dog in water by climbing on his head and

forcing him under.

    As fast as I could run, I circled the slough,

climbed up over the bluff, and came down to where

Little Ann was. She was hysterical, running up and

down the bank and whining.

    I tied my lantern on a long pole, held it out over

the water, and looked for Old Dan's body. I could see

clearly in the clear spring waters, but I couldn't see

my dog anywhere. I sat down on the bank, buried my

face in my hands, and cried. I was sure he was gone.

    Several minutes passed, and all that time Little

Ann had never stopped. Running here and there

along the bank, she kept sniffing and whining.

    I heard when she started digging. I looked

around. She was ten feet from the water's edge. I got

up and went over to her. She was digging in a small

hole about the size of a big apple. It was the air hole

for a muskrat den.

    I pulled Little Ann away from the hole, knelt

down, and put my ear to it.  I could hear something,

and feel a vibration in the ground. It was an eerie

sound and seemed to be coming from far away. I lis-

tened. Finally I understood what the noise was.

    It was the voice of Old Dan. Little Ann had

opened the hole up enough with her digging so his

voice could be heard faintly. In some way he had got-

ten into that old muskrat den.

    I knew that down under the bank, in the water,

the entrance to the den could be found. Rolling up

my sleeve, I tried to find it with my hand. I had no

luck. It was too far down.

    There was only one thing to do. Leaving my ax

and lantern, I ran for home. Picking up a long-handled shovel, I

hurried back.

    The sun was high in the sky before I had dug

Old Dan out. He was a sight to see, nothing but mud

from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail. I held

on to his collar and led him down to the river to wash

him off. The water there was much warmer than the

cold spring water of the slough.

    After washing him, I turned him loose. Right

back to the hole he ran. Little Ann was already dig-

ging. I knew the coon was still there. Working to-

gether, we dug him out.

    After the coon was killed, I saw what had made

him so smart. His right front foot was twisted and

shriveled. At one time he must have been caught in a

trap and had pulled himself free. He was an old coon

His face was almost white. He was big and heavy and

had beautiful fur.

    Tired, muddy, wet, and hungry, I started for

home.

    I've often wondered how Old Dan got into that

old muskrat den. Perhaps there was another entrance

I had overlooked. I'll never know.

    One night, far back in the mountains, in a place

called "The Cyclone Timber," Old Dan really pulled

a good one.

    Many years before my time, a terrible cyclone

had ripped its way through the mountains, leaving its

scar in the form of fallen timber, twisted and snarled.

The path of the cyclone was several miles wide and

several miles long. It was wonderful place to hunt as

it abounded with game.

    My dogs had struck the trail of a coon about an

hour before. They had really been warming him up. I

knew it was about time for him to take up a tree, and

sure enough, I heard the deep voice of Old Dan tell-

ing the world he had a coon up a tree.

    I was trotting along, going to them, when his

voice stopped. I could hear Little Ann, but not Old

Dan. I wondered why, and was a little scared, for I

just knew something had happened. Then I heard his

voice. It seemed louder than it had been before. I felt

much better.

    When I came up to the tree I thought Little Ann

had treed Old Dan. She was sitting on her haunches

staring up and bawling the tree bark. There, a good

fifteen feet from the ground, with his hind legs plant-

ed firmly in the center of a big limb, and his front

feet against the trunk of the tree, stood Old Dan;

bawling for all he was worth.

    Above him some eight or nine feet was a baby

coon. I was glad it was a young one, for if it had been

an old one, he would have jumped out. Old Dan

would have followed, and he surely would have

broken all of his legs.

    From where I was standing, I could see it was

impossible for Old Dan to have climbed the tree. It

was dead and more of an old snag than a tree, with

limbs that were crooked and twisted. The bark had

rotted away and fallen off, leaving the trunk bare and

slick as glass. It was a good ten feet up to the first

limb. I couldn't figure out how Old Dan had climbed

that tree. There had to be a solution somewhere.

    Then walking around to the other side, I saw how he

accomplished his feat.  There in the bottom was a

large hole. The old tree was hollow. Stepping back, I

looked up and could see another bole, which had

been hidden from me because of Old Dan's body.

    He had simply crawled Into the hole at the bot-

tom, climbed up the hollow of the tree, and worked

 his way out on the limb. In some way he had turned

around and reared up, placing his front feet against

the trunk.

    There he was. I didn't know what to do. I

couldn't cut the tree down and I was afraid to climb

it for fear I would scare the coon into jumping out. If

he did, Old Dan would jump, too, and break his legs.

    I ran plan after plan around in my mind. None

would work. I finally came to the conclusion that I

had to climb the tree and get hold of that crazy dog.

I blew out my lantern, pulled off my shoes and socks,

and started shinnying up the tree. I prayed that the

coon wouldn't jump out.

    Inching along, being as quiet as I could, I made

it up to Old Dan and grabbed his collar. I sat down

on the limb, and held him tight. He would bawl now

and then, and all but burst my eardrums. I couldn't

drop him to the ground, and I couldn't climb down

with him. I couldn't sit there on that limb and hold

him all night. I would be no better off when daylight

came.

    Glancing at the hole by my side gave me the so-

lution to my problem. I thought, "If he came out of

this hole, he can go back in it."

    That was the way I got my dog down from the

tree. This had its problems, too. In the first place, Old

Dan didn't want to be put in the hole head first. By

scolding, pushing, shoving, and squeezing, I finally

got him started on his way.

    Like a fool, I sat there on the limb, waiting to see

him come out at the bottom, and come out he did.

Turning around, bawling as he did, right back in the

hole be went. There was nothing I could do but sit

and wait. I understood why his voice had stopped for

a while. He just took time out to climb a tree.

    Putting my ear to the hole, I could hear him

coming. Grunting and clawing, up he came. I helped

him out of the hole, turned him around, and cram-

med him back in. That time I wasn't too gentle with

my work. I was tired of sitting on the limb, and my

bare feet were getting cold.

    I started down the same time he did. He beat me

down. Looking over my shoulder, I saw him turn

around and head back for the hole. I wasn't far from

the ground so I let go. The flint rocks didn't feel too

good to my feet when I landed.

    I jumped to the hole just in time to see the tip

end of his on tail disappearing. I grabbed it. Holding

on with one and, I worked his legs down with my

other, and pulled him out. I stopped his tree climbing

by cramming rocks and chunks into the hole.

    How the coon stayed in the tree, I'll never know,

but stay he did. With a well-aimed rock, I scared him

out. Old Dan satisfied his lust to kill.

    I started for home. I'd had all the hunting I

wanted for that night.

Chapter 11.

    I HAD OFTEN WONDERED WHAT OLD DAN WOULD DO IF

Little Ann got into some kind of a predicament. One

night I got my answer.

    For several days a northern blizzard had been

blowing. It was a bad one. The temperature dropped

down to ten below. The storm started with a slow

cold drizzle and then sleet when the wind started

blowing, everything froze, leaving the ground as slick

as glass.

    Trapped indoors, I was as nervous as a fish out of

water. I told Mama I guessed it was just going to

storm all winter.

    She laughed and said, "I don't think it will, but it

does look like it will last for a while."

    She ruffled up my hair and kissed me between

the eyes. This did rile me up. I didn't like to be kissed

like that. It seemed that I could practically rub my

skin off and still feel it, all wet and sticky, and kind

of burning.

    Sometime on the fifth night, the storm blew itself

out and it snowed about three inches. The next morn-

ing I went out to my doghouse. Scraping the snow

away from the two-way door, I stuck my head in. It

was as warm as an oven. I got my face washed all

over by Little Ann. Old Dan's tail thumped out a

tune on the wall.

    I told them to be ready because we were going

hunting that night I knew the old ringtails would be

hungry and stirring for they had been denned up dur-

ing the storm.

    That evening as I was leaving the house, Papa

said, "Billy, be careful tonight. It's slick down under

the snow, and it would be easy to twist an ankle or

break a leg."

    I told him I would and that I wasn't going far.

Just down back of our fields in the bottoms.

    "Well, anyway," he said, "be careful. There'll he

no moon tonight and you're going to see some fog

next to the river.

    Walking through our fields I saw my father was

right about it being slick and dark. Several times I

slipped and sat down. I couldn't see anything beyond

the glow of my lantern, but I wasn't worried. My

light was a good one, and Mama had insisted that I

make two little leather pouches to cover the blades of

my ax.

   Just before I reached the timber, Old Dan shook

the snow from the underbrush with his deep voice I

stopped and listened. He bawled again. The deep bass

tones rolled around under the tall sycamores, tore

their way out of the thick timber, traveled out over

the fields, and slammed up against the foothills.

There they seemed to break up and die away in the

mountains.

    Old Dan was working the trail slowly and I knew

why. He would never line out until Little Ann was

running by his side. I thought she would never get

there. When she did, her beautiful voice made the

blood pound in my temples. I felt the excitement of

the hunt as it ate its way into my body. Taking a

deep breath, I reared back and whooped as loud as I

could.

    The coon ran upriver for a way and then, cutting

out of the bottoms, he headed for the mountains. I

stood and listened until their voices went out of hear-

ing. Slipping and sliding, I started in the direction I

had last heard them. About halfway to the foothills I

heard them coming back.

   Somewhere in the rugged mountains, the coon

had turned and headed toward the river. It was

about time for him to play out a few tricks and I was

wondering what he would do. I knew it would be

hard for him to hide his trail with snow on the

ground, and I realized later that the smart old coon

knew this too.

   As the voices of my dogs grew louder, I could tell

that they were coming straight toward me. Once I

started to blow out my lantern, thinking that maybe I

could see them when they crossed our field, but I re-

alized I didn't stand a chance of seeing the race in

the skunk-black night.

   Down out of the mountains they brought him,

singing a hound-dog song on his heels. The coon must

have scented me, or seen my lantern. He cut to my

right and ran between our house and me. I heard

screaming and yelling from my sisters. My father

started whooping.

   I knew my whole family was out on the porch lis-

tening to the beautiful voices of my little red hounds.

I felt as tall as the tallest sycamore on the riverbank. I

yelled as loud as I could. Again I heard the squealing

of my sisters and the shouts of my father.

    The deep  voice of Old Dan and the sharp

"Aw-aw-aw-aw's  of Little Ann bored a hole in the

inky-black night. The vibrations rolled and quivered

in the icy silence.

   The coon was heading for the river. I could tell

my dogs were crowding him, and wondered if he'd

make it to the water. I was hoping he wouldn't, for I

didn't want to wade the cold water unless I had to do

it.

   I figured the smart old coon had a reason for

turning and coming back to the river and wondered

what trick he had in mind. I remembered something

my grandfather had told me. He said, "Never un-

der estimate the cunning of an old river coon. When

the nights are dark and the ground is frozen and

slick, they can pull some mean tricks on a hound.

Sometimes the tricks can be fatal."

    I was halfway through the fog-covered bottoms

when the voices of my dogs stopped. I stood still,

waited, and listened. A cold silence settled over the

bottoms. I could hear the snap and crack of sap-frozen

limbs. From far back in the floated hills, the long,

lonesome howl of a timber wolf floated down in the

silent night. Across the river I heard a cow moo. I

knew the sound was coming from the Lowery place.

    Not being able to hear the voices of my dogs

gave me an uncomfortable feeling. I whooped and

waited for one of them to bawl. As I stood waiting I

realized something was different in the bottoms.

Something was missing.

    I wasn't worried about my dogs. I figured that

the coon had pulled some trick and sooner or later

they would unravel the trail. But the feeling that

something was just not right had me worried.

    I whooped several times but still could get no an-

swer. Stumbling, slipping, and sliding, I started on.

Reaching the river, I saw it was frozen over. I real-

ized what my strange uneasy feeling was. I had not

been able to hear the sound of the water.

    As I stood listening I heard a gurgling out in the

middle of the stream. The river wasn't frozen all the

way across. The still eddy waters next to the banks

had frozen, but out in the middle, where the current

was swift, the water was running, leaving a trough in

the ice pack. The gurgling sound I had heard was the

swift current as it sucked its way through the chan-

nel downstream from me. I walked on, listening.

    I hadn't gone far when I heard Old Dan. What I

heard froze the blood in my veins. He wasn't bawling

on a trail or giving the tree bark. It was one, long,

continuous cry. In his deep voice there seemed to be

a pleading cry for help. Scared, worried, and with my

heart beating like a churn dasher, I started toward

the sound.

    I almost passed him but with another cry he let

me know where he was. He was out on the ice pack. I

couldn't see him for the fog. I called to him and he

answered with a low whine. Again I called his name.

This time he came to me.

    He wasn't the same dog. His tail was between his

legs and his head was bowed down. He stopped about

seven feet from me. Sitting down on the ice, he raised

his head and howled the most mournful cry I had

ever heard. Turning around, he trotted back out on

the ice and disappeared in the fog.

    I knew something had happened to Little Ann. I

called her name. She answered with a pleading cry.

Although I couldn't see her, I guessed what had hap-

pened. The coon had led them to the river. Running

out on the ice, he had leaped across the trough. My

dogs, hot on the trail, had followed. Old Dan, a more

powerful dog than Little Ann, had made his leap. Lit-

tle Ann had not made it.  Her small feet had probably

slipped on the slick ice and she had fallen into the icy

waters. Old Dan, seeing the fate of his little friend,

had quit the chase and come back to help her. The

smart old coon had pulled his trick, and a deadly one

it was.

    I had to do something. She would never be able

to get out by herself. It was only a matter of time un-

til her body would be paralyzed by the freezing

water.

    Laying my ax down, I held my lantern out in

front of me and stepped out on the ice. It started

cracking and popping. I jumped back to the bank. Al-

though it was thick enough to hold the light weight of

my dogs, it would never hold me.

    Little Ann started whining and begging for help.

I went all to pieces and started crying. Something

had to be done and done quickly or my little dog was

lost. I thought of running home for a rope or for my

father, but I knew she couldn't last until I got back. I

was desperate. It was impossible for me to swim in

the freezing water. I wouldn't last for a minute. She

cried again, begging for the one thing I couldn't give

her, help.

    I thought, "If only I could see her maybe I could

figure out some way I could help."

    Looking at my lantern gave me an idea. I ran up

the bank about thirty feet, turned, and looked back. I

could see the light, not well, but enough for what I

had in mind. I grabbed my lantern and ax and ran for

the bottoms.

    I was looking for a stand of wild cane. After

what seemed like ages, I found it. With the longest

one I could find, I hurried back. After it was trimmed

and the limber end cut off, I hung the lantern by the

handle on the end of it and started easing it out on

the ice.

    I saw Old Dan first. He was sitting close to the

edge of the trough, looking down. Then I saw her. I

groaned at her plight. All I could see was her head

and her small front paws. Her claws were spread out

and digging into the ice. She knew if she ever lost

that hold she was gone.

    Old Dan raised his head and howled. Hound

though he was, he knew it was the end of the trail for

his little pal.

    I wanted to get my light as close to Little Ann as

I could, but my pole was a good eight feet short. Set-

tinge the lantern down, I eased the pole from under

the handle, I thought, "I'm no better off than I was

before. In fact I'm worse off. Now I can see when the

end comes."

    Little Ann cried again. I saw her claws slip on

the ice. Her body settled lower in the water. Old Dan

howled and started fidgeting. He knew the end was

close.

    I didn't exactly know when I started out toward

my dog. I had taken only two steps when the ice

broke. I twisted my body and fell toward the bank.

Just as my hand closed on a root I thought my feet

touched bottom, but I wasn't sure. As I pulled myself

out I felt the numbing cold creep over my legs.

    It looked so hopeless. There didn't seem to be

any way I could save her.

    At the edge of the water stood a large sycamore.

I got behind it, anything to blot out that heartbreak-

in scene. Little Ann, thinking I had deserted her,

started crying. I couldn't stand it.

    I opened my mouth to call Old Dan. I wanted to

tell him to come on and we'd go home as there was

nothing we could do. The words just wouldn't come

out. I couldn't utter a sound. I lay my face against the

icy cold bark of the sycamore. I thought of the prayer

I had said when I had asked God to help me get two

hound pups. I knelt down and sobbed out a prayer. I

asked for a miracle which would save the life of my

little dog. I promised all the things that a young boy

could if only He would help me.

    Still saying my prayer and making promises, I

heard a sharp metallic sound. I jumped up and

stepped away from the tree. I was sure the noise I

heard was made by a rattling chain on the front end

of a boat.

    I shouted as loud as I could. "Over here. I need

help. My dog is drowning."

    I waited for an answer. All I could hear were the

cries of Little Ann.

    Again I hollered. "Over here. Over on the bank.

Can you see my light? I need help. Please hurry."

    I held my breath waiting for an answering shout.

I shivered from the freezing cold of my wet shoes

and overalls. A straining silence settled over the river.

A feathery rustle swished by in the blackness. A flock

of low-flying ducks had been disturbed by my loud

shouts. I strained my ears for some sound. Now and

then I could hear the lapping slap of the ice-cold

water as it swirled its way through the trough.

    I glanced to Little Ann. She was still holding on

but I saw her paws were almost at the edge. I knew

her time was short.

    I couldn't figure out what I had heard. The

sound was made by metal striking metal, but what

was it? What could have caused it?

    I looked at my ax. It couldn't have made the

sound as it was too close to me. The noise had come

from out in the river.

    When I looked at my lantern, I knew that it had

made the strange sound. I had left the handle stand-

in straight up when I had taken the pole away. Now

it was down. For some unknown reason the stiff wire

handle had twisted in the sockets and dropped. As it

had fallen, it had struck the metal frame, making the

sharp metallic sound I had heard.

    As I stared at the yellow glow of my light, the

last bit of hope faded away. I closed my eyes, intend-

ing to pray again for the help I so desperately needed.

Then like a blinding red flash the message of the

lantern bored its way into my brain. There was

my miracle. There was the way to save my little dog.

In the metallic sound I had heard were my instruc-

tions. They were so plain I couldn't help but under-

stand them. The bright yellow flame started flickering

and dancing. It seemed to be saying, "Hurry. You

know what to do."

    Faster than I had ever moved in my life I went

to work. With a stick I measured the water in the

hole where my feet had broken through the ice. I was

right. My foot had touched bottom. Eighteen inches

down I felt the soft mud.

    With my pole I fished the lantern back to the

bank. I took the handle off, straightened it out, and

bent a hook in one end. With one of my shoelaces I

tied the wire to the end of the cane pole. I left the

hook sticking out about six inches beyond the end of

it.

    I started shouting encouragement to Little Ann. I

told her to hang on and not to give up for I was going

to save her. She answered with a low cry.

    With the hook stuck in one of the ventilating

holes in the top of my light, I lifted it back out on the

ice and set it down. After a little wiggling and push-

ing, I worked the hook loose and laid the pole down.

    I took off my clothes, picked up my ax, and

stepped down into the hole in the icy water. It came

to my knees. Step by step, breaking the ice with my

ax, I waded out.

    The water came up to my hips, and then to my

waist. The cold bite of it took my breath away. I felt

my body grow numb. I couldn't feel my feet at all but

I knew they were moving. When the water reached

my armpits I stopped and worked my pole toward

Little Ann. Stretching my arms as far out as I could, I

saw I was still a foot short. Closing my eyes and grit-

ting my teeth, I moved on. The water reached my

chin.

    I was close enough. I started hooking at the col-

lar of Little Ann. Time after time I felt the hook al-

most catch. I saw I was fishing on a wrong angle. She

had settled so low in the water I couldn't reach her

collar. Raising my arms above my head so the pole

would be on a slant, I kept hooking and praying. The

seconds ticked by. I strained for one more inch. The

muscles in my arms grew numb from the weight of

the pole.

    Little Ann's claws slipped again. I thought she

was gone. At the very edge of the ice, she caught

again. All I could see now were her small red paws

and her nose and eyes.

    By Old Dan's actions I could tell he understood

and wanted to help. He ran over close to my pole and

started digging at the ice. I whopped him with the

cane. That was the only time in my life I ever hit my

dog. I had to get him out of the way so I could see

what I was doing.

    Just when I thought my task was impossible, I

felt the hook slide under the tough leather. It was

none too soon.

    As gently as I could I dragged her over the rim

of the ice. At first I thought she was dead. She didn't

move. Old Dan started whining and licking her face

and ears. She moved her head. I started talking to

her. She made an effort to stand but couldn't. Her

muscles were paralyzed and the blood had long since

ceased to flow.

    At the movement of Little Ann, Old Dan threw a

fit. He started barking and jumping. His long red tail

fanned the air.

    Still holding onto my pole, I tried to take a step

backward. My feet wouldn't move. A cold gripping

fear came over me. I thought my legs were frozen. I

made another effort to lift my leg. It moved. I real-

ized that my feet were stuck in the soft muddy bot-

tom.

    I started backing out, dragging the body of my

little dog. I couldn't feel the pole in my hands. When

my feet touched the icy bank, I couldn't feel that ei-

ther. All the feeling in my body was gone.

    I wrapped Little Ann in my coat and hurried

into my clothes. With the pole I fished my light back.

    Close by was a large drift. I climbed up on top of

it and dug a hole down through the ice and snow un-

til I reached the dry limbs. I poured half of the oil in

my lantern down into the hole and dropped in a

match. In no time I had a roaring fire.

    I laid Little Ann close to the warm heat and

went to work. Old Dan washed her head with his

warm red tongue while I massaged and rubbed her

body.

    I could tell by her cries when the blood started

circulating. Little by little her strength came back. I

stood her on her feet and started walking her. She

was weak and wobbly but I knew she would live. I

felt much better and breathed a sigh of relief.

    After drying myself out the best I could, I took

the lantern handle from the pole, bent it back to its

original position, and put it back on the lantern. Hold-

ing the light out in front of me, I looked at it. The

bright metal gleamed in the firelight glow.

    I started talking to it.  I said, "Thanks, old lan-

tern, more than you'll ever know. I'lI always take care

of you. Your globe will always be clean and there'll

never be any rust or dirt on your frame."

    I knew if it had not been for the miracle of the

lantern, my little dog would have met her death on

that night.  Her grave would have been the cold icy

waters of the Illinois River.

    Out in the river I could hear the cold water gur-

gling in the icy trough. It seemed to be angry. It

hissed and growled as it tore its way through the chan-

nel. I shuddered to think of what could have hap-

pened.

    Before I left for home, I walked back to the syc-

amore tree. Once again I said a prayer, but this time

the words were different.  I didn't ask for a miracle. In

every way a young boy could, I said "thanks." My

second prayer wasn't said with just words. All of my

heart and soul was in it.

    On my way home I decided not to say anything

to my mother and father about Little Ann's accident.

I knew it would scare Mama and she might stop my

hunting.

    Reaching our house, I didn't hang the lantern in

its usual place. I took it to my room and set it in a

corner with the handle standing up.

    The next morning I started sneezing and came

down with a terrible cold. I told Mama I had gotten

my feet wet. She scolded me a little and started doc-

toring me.

    For three days and nights I stayed home. All this

time I kept checking the handle of the lantern. My

sisters shook the house from the roof to the floor with

their playing and romping, but the handle never did

fall.

    I went to my mother and asked her if God an-

swered prayers every time one was said. She smiled

and said, "No, Billy, not every time. He only answers

the ones that are said from the heart. You have to be

sincere and believe in Him."

    She wanted to know why I had asked.

    I said, "Oh, I just wondered, and wanted to

know."

    She came over and straightened my suspenders,

saying, "That was a very nice question for my little

Daniel Boone to ask."

    Bending over, she started kissing me. I finally

squirmed away from her, feeling as wet as a dirt daub-

er's nest.  My mother never could kiss me like a fel-

low should be kissed. Before she was done I was kissed

all over. It always made me feel silly and baby-like.

I tried to tell her that a coon hunter isn't supposed

to be kissed that way, but Mama never could under-

stand things like that.

    I stomped out of the house to see how my dogs

were.

                   Chapter 12.

    THE FAME OF MY DOGS SPREAD ALL OVER OUR PART OF

the Ozarks. They were the best in the country. No

coon hunter came into my grandfather's store with as

many pelts as I did. Grandpa never overlooked an

opportunity to brag. He told everyone the story of my

dogs, and the part he had played in getting them.   

    Many was the time some farmer, coming to our

home, would say, "Your Grandpa was telling me you

got three big coons over in Pea Vine Hollow the other

night." I would listen, knowing I only got one, or

maybe none, but Grandpa was my pal. If he said I

caught ten in one tree, it was just that way.

    Because of my grandfather's bragging, and his

firm belief in my dogs and me, a terrible thing hap-

pened.

    One morning, while having breakfast, Mama said

to Papa, "I'm almost out of corn meal. Do you think

you can go to the mill today?"

    Papa said, "I intended to butcher a hog. We're

about out of meat." Looking at me, he said, "Shell a

sack of corn. Take one of the mules and go to the mill

for your mother."

    With the help of my sisters, we shelled the corn.

Throwing it over our mule's back, I started for the

store.

    On arriving at the millhouse, I tied my mule to

the hitching post, took my corn, and set it by the

door. I walked over to the store and told Grandpa I

wanted to get some corn ground.

    He said, "I'll be with you in just a minute."

    As I was waiting, I heard a horse coming. Look-

ing out, I saw who it was and didn't like what I saw.

It was the two youngest Pritchard boys. I had run

into them on several occasions during pie suppers and

dances.

    The Pritchards were a large family that lived up-

river about five miles. As in most small country com-

munities, there is one family that no one likes. The

Pritchards were it. Tales were told that they were

bootleggers, thieves, and just all-round "no-accounts".

The story had gone round that Old Man Pritchard

had killed a man somewhere in Missouri before mov-

ing to our part of the country.

    Rubin was two years older than I, big and husky

for his age. He never had much to say. He had mean-

looking eyes that were set far back in his rugged face.

They were smoky-hued and unblinking, as if the eye-

lids were paralyzed. I had heard that once he had cut

a boy with a knife in a fight over at the sawmill.

    Rainie was the youngest, about my age. He had

the meanest disposition of any boy I had ever known.

Because of this he was disliked by young and old.

Wherever Rainie went, trouble seemed to follow.

He was always wanting to bet, and would bet on any-

thing. He was nervous, and could never seem to stand

still.

    Once at my grandfather's store, I had given him

a piece of candy. Snatching it out of my hand, he ate

it and then sneered at me and said it wasn't any

good. During a pie supper one night, he wanted to

bet a dime that he could whip me.               

    My mother told me always to be kind of Rainie,

that he couldn't help being the way he was. I asked,

"Why?" She said it was because his brothers were al-

ways picking on him and beating him.